Authors: Kimberley Woodhouse
I spotted one of our suitcases jammed underneath the cargo door.
Maybe I can find some in there.
I pulled it out with my good hand and popped it open, clutching my scratched hand to my chest. A throb seemed to run alongside the scratches.
Is that normal?
An old night shirt lay smashed in the corner of the suitcase.
How do I tear this thing? My multipurpose tool . . . where is it?
I felt my pocket, and sure enough, it was there. I pulled it out—and memories of Dad came flooding back. He'd been so excited to give it to me, I could still hear him as if he was standing there, talking to me in his deep, gravelly voice . . .
"
I got it from a special shop out of town. The owner would have charged extra to engrave someone's name on it, but he gave me a discount when I told him it was for your birthday."
"Daddy, it's so beautiful!"
He smiled. "I thought you would like it." He pointed to the delicately carved wolf. "He says the tikaani on the front means good luck. I made sure it didn't have a knife so you wouldn't hurt yourself." He winked. "But it does have scissors, just in case."
I'd smiled back at his use of the Ahtna name for wolf. Even though he wasn't Ahtna-Athabaskan like Mom and me, he respected our heritage and used the fun-to-say native words frequently.
I missed him so much.
A cold blast of wind chased the memories away, but the sadness remained. I swallowed back more tears and rubbed my hand over the smooth wooden case.
Get a grip, Andie. Concentrate on what you need to do.
By the time I finished bandaging my hand and Mom's wounds, my hand—and the new bandage on it—were coated in blood once again.
"Wonderful."
How much time would I have before the temperature really dropped? Last week, when we'd left home, the sun had been coming up after 7:00 a.m. and going down before 9:00 p.m. That meant this week it would be coming up after 6:30 a.m. and setting after 9:00 p.m., right?
I need to hurry if I'm going to get Mom in a sleeping bag. I should probably put the other dude in one too.
Crawling back into the plane, I found two of our expensive sleeping bags. And the tent.
Unfortunately it was ripped.
"Snap!"
I'd always wondered why Dad bought $900 sleeping bags. They were supposed to keep you warm in 40-below temps. I guess we'd see if that was true.
I found our winter gear and put on my purple coat, ski mask, and a pair of goggles, then grabbed two other masks and goggles for Mom and the Other Dude.
After covering up everyone's exposed skin, I sat down with a huff.
Daddy, I wish you were here. You'd know what to do. Why did you have to leave? I miss you so much. I didn't even get to say good-bye.
I closed my eyes, and pictures of the fight on the plane came to me.
Hank was a friend of yours, right? Then who's the good guy here—?
My eyes popped open.
Hey, where is Hank?
I stood up faster than a bolt of lightning. Was he spying on me? Was he hurt?
I hope not. He may be my only hope of getting out of here. But if he's the bad guy . . .
I marched toward the plane.
He better not be spyin' on me. If I find out that he's alive and can—
A brown object caught my attention.
I glanced around. No one was watching so it couldn't be one of those remote-controlled bombs, could it? I crept closer to the bag.
Hank disappeared from thought as I sighed and put my hands on my hips.
And why didn't I find this before?
Mom's emergency bag.
Figures.
I dragged it over to my new makeshift "camp." It was a good thing Mom always packed enough food, clothes, and emergency supplies for forty-five people.
I'll have to thank her when she wakes up.
Dad used to tease her, saying she packed the whole house. His voice still rang in my ears: "Be it car, plane, or dogsled, your mom always travels prepared for anything and everything."
I smiled, covered my mouth, and with sarcasm gasped, "We forgot the kitchen sink!"
I pulled Mom out of the sleeping bag, wrapped her in some blankets, then wrestled her back into it. By then I was exhausted. But I couldn't rest yet.
Time to build a fire.
Thankfully I knew how.
But can I?
I scanned my surroundings.
No, not enough oxygen, not enough wood.
Not any wood.
I was sure Mom brought a camp stove. But had it survived the crash?
My stomach growled.
Maybe I should look for berries so there's food for everyone. That is, if anyone else wakes up.
I went to dig in the snow around the plane, remembering how Mom and I used to pick berries and one time had a berry fight.
Okay, so maybe more than once.
As the memories flooded over me, I realized I was just trying to latch onto something happy. There were no berries up on this glaciated, tree-less, vegetation-less peak.
No berries, and no people.
So, no one can come to save us?
My head shot up and I scanned the area around me.
Someone groaned. And it wasn't Mom.
I jumped. Then, turning around, I listened for the sound again.
Another groan. This one louder.
I crept toward the plane looking all around to make sure it wasn't an ambush of bears or something.
Okay, Lassie. Time to come save the day.
Where was that dog?
Oh wait!
This wasn't TV. I was alone, on Sultana, in Alaska, in April, before tourist season.
Wonderful.
Maybe I should have called Balto.
I approached the hole I'd crawled through earlier. Glass was sprinkled everywhere. The smell of blood made my stomach churn.
Something, or someone, lay sprawled on the "floor" in the middle-ish, covered in dark, red blood.
Hank.
CHAPTER THREE
COLE
April 6
Sultana, Denali National Park
9:19 p.m.
The scent of plane fuel filled his nose. Reaching for his throbbing head, Cole Maddox forced his eyes open. Where was he? Memories tumbled over one another, like rapid fire from a machine gun, but he couldn't put the pieces together.
A plane. A sense of urgency. The need to rescue—who?
A spasm of shivers gripped him.
Cold. So cold.
As his senses took in his surroundings, his mind slowly cleared away the fog. The stars overhead were brilliant. Bright moonlight shone on the snow, giving it an ethereal glow.
He lay at an odd angle . . . he was on a steep slope. The snow underneath reminded him of the treachery of bush Alaska. The aches and pains humming throughout his body reminded him he was alive.
Then the pieces fell into place.
He'd found them.
He'd been drugged.
He didn't save them.
The rest of the picture unfolded as he looked around him. Clearly, they'd crashed. So who flew the plane? Last thing he remembered, he'd been in the cockpit. And where had they crashed? And how did Hank manage to drug him? He hadn't eaten anything and the only thing he drank—
The coffee!
But why would Jenna Gray drug him? He shook his head. Couldn't have been her. Hank was the only logical explanation. But how?
A vague memory nudged him. He'd awakened earlier to that same smell of fuel, knew he had to get Marc's wife and daughter out of the plane. But thanks to whatever narcotic Hank used, he'd only been able to drag one of them through the windshield before he collapsed.
A child's voice singing a tune he didn't recognize brought his attention back to the present. His body tensed as he lifted himself to a sitting position, where his gaze collided with a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Marcus's little girl.
Bundled up in a sleeping bag next to her mom, she stared at him. Her ski goggles rested up on her forehead. All he could see were those penetrating eyes.
He swore under his breath. If he guessed correctly, she was just as smart and intense as her father. How much did she know?
She tilted her head, seeming to study him in the silence.
He held her stare. Kid looked scared and confident all at the same time.
Another lapse of time passed.
She raised her eyebrows. "Who are you?"
Child or not, he answered to no one. Especially when the facts weren't straight in his mind yet. Cole forced himself to focus. His mind felt like meat that had gone through the grinder one too many times.
"Well? Aren't you going to answer?" She wiggled out of her cocoon and crossed her arms over her chest. Oh joy. Drama queen.
He was in charge here. And he needed a new plan.
"Hello? Are you deaf? Why are you ignoring me?"
Cole huffed, bringing the zinging pain in his ribcage to the forefront of his mind. No time for broken bones. He looked down at his legs. Maybe if he pretended to check his own injuries, she'd leave him alone.
"Excuse me, mister, but I asked you a question. And considering you were a passenger on
our
plane, I think I have the right to know."
Her voice quivered, but only slightly. And the set of her chin—just like her father's—was anything but frightened. Would knowing his name satisfy her? Probably not. "Cole."
"So you
were
ignoring me." She chucked a bottle of water at him. "Just Cole?"
"Cole Maddox."
"Well, Mr. Cole Maddox, should I trust you?"
He stilled. Looked up again. The question caught him off guard. Must've been the drugs. She'd never taken her narrowed eyes off him.
Brave kid. Like her dad.
He schooled his features to indifference. "What do
you
think, Andie?"
That gaze of hers could be a weapon. Innocence and wisdom. Terrifying combination.
"Well . . .
Cole,
" her eyes narrowed to thin slits as she spoke, "I'm not quite sure. You know my name, but that wouldn't be so hard since we were in a small plane together, and I'm sure my mom must've used it at some point. You fought with Hank, who we've known for a long time, but then he shot the radio, so what do we really know about him? I realize you
tried
to save us, but you could've just been saving your own neck since we were gonna crash anyway. I don't know how or why the fight started, so again, I'm not so sure. So with all due respect, I'd like to hear from
your
mouth if I should trust you. And why."
Cole stared. She didn't look older than ten or eleven, but there she was, in control, sounding like a skilled, unyielding interrogator. Maybe she wasn't a kid at all, but a midget operative in disguise.
He shook his head. Obviously an only child. A highly intelligent, wise-beyond-her-years only child. And clearly, Marc had trained her well.
"Look, kid—"
"My name's not
kid,
and you are avoiding the question. Again."
"Okay, Andie. I'd like for you to trust me. But trust has to be earned." Every muscle and bone in his body ached. He looked off into the distance, at the moonlight illuminating the mountains in the sky above. "As to why you should do so"—he brought his gaze back to hers—"well,
I'm
not trying to kill you."
Her eyes widened at that. So she could be shaken. Somehow that made him feel better.
"Okay then, Mr. Cole Maddox. I think we're gonna have to work together."
He shivered again.
"Ya know, if you would've stayed in the sleeping bag where I put you, you wouldn't be so cold."
She'd managed to get him into a sleeping bag? And he'd moved? Why?
"You also need to cover your face. We were lucky it was warm earlier." She laughed. "Well, warm for up here. But seriously, you gotta watch out for frostbite. You've been exposed a while since your little Houdini stunt."
Shock hit him hard. This kid was good. He was supposed to be the rescuer, and here this little girl was taking care of
him.
Whatever drug Hank used must've really done a number on his faculties. Stupid to drink or eat anything when he knew what Hank was up to. Couldn't afford any more mistakes like that. Not if he wanted to stay alive.
Not if he wanted to fulfill his promise.
"Here." Andie stood in front of him holding up a cocoon- shaped bag. "You might need this."
"Thanks." He slid his legs into the bag, pulled it up and around him. Once he was zipped in, he watched his little caretaker climb back into hers and cuddle close to her mom. "How long has she been out?"
"She hasn't woken up yet."
Some serious emotion in those stiff words. With good reason. "Do you have any idea how long ago we crashed?"
"I don't know. I think it's been a couple hours."
He checked his watch. Four hours since they took off. That would add up. "Are you hurt?" Should have asked that sooner. Brain still needed to clear some. The cold had penetrated his mind, and all he wanted was sleep. But this was bad. He had to think, make a plan to get these two off the mountain safely.
"Not really." Her voice, so calm just a few minutes earlier, shook. "A cut on my hand. But I'm worried about my mom."
He unzipped the bag. "Let me see that cut."
"It's fine."
Slipping out of the needed warmth, Cole breathed the cold air. He rubbed his arms and legs and moved over to Andie. "Let me see it." Too gruff. "I'll be careful." That was nicer. Wasn't it?
"I already bandaged it." She avoided eye contact.
Stubborn kid. "Just let me look at it!" Way too gruff. Not good.
Her bottom lip quivered, but when she looked at him, her eyes shot daggers. "Fine." She escaped her own cocoon and plopped in front of him, a brown bag in her grasp.
Andie threw her glove down and thrust her arm in his direction. As he unwrapped her hand, he drew in a sharp breath. "Wow. That's a cut."
"It's fine."
"Look, kid, you don't have to be brave in front of me—"
"Hello? My name's not
kid
and I'm not being brave. It's fine." She pulled a box out with a huff.
Cole raised his eyebrows. "Okay then. It's fine. But we need to bandage it differently. Got any butterfly bandages in there?" He indicated the box—a first aid kit of massive proportions—sitting in her lap.