Two Alone by Sandra Brown

lously lanced the areas that needed it. When he doused th e w ound with brandy, Rusty screamed. After that, the stitches didn't seem so bad. He used the sewing needle from the matchbook kit they'd brought with them. After soaking indi vidual threads in brandy, he drew them through her skin and tied th em, firmly pulling the edges of the wound together.
    Rusty stared at the spot where his tawny eyebrows grew t oget her above the bridge of his nose. His forehead was sweating pile of the cold. He never took his eyes off his work except to occasionally glance down at her face. He was sensitive to her pain. Even sympathetic toward it. His hands were amazingly tender for a man so large, and for one who had a cold, unfeeling stone where his heart should have been.
    Eventually that spot between his eyebrows began to swim in and out of focus. Although she was lying still, her head was spinning
    , reeling with pain and trauma and the anesthetizing effects of the brandy. Despite Cooper's advice, she struggled to stay awake, afraid that if she went to sleep she might never wake up. Finally, she gave up the fight and let her eyes drift closed.
    Her last conscious thought was that it was a shame her father would never know how brave s he'd been right up to the moment of her death.
    "Well," Cooper said, sitting back on his heels and wiping his perspiring forehead, "it's not pretty, but I think it will work."
    He looked down at her with a satisfied and optimistic smile. But she didn't see his smile. She was unconscious.

Thr ee
    S he came to, actually surprised that she was alive. At first she thought that darkness had fallen, but she inched her head
    upward. The small mink pelt sli d off her head. It was still daylight —exactly what time was impossible to pinpoint. The sky was gloomily overcast.
    With a sense of dread, she waited for the pain from her leg to pe net rate her consciousness, but miraculously it didn't. Dizzy from th e brandy she'd consumed, she eased herself into a s itting position. It took every ounce of strength she had left to lift the furs off her leg. For one horrid moment she thought it might not be hurting because Cooper had amputated it after all.
    But when she moved aside the largest caribou pelt, she found that he r leg was s t ill intact and bandaged in strips of white cotton . No signs or fresh blood. She was by no means ready to run a marathon, but i t felt much better.
    Sitting up had exhausted her and she fell back amid the furs, pulling them to her chin. Her skin was hot and dry, but she was chilled. She still had a fever. Maybe she should take more aspirin. But where were they? Cooper would know. He—
    Where was Cooper?
    H er lethargy vanished and she sp rang into a sitting position. Fra n ti cally her eyes scanned t he clearing. Not a trace. He was gone. His rifle was missing, too. The other one lay on the ground within her reach. The fire still had glowing coals and was giving off heat.
    But her protector had deserted her.
    Forcibly tamping down hysteria, she reasoned that she was jumping to conclusions. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't have nursed her so meticulously only to leave her stranded and helpless in the wilderness.
    Would he?
    Not unless he was an unfeeling bastard. Hadn't she decided that was e xac t l y what Cooper Landry was? No. He was hard. Tough. Cynical, certainly b ut not completely la cking in feelings. If he were, he'd have deserted her yesterday. So where was he?
    He'd left a rifle behind. Why? Maybe that was the extent of his human kindness. He ’ d tended to her wound, done all he could o n that score. He'd provided her with the means to protect herself. M aybe be now it was every man for himself. Survival of the fittest.
    Well, she would die. If not of fever, then of thirst. She had no water. She had no food. She had no shelter to speak of. In just a little while the supply of firewood, which he'd cut and sta cked nearby, would be used up. She'd die of exposure if the weather