Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(23)

I hugged my knees to my chest to try to stop shaking. “Don’t mention it. So . . . now what?”

“Now we wait. We just landed on the part of the old naval grounds that are still off-limits to the public, and the control tower knew we were about to crash, so you’d better believe we won’t be here by ourselves for long.” He put his head back down and took his sunglasses off to examine me. “Lizzy, are you all right?”

Our eyes met again, but instead of triggering strange flutterings, it somehow reiterated that my current circumstances were not a bad dream, but instead reality. And reality, as it turned out, did not agree with me. “Libby!” I snapped. “My name is Libby!” Then I sort of stopped breathing.

I’d never suffered a panic attack before. Had I known mine would have me clawing at my chest in a futile attempt to get air into my lungs, I would have scurried into the brush so I could humiliate myself privately. Alas, I didn’t know what was happening to me. As I gasped and scratched at myself, Shiloh watched me with interest. Not worry. Not amusement. Just interest, like I was a nature documentary he just happened to land on while channel surfing.

When it became clear I was about to choke on my own terror, he began to pat my back, and only because this was something Tom did when I was upset did I allow him to continue. “Whoa. Whoa there. It’s okay, Libby,” he said, saying my name as clearly as possible so I would catch that he got it right this time. “Pretty sure I know what’s happening to you. You’re having a panic attack. I’ve been there. That was a bad situation, and I’m really sorry.”

A panic attack? I thought incredulously, but I couldn’t get the words to come out of my mouth.

“Look,” he said, continuing to pat me with one hand while pointing at a distant dirt path with the other. I squinted, attempting to focus, which was difficult with so little oxygen making its way to my frontal lobe.

Then I saw them—the wild horses my father told me about. There were four, galloping majestically through an opening in the trees. They trotted across the narrow path and disappeared into a clearing on the other side, gone as fast as they had come. And at once, so was my panic attack.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“You feel better,” Shiloh said. He smiled, and now that his sunglasses were off, the lines around his brown eyes showed that his smile was genuine.

“I do,” I admitted.

“Distraction. Works every time. I learned that from an old friend back when I was having trouble coping.”

I flushed. “Thanks. And sorry for yelling at you. It’s just that I don’t want to die. I lied to myself about it, and I thought it was fine, but now I’m sure I was wrong, and I really just want to live, you know?” I wasn’t really making any sense, but I couldn’t shut up.

Shiloh looked at me curiously. “But you’re alive. You didn’t die.”

“I’m going to,” I explained. “I have cancer.” A rush of relief washed over me as I shared the worst news of my life with a stranger.

“Damn,” he said, and let out a low whistle. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. And it’s not even ovarian, which is what killed my mom, but some rare super cancer that’s especially lethal for women my age. Twenty-nine,” I added slyly, and then I knew the panic attack had fully passed.

He grinned. “See, and I would have put you at twenty-two.”

“Guilty as charged.” I was tempted to ask him how old he was—my current guess placed him well into his forties—but even though he knew my terrible truth and had been permitted to touch me, I wasn’t going to get too cozy.

A government truck pulled up at about the same time a Coast Guard cruiser began to circle the shore. A police officer got out of the truck and approached us. “You’re the pilot?” he asked Shiloh, who nodded. The officer pulled out a pad and started asking questions while I zoned out. Paul and Tom had both called me back, and I hadn’t picked up because I wasn’t sure how to respond to either of them. Paul was probably freaking out, but he would freak out even more once he found out that I was in Puerto Rico and hadn’t told him about it. As for Tom—well, I didn’t even want to go there.

“Miss? Where are you heading?” the officer asked me.

I could barely remember my middle name, let alone recall my itinerary. I grabbed my phone and opened my e-mail. “Island Motors,” I told him, once I’d located my reservation confirmation. “I’m supposed to pick up a rental car.”

“I’ll give you a ride if you like,” he said.

I looked at Shiloh. “Go ahead,” he told me. “I still have to deal with dispatch and the Coast Guard.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Given that your current means of transportation is your two legs, and I would prefer to never get into a moving vehicle with you ever again, I wasn’t asking you for a ride. But I smell like dirty socks, and I was hoping I could get my luggage.”

He glanced back at the plane, which no longer appeared to be smoldering. “Let me check.” He jogged back to the shore, where a couple of Coast Guarders were milling around. He returned a few minutes later with a sheepish expression. “They’ve got a bunch of clearance stuff they need to do. So probably not until this evening. But I’ll tell you what. You tell me where you’re staying, and I’ll make sure our company gets it delivered to you.”