Rescued by a Stranger

by Lizbeth Selvig

  Jill grabbed the bag Chase had set on the hillside, the anger heating up as reality smacked her in the face. How was this fair? For once it had seemed her dream would have a fighting chance, but oh no. With short, angry stomps she marched up the steep slope, and when she reached the road after working up to full-fledged fury, she nearly crashed into a gleaming, silver and red motorcycle. She glimpsed the intricate Triumph logo on the gas tank and jumped back. Motorcycles were not her thing.

  “So, who can you call?”

  She stopped short of snapping at him, dropped her bag, and pressed her fingertips against her eyes to hide her frustration. “Dewey’s Garage and Gas in town.” She sighed.

  “Can I take you there? Or call for you?”

  “No. I have my phone, and you’ve helped too much already. Believe me, Dewey knows this truck. He won’t be at all surprised he has to tow her out of a ditch.”

  “Then give him a call. I’ll wait with you.”

  She started to object. Being rescued was far out of her realm of experience, but the man’s presence had a calming, spell-like effect on her worry and her anger. She found Dewey’s number and punched the call button. A familiar voice came answered. “Dewey Mitchell.”

  She explained her problem and waited for Dewey to calculate his ETA.

  “I’m out delivering some fuel, and it’ll take forty-five minutes or so to get back to the tow truck. Sorry I’m not closer.”

  Disappointment spread through her like chills. “I’ll take you as soon as I can get you, Dewey. Thanks.” She described where she was and hung up.

  “He could be an hour.” She tried desperately to hide her rekindled anger. Of all the days for disaster to hit … “All he said was he’ll hurry.”

  She plopped to her seat in the grass beside the road. Her consultation with a brand-new riding student was supposed to start in five minutes, but the bigger issue was Colin Pitts-Matherson. The visiting coach of the U.S. Equestrian Eventing Team was not known for magnanimity. As a talent scout would for any sport, he’d asked for one chance to see her perform. He’d expect to see her ride. In forty-five minutes. With no sob-story excuse about a dog in the road. Her shot at an Olympic dream could well be resting in the ditch along with The Creature’s hood ornament.

  A mellow rustling of clothing distracted her, and something heavy draped across her shoulders, steeping the air in a scent she recognized as his, even after this short time. Chase squatted in front of her and drew the jacket securely around her body. She stared at him, mesmerized and annoyed in equal measure.

  “What the heck?”

  “You’re shivering. I don’t want to see you go into shock.”

  Chase now wore only a soft, heathery gray Henley, fitted to his broad pecs like superhero Lycra. A smear of ketchup marred the front, and she couldn’t stop her fingers from brushing at it. The juxtaposition of fur-soft brushed cotton over the hard wall of muscle behind it made her quiver.

  Oh brother.

  She shoved at him with all her strength. He barely moved.

  “For crying out loud!” She tried to fling the jacket off, but he held it firmly in place. “I’m missing two important appointments while I’m sitting here on my ass, and I can’t get help for an hour. I’m not in shock. I’m majorly pissed off.”

  When she quit struggling, he released his hold on the jacket, grasped her chin gently, and studied her face.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice tightened. “First responder training from an old job. It’s habit.” He released her chin. An odd emptiness replaced his touch. “Let me take you to your appointment. You’ll get there safely and on time. The truck’s not going anywhere until it’s towed.”

  “But I’m going six miles in the opposite direction of where you were going. I can call my boss to come get me.”

  “Heck, six miles? That’s barely spittin’ distance after what I’ve done the last two days.”

  A swirl of nervousness circled through her chest. She wouldn’t climb aboard a motorcycle with someone she knew, much less a random stranger—despite the fact that he’d rescued her butt and had a phenomenal body. “That’s very nice of you,” she said. “You’ve gone above and beyond, but I’ll give David a call.”

  “You sure? I can have you there in ten minutes.”

  Or he could have her splatted like a dead raccoon on the asphalt in thirty seconds.

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure.” She nodded emphatically.

  A eureka-moment smile blossomed on his lips. “Hey. You aren’t afraid of a little ol’ motorcycle?”

  Over her shoulder, she took in the Triumph with a serious eye. Its crimson gas tank and chrome fenders shone in the sunshine, and although she knew next to nothing about motorcycles—except that when someone wiped out at fifty miles per hour he wound up half mangled and in casts in the hospital, scaring his kids half to death—she could tell this one was not new.

  “It’s a good-looking machine,” she allowed. “It’s gotta be an older model?”

  “Vintage is what the bike geeks call it. It’s a ’75 Bonneville. Belongs to my grandfather actually, his pride and joy. Would you believe he bought it in right here in Minnesota? When I decided to come this way, he thought the old girl should have a road trip home.”

  “Ooo-kay, there’s not much of a story in that teaser.” She lifted her eyes and got a wink.

  “Hop on and I’ll tell it to you.”

  “Now, that sounds like a bad biker boy’s version of ‘come see my etchings.’ ”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” His laugh added to the warmth emanating from his jacket.

  “How far have you come in two days?”

  “From Memphis.”

  She let out a low, appreciative whistle. “How much farther are you going?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. I’m heading for a town somewhere around here called Northfield.”

  “Oh, it’s close. Maybe fifteen miles once you go through Kennison Falls.”

  His Elvis smile enchanted her as always. “That’s very, very good news.”

  He stood and held out his hand to pull her to her feet. Jill brushed away a smudge of dust on her thigh. She wasn’t wary by nature, and strangers weren’t rare. Kennison Falls, Minnesota got enough through-traffic to keep the local merchants in good business. But leather-jacketed bikers with gorgeous, penetrating eyes were not the norm.

  She wished she could control the sudden pounding of her pulse, but tangled as she was in his eyes, his accent, and her ridiculous fear, containing her heartbeat was a lost cause.

  “My mama warned me about taking rides from strangers.”

  “I won’t let the big, bad Triumph hurt you, you know.”

  She closed her eyes and took another deep breath. “This is nuts.”

  He peered at her. “You really are scared.”

  “Always was.” She forced herself not to look embarrassed. “Even when my father had one.”

  He didn’t tease or even comment. From the seat, he picked up a black, shiny-visored helmet and held it out to her. “You can wear this. It possesses the power to keep you safe. Put your arms into the jacket, too, that’s more protection.”

  Twice, now, he’d promised to protect her. Something primitive finally calmed her nerves, if only slightly. With resignation she pulled the helmet over her head. It fit like a fishbowl and dimmed the light like three pairs of sunglasses.

  Chase rapped on the hard shell while she snapped the chinstrap.

  “Where’s your bag of boots?” He chuckled.

  She grabbed it from the grass, and he plopped it atop a small duffel, pushing them to the metal tail behind the seat and stretching a bungee cord around both bags. He flipped down the passenger foot pegs and swung his leg over the seat.

  “Squeeze on,” he said blithely, and she did. The padded seat cushioned her better than her best riding saddle did, but there was no life beneath her, no living thing to partner with. “Put your feet on the rests here over the pipes. Don’t let them
dangle—the metal gets good and hot. Hang on to me or hold that strap on the seat. And don’t worry.”

  She flipped up the visor. “I ride horses not Hogs. You can reason with a horse. And they’re smart enough to keep from doing stupid things because they don’t want to die any more than I do.” She snapped the visor back in place.

  “Well, this isn’t a Hog, it’s a Triumph. And, honey, I’m smart enough to know I don’t want to die either.” He laughed and shifted one hip to bring a boot heel down on the kick-starter.

  The bike answered with a grumpy rumble but didn’t catch. He stomped again. The Bonneville sprang to life, vibrating beneath Jill like a purring lion. The pulsations went through her like electrical current.

  “One more thing,” he called, twisting over his shoulder. “Lean with me into the turns. It won’t be your instinct but it’ll be safer. Ready?”

  She clutched the seat strap, and the motorcycle rolled forward a foot. Chase let out the clutch. With a slight jolt, and a tilt to the right, the bike roared onto the road.

  They picked up speed like a launched rocket, and Jill swayed side to side, her wimpy grip on the leather seat strap not nearly secure enough to keep her stable. As they followed a curve to the left and the bike leaned, she held in a screech, squeezed her eyes shut, and threw her arms around Chase’s waist. Immediately her torso quit swaying.

  Don’t crash. Don’t crash. Don’t crash. The mantra played through her mind until, finally, they’d been underway long enough that the silliness of her fear hit home. She opened her eyes and watched familiar sights flash past in an unfamiliar way. The wind whipped at Chase’s jacket, but sheltered in its folds she felt no chill. Beneath her hands, Chase’s stomach muscles contracted and flexed as he moved as one with the motorcycle. Hanging onto him was like pressing up against a safe, brick wall. It took a second for her to comprehend when his fingers pried gently at hers, wiggling and loosening her grip.

  “Relax!” he called over his shoulder, the word barely audible as it whizzed past her helmeted ear with the wind.

  She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been squeezing. With effort, she pulled her hands apart and let go, grasping for a hold on the leather again, but he caught one hand and tugged her arm forward, patting it when the hold was just right. A hard shiver rolled through her body and then, for the first time, Jill found the ability to relax as he’d commanded. Beneath her hold, he came to life, not a brick wall at all but a supple, tensile lifeline.

  “Be ready to tell me where to turn,” he shouted again. “I’ve got you. Trust me.”

  Chapter Two

  THREE MILES PASSED before Chase’s beautiful rescuee stopped fighting the motion of the bike. Once he’d adjusted her hold around his waist she hadn’t let go, her arms tightening with every curve of the road, relaxing when the Triumph straightened. Now, her torso curved against his back, finally following his movements and holding him like she trusted his ability.

  He didn’t want to admit it, but the girl had power over him. It flowed from her touch and through his body from toes to wind-whipped hair. Every dark memory he ran from, all his demons, had fled the instant her metallic-tan Chevy had slipped down the ditch. Every good instinct he’d honed over the years had kicked in. She might be scared of the ride she was on, but her arms clamped around his hips and her fingers clasped over his belly felt like they held his entire world together.

  Dangerous thinking. He hadn’t come here to meet anyone—especially not a girl likely a decade or more younger than he. All this minor hero stuff would only be okay if he remembered this was a rescue of her.

  But, dang, she was great. Pretty as a daisy in the breeze. Tough and snappy even in trouble. And funny. Once upon a time he’d been funny, and she’d brought it out again. Along with a few other feelings that had been dormant for a very long time.

  He couldn’t afford such schoolboy hormonal surges, and yet what red-blooded American boy with hormones could have stopped a reaction to a beautiful girl falling on top of him out of the blue? A guy simply didn’t get that lucky every day.

  And her arms wrapped around him now felt good. As good as the wind tearing through his helmetless hair. It was hard to deny the breeze in his face was heavenly. He wore the helmet because he believed in it, and he’d given it to Jill because preaching such safety practices to patients and clients came automatically.

  Patients. Clients.

  Black thoughts reared their ugly heads slowly, like insidious little termites eating away at his temporary peace. Clara. Brody. Tiana. His breath hitched slightly. Aw, shit. Tiana.

  Unexpectedly, the motorcycle hiccupped and jerked beneath them, banishing the specters before they could fully form. Jill’s arms constricted and every bit of her newfound fluidity stiffened into ramrod alertness. When the bike coughed and popped a second time and then a third, she turned into a human vise grip.

  “Hey, it’s all right,” he called over his shoulder, and rubbed her knuckles, which were so taut he could almost see their icy whiteness with his fingers.

  Not that he knew for sure everything was all right. They weren’t going to crash or die, but the Triumph had not been running well for the past three hundred miles. His fervent hope was that the last tank of gas was bad. His fervent fear was that gas had nothing to do with the problem.

  The bike pulled its choking act three more times before it smoothed out for the last two miles. When Jill finally tugged on his shirt and pointed to a gravel road coming up on the right, her gesture was almost wildly insistent. The gravel spun beneath the bike as they left the pavement. Wild ditch grass gave way to a field of new corn, then one of stubbly alfalfa, and then to a series of well-maintained pastures surrounded by brown post and rail fences. They reminded him of the endless miles of famous dark fencing around Lexington.

  They turned right again onto a wide, sweeping gravel driveway lined with handsome maples. A gold-and-white sign, elegant but tasteful, announced they’d reached Bridge Creek Stables. Twenty yards later, two neat white railings marked the sides of a picturesque bridge over a meandering stream. My, my. They had their own creek.

  He passed more pastures and came to a pristine complex of buildings. A large, two-story house stood to the left, and across the football field–sized yard stood a white-and-green barn, an outdoor riding arena, and several other structures. Jill guided him past the barn’s main double doors to a large parking area. Chase pulled up beside a van with its back end open and a handicap-accessible lift on the ground. When he turned off the bike and its sonorous rumble faded, Jill slumped against his back. He patted her hand and unclasped her fingers.

  Easing from his seat, he unsnapped her chinstrap, pulled the heavy helmet off her head, and revealed a pair of molten brown eyes beneath a tangle of honey-gold hair. She scrambled off the bike as if she’d been stung.

  “What were those death throes we rode through?” she demanded. “Your motorcycle wants me dead, too.”

  He laughed out loud. “I’m sorry. I think they were the result of a tank of bad gas. I am sure you were never going to die.”

  “Yeah? Here’s what I think.” She kissed her fingertips, squatted, and patted them firmly on the ground.

  “You seriously didn’t enjoy that, did you?”

  She popped to her feet. “It was quicker than waiting for Dewey, so, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. But I’ll stick to my ponies, thanks.”

  Now that they stood beside each other with no angst and no problem solving required, her face relaxed into a sweet, impish oval, and her eyes lost their uncertainty. She stood a petite eight inches shorter than he, and her figure curved in very non-young-girlish places.

  How old could she be? She was too mature and quick to be a teenager, although her features could pass for eighteen or nineteen. Early twenties? A little older? It didn’t matter. He was far older and he wasn’t here to window-shop the local women.

  Nor did he have the right to find her as compelling, as pretty, as funny and mysterious
as he did. Or to hold on with such a zing of pleasure to the memory of her arms clinging around his waist.

  She pointed to her bag bungee-corded to the back of the bike. “If you’ll unhook my bag o’ bricks, I’ll give you a very inadequate thank-you, and you can get on your way to Northfield. I’ve kind of messed up your day, since you had to stand in for my guardian angels who obviously took the day off.”

  A slice of pain dragged the smile from his face. “I ain’t nobody’s guardian angel, Miss Jill Carpenter.”

  He handed her the weighty, multicolored striped bag, and an unwelcome sense of melancholy settled over him at the knowledge he had to leave. She was safety and mystery all packaged into one spirited body—an unexpected oasis in a solitary journey he didn’t really want to be taking.

  I want you to go away for a while, Brody had said, five days ago. His brother, ever the clown, for once hadn’t been joking. You’re no good to yourself, this community, or anyone else until you get over thinking you have to save the world.

  Save the world? No. He would have settled for saving one innocent, nine-year-old child.

  “What the heck are they doing here?” Once again, Jill’s voice stopped him from sinking into the quicksand of dark thoughts.

  He followed her gaze to a forest-green panel truck crunching slowly past them toward a parking spot next to the barn. The side of the truck bore a white logo—a circle surrounding the outline of a house and tree, flanked by the words “Connery Construction Company.” Chase’s heart thumped faster in disbelief. What were they doing here? This would be too big a coincidence if he believed in coincidences.