Thus motivated, he concentrated on the task of recall. Something unusual…like a brand of booze. He began running names through his head: Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, J&B, Bailey’s…Bailey. That was it. He felt triumphant. Now he could fantasize with a clear conscience.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if Mrs. Wingate—Bailey, damn it!—would tear his head off, but he sensed she wouldn’t be easy, in any sense of the word. She was a challenge both physically and mentally. She’d built a wall around herself and he suspected few people ever saw past it to the woman barricaded within. Only the emergency conditions thrust on them by the crash had made her emerge from that fortress and let him see the real woman.
But he had seen her, and he liked what he saw.
If he’d ever wondered what it would be like to be marooned with her, which he hadn’t, he’d have been certain she would be either a whiny, useless, royal pain in the ass, or a bitchy, demanding, royal pain in the ass. Either way, she’d have been a PITA. Instead she’d been so calm and competent, tackling every problem and situation with both common sense and ingenuity, that he never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. She’d done whatever was necessary, and had likely saved his life. She hadn’t hesitated to warm his icy feet against her warm body, nor had she blushed or been upset when he’d discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He liked that kind of composure, and the inner surety of self it revealed. His divorce had taught him some truths about himself, and he hadn’t forgotten them in his subsequent dealings with women. He was a former military officer and a pilot, two groups that pretty much excluded the shy and retiring types. He himself was self-confident and authoritative; he was accustomed to taking command, making decisions, and having most people do what he told them to do. It took a strong woman to deal with him on an equal basis, but now, in his late thirties, an equal relationship appealed to him a lot more than one in which he had to hold himself back to keep from hurting a woman’s feelings or overwhelming her. He didn’t like playing games, and he didn’t want a woman who tried to make him jump through hoops.
Maybe women like that were thin on the ground, or maybe he’d been looking in the wrong places, but he hadn’t found many women who combined that kind of mental appeal with a strong physical appeal. Karen, for instance, was strong and forceful, but he felt zero sexual attraction for her. In Bailey’s case, his distaste for what he’d thought was a permafrost personality had overridden any physical interest he might have felt.
Things were different now. He didn’t know why she’d built such a tall, icy wall around herself, but she had temporarily relaxed and let her guard down, let him inside the walls, and he damn sure intended to stay there. This crisis had forged a bond between them, a bond of survival. When this was over, when rescue reached them, she would try to put matters between them back on their original footing. He wouldn’t let that happen. Somehow, between now and then, he had to win her trust for good.
He was handicapped by being flat on his back, and judging from the way he felt, he was likely to be that way for at least the next day or two. He was concussed, as well as suffering from serious blood loss. He doubted a rescue party would be able to reach them before nightfall, and any search parties in these mountains were always suspended during the night hours because continuing would simply be too dangerous for the searchers. That meant he and Bailey had to survive tonight, when temperatures would drop like a rock and dying from hypothermia was a real possibility. On the one hand, they were in serious trouble. On the other, the rest of the day and tonight would likely be all the time he had to make any lasting headway with her.
He couldn’t move his head much without triggering lightning bolts through his brain, but by carefully cutting his eyes to the left he could keep her within his field of vision. She was picking up something and looking at it, but he couldn’t tell what the something was.
“This kind of half-worked,” she said, coming back to his side and squatting down. In her hand was a zipped clear plastic bag, in the bottom of which was what looked like slush. “I tried to melt some snow for us to drink by leaving the bag on a rock. It’s definitely mushy and runny, so I guess with more time in the sun we’d have real water, but this will have to do for now because you need some fluids in you.” She looked around. “You wouldn’t have a drinking straw handy, would you? Or a spoon?”
He was a little amused by the question. “Afraid not.”
He watched her brow furrow and her lips purse as she looked around, as if she could conjure up either item with sheer force of will. Now that he was aware of her ingenuity, he could almost hear the wheels turning as she searched for a solution to the dilemma of the moment. Then her brow cleared and she said “Ah ha!” in a tone of satisfaction.
“Ah ha, what?” he asked, his curiosity tickled, as she straightened and stepped out of his sight.
“You have a can of spray deodorant. I know because I went through all your stuff.”
“And?” He didn’t care that she’d gone through his bag; under the circumstances, not going through his stuff would have been stupid—and stupid was one thing she definitely wasn’t. She’d needed to know what resources she had at hand.
“And that can has a cap on it.”
Ah ha, indeed. The spray can cap was essentially the same as the cap on a thermos bottle, just smaller. He should have made the connection himself.
He heard the familiar sound of a plastic cap being removed from a spray can. “The taste might be a little weird,” she said. “I’ll wash the cap out with snow, that should help some in case you’ve hit the nozzle and sprayed some deodorant on the inside of the cap. Is there anything in deodorant that wouldn’t be good to have in your water?”