Wild Men of Alaska 04 - Wild Men of Alaska - Four Book Bundle

Meaner? Nearer?
    She looked at Skip and then Jim to see if either had noticed. Skip’s jaw seemed tighter, the skin stretched taut. It was harder to see the pilot, but his hands seemed busy as they pushed and pulled knobs.
    The plane suddenly dropped fast, and the seatbelt clinched tight around her waist. A pathetic squeal escaped her, and her hands flew out to grab the cold wall and low ceiling of the plane. It banked right then left. There was some fast scrambling up front. Skip’s hands were on the wheel thingy, and he seemed anxious.
    What the hell was going on?
    Jim’s hands slumped lifeless at his sides, and his head lulled forward.
    “Skip?” she yelled his name but knew he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the engine and static of the wind. The plane leaped and fell, the tundra suddenly too close as the nose dipped. Over the noise and panic, she heard Skip swear followed by his shout, “Brace for impact!”
    “What?” He didn’t just say that. “Oh God, no.” She reached out and grabbed Jim’s shoulders and shook them. He slumped farther forward in his seat.
    Skip didn’t spare her a glance. One handed, he grabbed the headphones from Jim and slammed them onto his head. Next she heard, “Mayday, mayday, mayday!”
    The plane seesawed back and forth with the wind, trying to find some sort of balance, or perch, but the wind seemed to laugh as it blew them down toward the rapidly rising ground. They touched—a brush really—then a slam that knocked the wind out of her, followed quickly by the nose digging into the tundra and the plane somersaulting.
    Then nothing.

C HAPTER T WO

    Wren moaned and wiped at her face. Her head hurt like a son of a bitch. And why was she wet? She winced as her fingers bumped a tender area on her forehead, and she opened her eyes a slit. Blood painted her hand.
    Why was she bleeding?
    What kind of partying had she done this time? Oh please, no. Not again. She hadn’t relapsed, had she?
    No. NO. The price of relapse was too high. People had been hurt because of her and her weaknesses. She blinked and forced her eyes farther open.
    The place was a mess, like it had been tossed. Why was she hanging upside down in her seat? Wind whistled like a sick siren, chilling her further. She needed a blanket, a warm wash cloth, and some thick band aids.
    Suddenly everything came rushing back. The plane, the threatening weather front. They’d crash landed.
    They?
    Oh, God. “Skip?” His name screamed in her mind but only came out as a whisper. “Skip,” she said louder. The wind stole her words. She couldn’t see him or the pilot and wiped at her face with her sleeve again. She wouldn’t panic. They always say head wounds bleed a lot. Who the hell were they anyway? Her head hurt, she was bleeding, and it was really cold.
    This was Alaska.
    It was September, which by anyone else’s standards meant winter. They needed help, and they needed it fast or they were as good as dead.
    Crap, they were in more trouble if she was the only help.
    Wren struggled to release the seatbelt with one hand, the other on the ceiling—er, now the floor—of the plane, helping to brace her weight. She still fell with an oomph when the belt released. She scrambled to her knees, her shoulders bumping into the seats as she crawled forward, wiping at more blood as it smeared her vision now that she wasn’t hanging upside down.
    “Skip? Jim?” No one answered. A coldness traveled up her spine that had nothing to do with the wind leeching through the cracks and broken window of the plane.
    Both men hung upside down in their seatbelts just as she had. They looked somewhat like bats, which had her stifling a hysterical giggle. With trembling fingers, she checked Skip’s neck for a pulse.
    “Please, God, please.” She felt nothing, and a whimper of dread escaped her. She pushed harder. In the cramped space, her knees dug into whatever the hell the manufacturer had placed in the ceiling. Probably never took into account anyone having to kneel on them.
    Still no pulse.
    She felt around, blindly. “Come on, damn it.”
    Skip suddenly coughed. “Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you trying to do? Choke me?”
    A relieved sob bubbled up. “Oh, thank God. You’re alive.”
    “Guess you never thought to hear yourself utter those words,” he muttered.
    She ignored him and turned toward Jim. She didn’t have to feel for his pulse. His eyes were wide open, but he would never see out of