She took the T-shirt in both hands and pulled, trying to rip it. She discovered a moment later that she had invested in a very high-quality fabric. Though it stretched, it wouldn’t tear. She muttered a mild curse and tried again.
Donovan reached out to take the shirt from her hands. A few efficient pulls and he had the shirt in shreds.
She sighed and accepted the coral strips from him. “Thank you.”
Fortunately, his black pants fit loosely, so she was able to push the right leg up and out of the way. The cut looked clean, and the edges even, so she wrapped one strip of fabric around his leg and tied it securely.
“That should keep the cut clean, anyway,” she murmured. “Now what are we going to do about the break?”
He’d made a visible effort to force his pain aside and speak without any show of emotion. “We’ll splint it. I saw some short boards lying next to the cabin—probably left over from when it was built. We can use a couple of those to brace my leg and keep the bone from moving if it is broken. We’ll secure them with strips of cloth. It won’t be ideal, but maybe it’ll brace my leg when I walk. I’ll rig up some crutches or something to help bear my weight.”
She frowned at him. “You’re not planning to start walking again?”
“We aren’t going to fly out of here.”
“Donovan, you can’t hike when your leg could be broken.”
“Chloe, I have no choice.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Just find some narrow boards to use for the splint, will you?”
Muttering deprecations about foolishly macho men, Chloe searched the small pile of rotting wood for usable boards. She found two that were roughly two feet long and four inches wide, each about an inch thick. Definitely not ideal—but all she had at the moment. Stumbling over the occasional rock or twig—and promising herself she would never step foot outside without her shoes again—she carried them back to where he waited.
With Donovan’s help, she splinted his lower leg tightly. Already it was beginning to swell, and she worried that they could be causing more damage than they were preventing, but he refused to listen to her concerns. He fully intended to keep walking as soon as he was upright again, and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to talk him out of it.
“At least rest a few minutes before we start again. You said there was some food in the cabin. We should eat something if it looks safe. And besides,” she added as thunder made itself heard in the distance, “it’s going to rain again soon.”
He nodded. “Help me up.”
Wedging her shoulder under his arm, she supported him as he rose, keeping his weight on his left foot. She served as his crutch while they made their way to the shelter. The swinging handcuff bracelet bumped her upper arm, but she ignored it. He was heavy, but he spared her his full weight, hopping on his good foot until they reached the building—which really was more lean-to than cabin.
They ducked through the small door that dangled precariously on its hinges. The inside of the tiny building was dark and dusty, little light filtering in through the one small glass pane set into the back wall. The only furnishings were a couple of rickety chairs, a dust-covered table, and what appeared to be a wood-framed bed covered with a heavy tarp. Against one wall was a rough countertop littered with abandoned supplies—a broken lantern, several stacks of cans, and a box filled with assorted tools and utensils.
Chloe helped Donovan into one of the chairs, caught her breath for a moment, then moved toward the counter. There was no sink for washing any of the dirty items. Nor was there a stove of any sort. “How do you suppose he cooked?”
“Probably on a portable camp stove—maybe a campfire, though he wouldn’t risk much smoke in case of DEA planes flying over.”
She found a battered metal saucepan, the bottom scorched black with soot, sitting upside down on the counter. “I’ll bring water in from the stream to wash a couple of utensils so we can eat.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.” Carrying the saucepan, she went back outside to the stream. Kneeling beside the stream, she dipped the pan into the water, then drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders sagging.
She hadn’t wanted to fall apart in front of Donovan, but she was beginning to despair that they would ever be rescued. They were stranded in a remote cabin probably owned by drug dealers, miles from anywhere, with three armed men on their trail. Donovan’s leg could be broken, and she suspected that her bloodied feet were becoming infected. Even if Bryan had been contacted by their kidnappers, he had no way to know where they were now, couldn’t possibly be looking for them here.
Maybe they should have stayed where they were. Who was to say that they wouldn’t have been released, unharmed, after Bryan paid the ransom? What made Donovan so certain their safety had depended on escape?
She drew a deep breath and forced her shoulders straight. They had escaped, and now Donovan was hurt, waiting inside for her to return. He’d been so conscientious about taking care of her; the least she could do was return the favor now.
She scrubbed the pan as best she could with sand, gravel and stream water. When it was as clean as she could manage, she filled it with water and carried it back to the cabin. There was a pinhole leak in the bottom of the pan. Drops of water oozed out of it, but slowly enough that it didn’t concern her much.
Donovan was still in the chair, his head back, his eyes closed, his shackled right hand resting on the thigh of his outstretched, injured leg. It was the second time since she’d met him that he looked even slightly vulnerable. The first had been when he’d lain unconscious in that van, his head resting on her lap.
She ran a hand through her damp hair and cleared her throat. “I brought water.”
He opened his eyes and straightened, apparently embarrassed to be caught giving in to his weakness for even a moment. “No problems?”