Proving he was behind it could be difficult. For one thing, all the evidence was here, scattered across the mountainside. Even if the wreckage could be found again, any forensic evidence might well have been destroyed by the elements. On the other hand, cold might preserve evidence; she simply didn’t know. She had to face the very real possibility that, even though she and Cam knew someone had tried to kill them, they might never be able to prove who did it. How could she carry on as before, knowing that? How could she deal with Seth? She couldn’t. She would have to renege on her agreement with Jim, and even under the circumstances she didn’t like doing that.
But all of that was in the future, assuming she had one. All she was assured of, she realized, was right now. The concept was both liberating and comforting. She wasn’t on tenterhooks, waiting for a rescue that she now knew wouldn’t be coming. They had a plan, and they were putting that plan into action, relying on themselves and their own ingenuity, their personal determination and fortitude. She was good with that.
Once she had his overshoes made, she began working on the problem of his clothing. Taking two of her flannel shirts—and thank God she’d brought plenty in preparation for two weeks of rafting—she buttoned them together, making one big, ungainly garment out of two. It was an awkward arrangement, but otherwise there was no way anything she had would fit over his chest and shoulders. The sleeves were too short, and the two unused ones dangled down his back, but it was a layer of warmth he hadn’t had before and wasn’t constantly having to be repositioned. He put it on immediately. The two shirts didn’t match so the look was odd, but neither of them cared. What mattered was warmth.
She would wear the down vest, they decided. For one thing, it fit her. He would wear her brand-new rain poncho, which wasn’t much insulation but would at least block the wind. She had a couple of other ideas for additional layers, if she could work out the details.
Keeping his legs warm was a problem. While she could put on a couple of pairs of sweatpants, all he had was his suit pants. Even though the sweatpants had an elastic waist, he couldn’t get in them. He was too tall, and she was lean from all the workouts she did.
Finally she had an idea. “I think I can make something like chaps,” she told him.
He looked up from the snowshoe he was making from tree branches and wiring, his brows arched in fake astonishment. “Don’t tell me you packed a cowhide, too.”
“Smart-ass. Just for that, you can freeze.”
He leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his. “I apologize. What’s popped out of the Idea Factory this time?”
“I have four microfiber towels.”
He thought about it, and nodded. “Okay, I can actually see taking towels along for a two-week camping trip. Makes sense.”
“Thank you, Mr. Skeptical,” she said drily, then explained. “If I cut small slits all along the edges—not cutting the edge itself, but about an inch back—then I could weave a strip of cloth through the slits to make a kind of belt and tie that end around your waist, then lace the edges together the same way down your legs, and presto, you have chaps.”
“For someone who can’t sew, you’re a handy wench to have around.”
She had to laugh. “I think it’s ironic. I’ve always hated anything to do with a needle and thread, and now I’m not only having to make stuff, I literally had to sew up your head. That’s just wrong.”
He looked at the snowshoe in his hands and chuckled. “Tell me about it. I’ve always hated snow, hated being cold—and now look.”
“If you hate snow, how do you know how to make snowshoes?”
“The principle is simple—distribute the weight over a wide surface—so all you have to do is make a general grid design that you can strap on your feet.”
She watched him painstakingly construct the shoe from the smaller, more flexible evergreen branches, his big hands nimble and sure, as if he’d done this a thousand times. Again she was aware of that strong sense of contentment, the feeling that she was right where she belonged—not stuck on this mountain, but here in the moment.
The struggle to survive, as exhausting and harrowing as it had been, had been external. Inside, she’d felt oddly free of stress, because her choices were simple: do what needed to be done, or die. Make a shelter. Stay as warm as possible. Melt snow to drink. That was it. There was nothing complicated about survival, whereas life was nothing but complications.
At the same time, man, she couldn’t wait for this to be over. She wanted a hot shower. She wanted a flush toilet. She wanted a supermarket.
“Know what I’d love to eat, right now?” she said in a tone rich with longing.
He made a choking sound, then howled with laughter. Bailey’s mind was wandering down the produce aisle, so far removed from sex that she stared blankly at him for a moment before realizing what she’d said. Her face began to heat. “Not that.” She swatted him. “Shut up. I was thinking of a big pot of corn and potato chowder, steaming hot, with bacon crumbles and shredded cheese on top.” Her mouth began to water as she all but tasted the dish.
He wiped the tears from his eyes with his thumb and said, “Me, I’m more of a meat eater.” The glittering look he gave her told her that he wasn’t thinking of prime rib, and her face got hotter.
She pushed at him, trying to force him off the trash bag. “Leave! Get away from me, you dirty-minded man.”
“Guilty as charged,” he drawled, not budging an inch. “On all counts.”
“I mean it! Leave. Go try out your booties.”
He was still chuckling as he got up and walked off. Bailey watched him stride toward the plane, her gaze unconsciously lingering on his ass and long legs before she realized what she was doing and jerked her eyes forward. Though the fire didn’t really need it, to occupy herself she added another piece of wood.
He was seducing her, she realized, truly seducing her, using words and laughter and their forced reliance on each other. She couldn’t walk away from him, she couldn’t wall him out, because their survival depended on their closeness, their cooperation.
Maybe she should just let him do it, her innate caution whispered, let him have sex. The seduction process would stop then; there wouldn’t be a point to it any longer. If she gave him sex, he’d stop this assault on her heart because he’d think he had already won it. Her emotions would still be safe.
She had never fallen in love, never wanted to. Now, for the first time in her life, she was afraid that the danger of doing so existed, afraid that Cam Justice could get close enough to really do some damage to her when he moved on. She was trapped by their circumstances, and the realization was terrifying. She couldn’t get away from him, and she couldn’t freeze him out. If he had been any other man she could have, but he saw through her. She didn’t know how, but he did. Somehow she’d revealed too much and there was no going back.
She hated feeling vulnerable. She hated the suspicion that in just a couple of days she’d come to care for him more than she’d ever let herself care about another human being, except perhaps her brother, and that was entirely different.
The urge to track Cam with her gaze was maddening, like an itch. Unwillingly she gave in, watched him crouch down to inspect the right wing. Not much of his hair was visible, because of the bandage still wrapped around his head, but at least his head was covered against the cold. He looked like a hobo, with his hodgepodge of clothing—most of which he had tied on or wrapped around him, rather than actually wearing it, but he still carried himself as if he wore a military uniform because he didn’t give a damn if he looked like a hobo. He didn’t give a damn if he had to wear a woman’s clothes, though admittedly her selection of sweatpants and flannel shirts wasn’t exactly feminine. She suspected he wouldn’t have cared if everything she’d brought was adorned with ruffles. What did a ruffle matter, when matched against that kind of self-confidence?
Suddenly he reached up under the plane, then got on his knees and began working himself beneath t
he wing. Alarmed, she got to her feet. Was he crazy? No, the plane hadn’t moved an inch in all this time, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t, especially with him moving around under it, bumping it, tugging on it.
“What are you doing?” she called, hurrying toward him, intending to physically drag him out if he didn’t come out of his own volition.
He backed out, dragging something black with him, a grin on his bruised face.
“Found my jacket,” he said triumphantly.
The plane was black. The jacket was black. Crushed into the snow, blending against the background of crumpled black metal and dark shadows, the fabric had gone unnoticed. It was great that now he had a coat, at least, but all she cared about was—
“Are the bars still in the pocket?” she asked urgently.
He patted the pocket, still grinning. “Yep.”
“Do we eat them now, or in the morning?” She was so hungry she thought she could wolf down half a cow.
“In the morning, for energy. We can split another candy bar tonight. Sugar saps your energy, but all we’re going to be doing tonight is sleeping anyway.”
She sighed. He was right, and she knew it; she hated it, but she agreed. The bars were probably frozen, anyway; better to let them thaw overnight.
He beat the snow from the coat, and Bailey took it from him. It would need to dry before he could wear it, but at least they had a fire so they could dry it. He must have been thinking along the same lines, because he looked up at the sky. “I’d better gather more firewood while we still have some light left. Is there anything else you need to do?”
“Work on those towel chaps for you, I guess. They won’t take long, maybe half an hour. By the way, how are the overshoes?”
“They’re great. Snow didn’t get down in my shoes, and I actually have better traction now.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and drew her to him for a quick kiss, a kiss that somehow lingered. Then he pulled away and gingerly rested his forehead on hers. “Let’s get everything finished, so we can go to bed.”
26
BAILEY WAS WORRIED THAT WHEN CAM SAID “BED” HE had more on his mind than “sleep,” but he was not only a better strategist than that, he was realistic about his own physical condition. They each ate half a Snickers, drank water, brushed their teeth, and settled down in the shelter. The fire flickered in its pit, sending tiny pinpricks of light through the shelter’s stick walls, so for the first time they weren’t in complete darkness. The amount of heat wafting inside couldn’t have been much, but it was either enough to make a difference or the mental lift the fire afforded made them think they were more comfortable.
The faint warmth wasn’t enough, however, to make sharing their body heat unnecessary. Even as she curled into his arms, she was achingly aware that every time she did so she was deepening the connection she felt to him. There was nothing else she could do, no way off this road and no way to avoid the emotional cliff looming in front of her. Even though she knew the drive would end in a crash, all she could do was enjoy the ride.
Despite being physically more comfortable, sleep was elusive. She dozed, but woke every time he left the shelter to replenish the fire. Once she woke with a start when he shook her, saying, “Bailey. Bailey. Wake up. It’s okay, honey. Wake up.”
“Wha—?” she asked groggily, struggling up on her elbow and peering at him in the faint light. “What’s wrong?”
“You tell me. You were crying.”
“I was?” She swiped her hand over her wet cheeks, said “Damn it,” and flopped back down beside him. “Nothing’s wrong,” she muttered, embarrassed. “I do that sometimes.”
“Cry in your sleep? What are you dreaming about?”
“Nothing, as far as I know.” She hitched one shoulder in a shrug she hoped was negligent. “It just happens.” And it was stupid. She hated crying anyway, but when there was no reason for the tears they were particularly annoying. They made her look weak, something she couldn’t bear. She turned on her side away from him and cradled her head on her arm. “Go back to sleep, everything’s okay.”
His warm hand slid over her hip, settled into place on her stomach. “How long have you been doing this?”
She wanted to tell him all of her life, so he’d think it was nothing unusual and forget about it, but her mouth blurted the truth before her brain could catch up. “About a year.”
“Since your husband died.” The hand on her stomach was suddenly tense.
She sighed. “A month or so after that.”
“So you loved him.”
She heard the sudden flat tone of his voice, the faint incredulousness, and abruptly she was sick to death of living with all the misconceptions and assumptions. “No. I respected Jim, I was fond of him, but I didn’t love him any more than he loved me. It was a business deal, pure and simple—and it was his idea, not mine.” If she sounded defensive, well, she was—defensive and sick of the whole thing. At the same time, she felt relief at finally talking about it to someone. Other than herself, only Grant Siebold knew the whole story, and she seldom saw him now that Jim was dead.
“What kind of business deal?”
She couldn’t read anything from his tone now, but she didn’t care. If he thought the worse of her for going along with Jim’s scheme, and profiting from it, then better she should find out now.
“Jim had a…Machiavellian streak. He was really good at reading people, he was really good at making smart business decisions, so I guess he got in the habit of manipulating people. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t unscrupulous. He had a strong moral code.”
“I always liked him. He was friendly, down-to-earth.” Still that noncommittal tone.
“I enjoyed working for him. He didn’t cheat on Lena, didn’t look at his female employees as his private playground, so I didn’t have to be on guard with him. He was friendly, interested, he gave me investment advice that I sometimes took and sometimes didn’t. He said I was too cautious. I told him I didn’t take chances with my retirement. He laughed at me, but he was interested in some of my investment choices.” She took a long breath, let it out. “Then Lena died.”
“And he got lonely.”
“That’s not what happened,” she said irritably. “The thing is, Jim and Lena had made out their wills years before, when Seth and Tamzin were little. Like most couples, they made each other their total beneficiaries, leaving it to the surviving spouse to figure out what to leave to the kids. Even though Jim went on to make a huge fortune, he had a blind spot when it came to his will and they had never updated it. When Lena died, he realized he had to change the will, but when he looked at his kids he didn’t like what he saw.”
“Neither did anyone else,” Cam said drily. “Still don’t.”
“We’re in total agreement there.” Especially since Seth was the only person on their suspect list. “Anyway, he was in the process of setting up their trust funds when he found out he had advanced cancer. He’d always hoped Seth would wake up, settle down, and start taking an interest in the company, but when he found out he was dying he knew he couldn’t afford to give Seth any more time. So he hatched this plan.”
“Let me guess.”
“Oh, please do.”
He made an amused sound in his throat at her sarcastic tone. “You’re a tough cookie, you know that? That’s probably why he picked you. Okay, here goes: he wanted to hire you to oversee their trust funds, but knowing you’d have to deal with Seth and Tamzin for the rest of your life, you charged so much that the only way he could afford you was to marry you.”
She went from being annoyed to laughing, because, oh, if she’d only known! “I wish I’d been that smart. But you’re sort of on the right track. Remember, Jim was a manipulator. He was always juggling this and dangling that, pulling on a thread over here, tossing a bone over there. He couldn’t help it; that was his basic personality. He didn’t have any hope for Tamzin, but he never gave up on Seth. He thought that if he married me and ga
ve me control of their trust funds, Seth would be so humiliated and outraged that he’d see the light and turn his life around.”
“Yeah, that worked out real well. If Seth’s seen a light, it was the one above the bar in his favorite nightclub.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and sighed. “If Seth started acting like a mature adult, then I was supposed to turn over control of the trust funds to him—but Seth couldn’t know about that part of the arrangement. Jim said Seth was smart enough he could fake whatever he had to fake long enough to get control, then revert back to his old self. Jim was sure this would work. So far, it hasn’t.”
“He didn’t have to marry you,” Cam pointed out. “He could have handled all of this simply by the way he set up the funds.”
“Marrying me was part of the stick he used to beat Seth into shape, though. If I was just a trustee of the fund, in the background, Seth might be pissed about it but he wouldn’t be humiliated. It was everything about me: I’m younger than Seth; I supposedly took advantage of an older, dying man; I moved into their mother’s place. Having people know that Jim gave control of their money to me was supposed to be the kicker.”
He said, “Well, that answers one question.”
“And that question is…?”
“Why he married you.”
Wasn’t that what this entire conversation was about? What else was there? “What’s the other question?”
“Why you married him.”
Bailey thought she’d answered that. She frowned over her shoulder at him, though he likely couldn’t tell in the tiny amount of light coming from the fire. “I told you. It was part of the deal.”
“But why did you agree to it? Marriage is an extreme step.”
Not in her family, it wasn’t. Her parents had looked at marriage as a legal convenience, to be dissolved whenever they got a whim to move on. She didn’t go into all that, though. Instead she said tiredly, “I’ve never been in love. So I thought—why not? He was dying. I would do that for him, and in exchange he’d make sure I was financially secure.”