Expecting the Boss's Baby / Twins Under His Tree: Expecting the Boss's Baby. Christine Rimmer

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      Another tiny bug attacked. She felt a sting on the side of her neck. She smacked it and then ducked back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her, hauling out her suitcase from the baggage area and grabbing a lightweight shirt with long sleeves and pulling it on. Her legs, in the shorts, would still be vulnerable to bites. But she couldn’t cover everything.

      There was bug repellent in the back, but her bladder wouldn’t wait for that.

      Again, she eased the seat forward, swung the door up and tossed the shovel out. Gripping the roll of toilet paper, she dropped down after it, being careful to clear the jagged stub of the wing. The landing gear was gone, too, snapped clean off during the spinning that had ripped away the wing. The belly of the plane rested on the ground. She could easily reach the open door to swing it shut.

      For a few seconds, she stood there, swatting at insects, looking around at the small, flat, clear space in the middle of who-knew-where. The tall trees were way, way up there, their wide, thick crowns swaying in a wind that didn’t reach the ground. She gazed up, watched a bird sail across the clear blue. It let out a long, fading cry as it went by, a prehistoric sound, the kind the pterodactyls made in Jurassic Park. When the ancient cry bled off into nothing, the pressure in her bladder reminded her why she’d come out here in the first place.

      No time like the present. She grabbed the shovel and figured out how to extend the handle. There were pegs that popped out along the sides. She stuck the shovel head into the wet ground and hung the paper on a peg.

      And then quickly, she took care of business. When that was done, she buried the paper she’d used and then decided on one quick look around before going back inside.

      The clearing was a little smaller and narrower than a football field and the plane lay approximately in the center of it. She walked straight out from the passenger door to the edge of the trees, counting off the steps: sixty-five of them. The jungle really was like a wall of living green. She wouldn’t try to go in there—not without at least a compass, a knife and the hatchet from that box in the plane.

      Instead, she walked the perimeter of the clear space. She found five narrow trails leading off into the undergrowth at various, random-seeming places along the clearing’s rim. Made by animals or humans? She had no idea which. All five trails looked well-worn, the thick roots of the trees snaking across them, ready to trip the unwary hiker.

      She shivered at the thought that she would probably be going in there, most likely by herself—not yet, though. She would wait until tomorrow morning, when Dax was awake and could advise her on jungle safety. And maybe, if they were very lucky and rescue came quickly, she would never have to go in there at all.

      Another of those prehistoric-sounding birds went by overhead. And the cries and rustlings continued from deep in the trees. She went back to the plane and felt only relief to hoist the door and climb to safety within.

      Dax was still out cold. And a few of those tiny biting fly-like creatures had joined them inside. She got bug repellent from her suitcase and rubbed it on herself and then on him.

      Did he seem too warm? She laid her palm against the side of his face. Maybe a little. But surely not more than a degree or two above normal.

      “Water?” he muttered, coming half-awake.

      She gave him some. He drank and sank right back into oblivion.

      Oh, how she wished she could go there with him. She remembered the bottle of codeine tucked into the first aid kit and thought of taking one herself, of the blessed relief of surrendering to drugged slumber.

      She did no such thing. But just the fact that she thought of it brought home, yet again, the deep trouble they were in. She tried to look on the bright side, go over all the things that had actually gone right, beginning with how they weren’t dead or critically injured.

      How Dax had remembered their location as recently as a minute or two before he tried to land.

      The bright side somehow, didn’t seem all that bright.

      She changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle and then busied herself straightening up the cabin as best she could, gathering the two bloody shirts, stuffing them in an old canvas tote she’d brought along. Maybe later she could wash them, if she could find a stream. They would never be white again, but in the jungle, who was going to care? If nothing else, they would do as cloths for washing, for drying their few dishes and cups.

      In the box with the camping gear, she found flares. They would be at least as good as a signal fire, should a plane go by overhead. She took them out and put them on the floor of the rear seat, close at hand.

      It had been hours since she’d eaten—since her early breakfast of a protein drink and toast. Her stomach seemed to have shut down, probably some natural reaction to the shock of what had happened.

      But she knew that she needed to eat to keep up her strength. So she got a bag of freeze-dried beef stew and poured some water in it. It was not delicious. She gagged it down anyway and found she felt marginally better afterward, stronger.

      Dax should probably try to eat something, too. She found a bag of maple sugar oatmeal, added water and tried to feed it to him. He woke up, ate a few bites, and then mumbled, “No. No more … water?”

      She gave him some. He went back to sleep and she ate the rest of the oatmeal so it wouldn’t go to waste.

      Outside, it was still daylight, would be for at least a couple of hours. She had some books on her laptop, but it seemed somehow foolish to start wearing down the battery. So she got out the paper maps that were required for small-plane travel, and her pen and notebook and marked the coordinates Dax had given her.

      She learned that they were in the Chiapan wilderness, miles and miles north of San Cristóbal. She stared at the small dot she’d made on the map for a long time, as if just by looking at it, she could figure out how to get them out of here.

      No magic realization as to escape came to her. She yawned and leaned her head against the seat and thought wearily that at last the adrenaline from all this excitement was wearing off. Even shaky, scared crash victims get tired eventually.

      She got up and changed the cold pack on Dax’s ankle again. He didn’t stir and seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

      Then, since she could think of nothing else that needed doing right that instant, she put the rear seat as far back as it would go and closed her eyes.

      Her sleep was fitful. She dreamed of a party in a big, rambling house. She roamed from room to room. Everyone was having a great time and she didn’t know anyone there.

      And then she started dreaming that she was at work, at Great Escapes. No one was there. The place was empty. But then she heard Dax. He was moaning, calling out, saying strange, garbled, things. Words she didn’t understand, nonsense syllables.

      In her dream, she looked for him. She called to him, but couldn’t find him.

      Slowly, she woke and realized where she was, lost in the Chiapan jungle somewhere, in a wrecked plane. And Dax was in the front seat, tossing around, moaning.

      It was dark out. She got the battery-run lantern from the box in back. Switching it on, she craned over the seats and Dax’s agitated form. She set the lantern on the floor in front. The powerful СКАЧАТЬ