Mary Wilson - Flying Home

She drew away, maneuvered back to her seat, miraculously getting the tin with the first-aid supplies back on the console before she dropped down in her seat with a whoosh. Finally, Merry glanced over at him. “Just tell me what happened to make us...land,” she said, obviously avoiding the word crash. “And what has to be done to get this thing going again.”

He blinked, hoping against hope she was joking. She wasn’t, so he answered her first question. “My best guess is, besides the storm, there was a problem with the electric and the motor was stalling, they couldn’t get in sync again.” He didn’t sugarcoat his next words. “And thankfully it doesn’t smell like there’s any break in the fuel lines, or it could have been a whole lot worse.”

He was going to continue to answer her, but was stricken with a sharp jolt of pain. He stayed very still. He had no choice. His ribs had chosen right then to feel like a hot vise around his chest. He kept that to himself. A broken rib was manageable if there weren’t any other symptoms that developed.

“I wonder how we look from outside,” he said, hating the unsteadiness in his own voice.

He knew the wing on his side had either been ripped off, or had been shredded, and since something was keeping the plane fairly level, shredded was his guess. He’d felt the torque when they hit land before he’d blacked out and come to with Merry over him, talking.

He’d been taught to undo the doors before impact in an emergency crash, and he’d totally forgotten. Now he was glad he had skipped that step. The windows and doors seemed to be intact, keeping out the wind and snow, but the coldness was starting to seep into the interior of the plane. He wasn’t sure how much he could move, but he had things to do, and he needed to do them now.

“Merry?” Gage said slowly, watching her closely. “I need to check the plane.”

“What?” Now her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“I need to see what condition it’s in,” he said as he reached for the door handle by his left side, but that was as far as he got. Merry had his right arm clutched in both of her hands, and was leaning into him. He barely kept from gasping because of the pain and had to will himself to turn very cautiously back to her.

“No,” Merry was saying emphatically, “you can’t. It’s a blizzard out there. You can’t go out.” She was still holding him and he could feel the pressure of her fingers through his jacket sleeve. She looked terrified.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he told her, but didn’t make any move to get free of her hold on him. “I’m just going to go around the plane and get back in.”

“No,” she said again. “You’ll get out there and disappear. You’ll get lost.”

He’d thought she was fairly controlled, that she was dealing with this as well as he could expect her to. But he’d been wrong. That unexpected sense of protectiveness surged through him. “Okay, okay,” he acquiesced, and he felt her fingers ease a bit, but they didn’t let go. “I’ll explain how I’ll do it, and...” He paid the price in acute pain to use his free hand to cover hers resting on his sleeve. “We’ll get through this,” he said simply, never breaking eye contact with her.

He saw her swallow. “Promise?”

“Absolutely. We’ll do it together.” That statement stunned him. He never joined forces with anyone if he could avoid it, but he’d meant what he said. “We’ll get out of here.”

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