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  Withering Hope

  Copyright © 2015 Layla Hagen

  Published by Layla Hagen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Layla Hagen 2015

  Cover Design: by Ari at Cover it! Designs

  Interior Layout by Author's HQ

  Proofreading by: Allyson Whipple

  My last flight as Aimee Myller starts like any other flight: with a jolt.

  I lean my head on the leather headrest, closing my eyes as the private jet takes off. The ascent is smooth, but my stomach still tightens the way it always does during take-offs. I keep my eyes closed for a little while even after the plane is level. When I open up my eyes, I smile. Hanging over the seat in front of me, inside a cream-colored protection bag, is the world's most beautiful wedding dress.

  My dress.

  It does wonders for me, giving my boyish figure curves. I'll be wearing it in exactly one week. The wedding will take place at my fiancé Chris’s gorgeous vacation ranch in Brazil, where I'm heading right now. I've made this flight numerous times before, but it's the first time I'm traveling in Chris's private six-passenger jet without him, and it feels empty. When I next board this plane, my last name will be Moore, Mrs. Christopher Moore. I sink farther down in my seat, enjoying the feeling of smooth leather on my skin. The emptiness of the plane is accentuated by the fact that there is no flight attendant tonight.

  I couldn't bring myself to ask Kyra, Chris’s flight attendant, to work tonight. Her daughter turned three today, and she’s had the party planned for ages. No reason for her to pay because I decide on a whim that I absolutely have to return to the ranch tonight instead of tomorrow so I can supervise the wedding preparations.

  The poor pilot, Tristan, wasn’t so lucky—he had to give up what would have been a free night. But he'll forgive me. I've found people are willing to forgive many things—too many in my opinion—from a future bride. I'll have to find a way to make it up to Tristan. Maybe I'll buy him something he'll enjoy as a token of gratitude. That might be a challenge since I don't know Tristan all that well, though he's been working for Chris for a few years. Tristan is very guarded.

  I’ve gotten pretty close to Kyra, who seems beside herself whenever I travel on the plane. I suspect Chris and the business partners he usually flies with aren't as entertaining as the endless discussions we have about the wedding. But all I have managed with Tristan is to get him to talk to me on a first name basis and crack an occasional joke.

  Three hours into the flight, Tristan's voice resounds through the speakers. "It looks like there will be more turbulence than usual tonight. It'll be safest if you don't leave your seat for the next hour. And keep your seatbelt fastened."

  "Got it," I say, then remember he can't hear me.

  The plane starts jolting vigorously soon after that, but I don't worry too much. Tristan Bress is an excellent pilot, even though he's only twenty-eight—just two years older than I am. I've made this flight often enough. I’m almost used to the occasional turbulences. Almost.

  I peek out the window and see we are flying over the Amazon rainforest. The mass of green below is so vast it gives me goose bumps. I gulp. Even though I'm not scared, the continuous jolts do affect me. An unpleasant nausea starts at the back of my throat, and my stomach rolls, somersaulting with each brusque movement of the plane. I check the seat in front of me for the sick bag. It's there.

  I grip the hem of my white shirt with both hands in an attempt to calm myself. It doesn't work; my fingers are still twitching. I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans and try to focus on the wedding. That brings a smile to my face. Everything will be perfect. Well, almost everything. I wish my parents could be with me on my wedding day, but I lost them both eight years ago, just before starting college. I close my eyes, trying to block the nausea. After a few minutes it works. Even though the flight isn't one bit smoother, my anxiety loosens a bit.

  And then an entirely new kind of anxiety grips me.

  The plane starts losing height. My eyes fly open. As if on cue, Tristan's voice fills the cabin. "I have to descend to a lower altitude. We'll get back up as soon as possible. You have nothing to worry about."

  An uneasy feeling starts forming inside me. This hasn't happened before. Still, I have full confidence in Tristan's abilities. There is no reason to worry, so I do my best not to. Until a deafening sound comes from outside. I snap my head in that direction. At first I see nothing except my own reflection in the window: green eyes and light brown, shoulder-length hair. Then I press my forehead to the window. What I see outside freezes the air in my lungs. In the dim twilight, smoke paints black clouds in front of my window.

  Black smoke swirls from the one and only engine of the plane.

  "Aimee," Tristan’s voice says calmly, "I would like you to bend forward and hug your knees. Hurry." The measured tone with which he utters each word scares me like nothing else. "We've lost our engine and I am starting the procedure for an emergency landing."

  I barely have time to panic, let alone move, when the plane gives such a horrendous jolt that I bang my head on the window. A sharp pain pierces my temple, and a cry escapes from deep in my throat. Sharper pain follows. Piercing. Raw.

  My body seems to have moved on its own, because I'm bent over, hugging my knees. Horrible thoughts wiggle their way into my mind. Emergency landing. What percentage of emergency landings go well? My heart races so frantically, and the plane drops so fast it's impossible to imagine it’s very high. Another thought grips me. Where will we land? We were over the rainforest last I looked. We couldn't have made it very far since then. My palms sweat, and I grit my teeth as the plane inclines, feeling like I'll be ripped from my seat and propelled forward.

  The temptation to raise my head to look out the window is suffocating. I want to know where we are, when the inevitable impact will arrive. But I can't move, no matter how much I try. I'm not sure if it's the plane’s position forcing me to stay down or the fear. I tilt my head to one side, facing the corridor. The sight of the protective bag with the dress inside sprawled on the floor makes me forget my fear for a moment, leaving one thought stand out. Chris. My wonderful fiancé, who I have known since I was a small child and with whom I practically grew up. With his round, blue eyes and stubborn blond curls, he still looks boyish, even at the age of twenty-seven and dressed in expensive suits.

  I’m thinking about him when the crash comes.

  I wake up covered in cold sweat and something soft that might be a blanket. I can't tell for sure, because when I open my eyes, it’s dark. When I try to move, a sharp pain in my temple makes me gasp.

  "Aimee?"


  "Tristan." The word comes out almost like a cry. In the faint moonlight coming in through the windows, I see him leaning on the seat in front of me, hovering over me. I imagine his dark brown eyes searching me worriedly.

  "Are you hurt?"

  "Just my temple, but I'm not bleeding," I say, running my fingers over the tender spot. I assess him next. It’s difficult given the dim moonlight. His white uniform shirt is smeared with dirt, but he appears unharmed. I turn my head toward the window. I can't gauge anything outside in the darkness.

  "Where are we?" I ask.

  "We landed," Tristan says simply, and when I turn to look at him he adds, "… in the rainforest."

  I nod, trying not to let the tight knot of fear in my chest overtake me. If I let it spiral out, I may not be able to control it.

  "Shouldn't we … like… leave the plane or something? Until they rescue us? Is it safe for us to be inside?"

  Tristan runs a hand through his short, black hair. "Trust me, this is the only safe place. I checked outside for any fuel leaks, but we're good."

  "You got out?" I whisper.

  "Yes."

  "I want—” I say, opening my seatbelt and trying to stand. But dizziness forces me back into my chair.

  "No," Tristan says, and he slumps in the seat opposite mine on the other side of the slim aisle. "Listen to me. You need to calm down."

  "How deep in the forest are we, Tristan?"

  He leans back, answering after a long pause. "Deep enough."

  "How will they find us?" I curl my knees to my chest under the blanket, the dizziness growing. I wonder when Tristan put the blanket over me.

  "They will," Tristan says.

  "But there is something we can do to make it easier for them, isn't there?"

  "Right now, there isn't."

  "Can we contact someone at base?" I ask weakly.

  "No. We lost all communication a while ago." His shoulders slump, and even in the moonlight, I notice his features tighten. His high cheekbones, which usually give him a noble appearance, now make him look gaunt. Yet instead of panic, I’m engulfed in weakness. My limbs feel heavy. Fog settles over my mind.

  "What happened to the engine?" I whisper.

  "Engine failure."

  "Can you repair it?"

  "No."

  “There is really no way to send anyone a message?”

  “No.” As if in a dream, I feel Tristan put a pillow under my head and recline my seat.

  I close my eyes, drifting away, thinking of Chris again. Of how worried he must be.

  It's daytime when I open my eyes; weak sun rays illuminate the plane. I've slept with my head in an uncomfortable position, and it’s given me a stiff neck. I massage my neck for a few minutes, looking around for Tristan, but he isn't anywhere in sight. I try to breathe in, but the air is thick and heavy, and I end up choking. Desperate for fresh air, I look up and discover the door at the front of the plane is open. So Tristan must be outside. I stand slowly, afraid the dizziness from last night might return. It doesn't. I avoid looking out the windows as I walk through the aisle between the two rows of seats, running my hands on the armrests of the three seats on each side. If I'm about to have the shock of my life, I prefer to face it all at once, through the door, not snippet by snippet through the windows.

  I stop in front of the door, my eyes still on the ground. The metallic glow of the airstairs—the stairs built into the door of the plane—throws me off for a second. I clench my teeth, pick up my courage, and step forward into the doorway, looking up.

  And then I wince.

  The view outside the door does not disappoint. It is as terrifying as it is beautiful. Green dominates. The vivid, shiny kind that seems to flow with life. It comes in all shapes and sizes, from lush, dark leaves the size of a tennis racket to the moss covering trees. There is no pattern to the leaves of the trees. Some are heart-shaped, some round. Some spiky, and some unlike anything I have seen before.

  Rays of sunlight lance shyly through the thick canopy above us. Trees block a good chunk of the light. Many trees. Tall trees. They tower over us, and I have to lean my head all the way back to see the canopy properly. I frown.

  How did Tristan land this plane here unscathed? One look at my right tells me he didn’t. I gasp, my grip on the edges of the doorway tightening. The right wing of the plane is a complete wreck. I assume the other wing isn't much better. Two gigantic trees have toppled over the right side of the plane toward the back—with such force they have carved a very deep dent in the plane. Glancing back inside the plane, I see they have fallen right over the only bathroom. I realize with horror the bathroom is probably unusable.

  Shuddering, I decide to get out of the plane. When I step off the airstairs, my feet get wet. It must have rained a lot recently, because the ground is fluid mud that engulfs my feet right up to the shoelaces of my running shoes. Each step sloshes, spraying muddy water in every direction as I walk. I inhale deeply. Or at least attempt to. The air is thick with suffocating moisture, but it's not excessively warm. It’s been warmer in L.A., where I’ve lived my whole life. But never this humid. My shirt and jeans have already begun to stick to my damp skin.

  "You're up," Tristan says, appearing at the front of the plane. His hands are darkened with dust, and he wipes them with a cloth. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and soaked, molding to his muscular frame. The air seems to get thicker by the minute, and I'd rip open my shirt—or skin—if that would help me breathe better.

  "Engine still good?" I ask.

  "Still dead, just checked it. There's no risk of anything blowing up; don't worry."

  “And the communication system?”

  “Also dead. The entire electric system is.”

  “I know it’s unlikely they work here, but how about checking our phones?”

  “I checked mine last night after the crash. Yours, too; I hope you don’t mind. I found your purse. Your tablet, too. No reception, obviously.”

  I nod, but the sight of the damaged wing unnerves me, so I turn to look at the jungle instead. The wilderness unnerves me even more.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks.

  "I'd prefer to view it on TV. I feel like I've stepped into a documentary."

  Tristan steps in front of me, eyeing my cheek. "You have a scratch here. I didn’t see it last night. But it's very superficial. Nothing to worry about."

  "Oh, well…" I raise my hand to my cheek and my voice trails away as I stare at the diamond engagement ring on my left hand. Chris. The wedding. My beautiful, perfect wedding that should take place in less than a week. I shake my head. It will take place. They will rescue us in no time.

  "I’m thirsty," I say, turning away from him so he won’t see the tears threatening to fill my eyes.

  "There are some supplies in the plane. Not much, though. Four cans of soda, which are nothing given the rate at which we'll dehydrate in this climate."

  I raise an eyebrow. "We're almost ankle-deep in water. Surely we can find some clever way to have clear water."

  "I don’t have anything to make a filter good enough to turn this"—he points at the ground—“drinkable. Our best bet is rain."

  “How about the water tank in the bathroom?” I ask half-heartedly, thinking of the trees that fell right on top of the bathroom.

  “The water tank ruptured—I suspect the moment the trees fell—and the water leaked out.”

  “Is the bathroom usable at all?” I ask.

  “No,” Tristan says, confirming my fears. “Everything is wrecked. I crawled inside, and those are the only useful things I could retrieve.” He points toward one of the trees that’s fallen over the plane. At first I’m confused, but when I look closer I notice there is a pile of what looks like shards of a broken mirror just in front of the tree. “Mirror shards?”

  “They are good for signalling our position, among other things.”

  We both walk toward the pile. I shudder at the sight of the pile of uneven shards. Mo
st are the size of my palm, a few even smaller. If those trees had fallen over my seat, or the cockpit…

  I notice there are a few other things lined up next to the mirror shards. A pack of Band-Aids, eye pads, a pair of scissors, a whistle, needles, thread, a pack of insect repellent wipes, and two multifunctional pocket knives.

  “These are part of the supplies from the survival kit,” Tristan says. “I brought them out to make a quick inventory.”

  “Why just a part? Where’s the other part?”

  “Part of the survival kit was in the cockpit. It contained the things you see here. The other part was in a compartment at the back of the plane, next to the bathroom.” He gestures toward the point of contact between the fallen trees and the plane. “It was crushed.”

  “Great.” I debate for a second asking him what items were in there but decide against it. Better not to know what we’re missing out on.

  My stomach rumbles—I'm growing hungry.

  "There are also some peanuts, chocolate sticks, and two sandwiches," Tristan says. "Peanuts and chocolate will make the thirst worse, so I suggest avoiding them." The scant supplies don’t surprise me. Chris and I flew to the ranch two weeks ago to oversee the final preparations for the wedding. Since he didn’t need the jet while at the ranch, he had it sent for its annual technical inspection. A lousy job the technicians did too, considering the crash.

  My boss at the law firm I work for unexpectedly asked me to come back to work the third day we were at the ranch, saying he needed help with a case. I flew back to L.A. on a commercial airline. My boss promised it would take less than a week, so I would still have a full week before the wedding to get things ready. The private jet was supposed to take me back, since the inspection would be done by then. I worked day and night, finishing a day early, and told Chris I wanted to return immediately.

  The plane had been emptied of all supplies before the technical inspection and was supposed to be restocked the day before taking me to Brazil. Since I insisted on leaving a day earlier than planned, Tristan did some quick supply shopping for this trip.