Rescued by a Stranger

by Lizbeth Selvig

  He removed her hand, not particularly gently, annoyance sparking into anger.

  “You’re really somethin’. You almost caught me off guard last night, and that was my fault. I don’t think you’re really this kind of girl, Dee, and I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because we sure don’t know each other. But you listen up close. I’m not some stray ol’ pup that responds to treats and games.”

  Chilliness infiltrated her eyes, and she strode from the room without another word. Chase sank into a chair. Moments ago his day had actually held potential. Now, between the two feuding sisters, he’d just lost half the “friends” he’d made in Minnesota.

  He wished Dee’s assessment of Jill’s behavior was wrong, but he knew it wasn’t. Dee was at least partially right. Jill would be better off if he walked away—if he ignored the number she’d written on his hand. But he’d bragged that Dee had no effect on him—and she absolutely did not. But she’d come on to him like a stampede last night, and depending on what Jill had or hadn’t seen … No. He knew exactly what she’d seen, and she now thought he was a class-A jerk.

  He rubbed his temples. He’d been away from Memphis only five days and already his not-so-brilliant plan was falling apart. He shouldn’t have listened to his brother. He should have fought through the pain and stayed at the clinic to pull his weight.

  The buzz from his cell phone filtered through his back pocket to his backside, jolting his black musings. He fished the phone free to find Brody’s name lighting up the screen. The coincidental timing of his brother’s call made him stare until realization cracked across his emotions like a bullwhip.

  He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to return to the Marian-Lee Clinic even over the phone. In fact, he didn’t ever want to go back—not to the crack babies, the bullet wounds, and the strung-out punks. Not to Clara and life without Tiana.

  “Oh God.”

  The words slipped into the empty room, but they weren’t a prayer. They were a curse or an accusation—or maybe both.

  The phone stopped ringing. That made him a coward as well as a runaway. He couldn’t be sure his brother hadn’t had an important question, but more likely Brody was simply checking up. Chase set the phone on the table with no intention of calling him back.

  The block he’d resolutely put on his memory the past week evaporated, and the exposed pain spilled out so fresh it could have been dealt that instant.

  Clara Washington, strong and proud-featured, had earned every one of her coffee-brown crow’s-feet with worry and hard work at far too young an age. But her eyes knew laughter as well as hardship, and more often than not it was laughing eyes she turned on Chase. Laughing when he promised she would outlive him, and when he proposed marriage for the tenth time and she told him he’d be wise not to get fresh with an experienced older woman. Clara, God help him, was his favorite.

  Except for Tiana.

  Chase had brought the girl, whimpering, sickly, and eight weeks early, into the world. His first delivery after opening the clinic. Although the child’s heroin-addicted mother hadn’t survived, Tiana’s grandmother, Clara, had nurtured the miracle baby into a vibrant, talkative nine-year-old.

  Who was dead.

  His own ego had cost that precious, spirited child her life.

  At the Carpenters’ safe, pleasant kitchen table bedecked with sunny daisies, his phone announced a new voice message with a bright electronic burble. Chase fit the heels of his hands into the hollows of his eyes, pressing until lights danced behind the lids. For three days he’d convinced himself these memories could be controlled—that he’d been able to leave them in Memphis. Now, like a shipwrecked man finally washed ashore only to find his haven devoid of any help, Chase knew he controlled nothing.

  He picked up the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

  Chapter Seven

  LESS THAN AN HOUR later, Chase’s world had gone from black to green. Every shade of it, painted on waving grasses, surrounded hills as far as he could see. He searched the empty landscape and bit back a curse with monumental effort. His mind assured him it wasn’t possible to get lost three miles from a town—despite it being a pinpoint on a map—but his mind told him something different.

  The Triumph had started acting up again, now wheezing like an emphysema patient, which worried him considerably more than being lost did. He craned his neck to find anything familiar in the sea of wild grass and maze of gravel roads from which he couldn’t seem to find an exit. Twice he’d hit the same dead end—a ten-foot chain-link fence marking someone’s very private property.

  He stared at his grandfather’s scrawled directions on the piece of paper in his hand as if this time they would yield results. Sighing, he jammed the useless note into his jacket pocket and lowered his visor. Planting a pivot foot, he throttled up slightly to turn. The Triumph gave an ugly moan and died halfway around the arc. Worry blinked awake in his gut. He straightened the bike and stomped the starter. The engine mocked him with a whirr. He tried twice more and got the same.

  “No.” He groaned aloud.

  He jabbed down the kickstand, dismounted, and removed his helmet. Kneeling with dread, he checked the spark plugs and leads that seemed unchanged from when they’d been tightened at the station yesterday. One more attempt to start the Triumph failed yet again.

  He stood beside it, drove his fingers through his hair, and kicked at the road, spraying dirt and tiny stones at the Bonne’s engine. Helplessly, he turned in a circle. How the hell did he get out of this mess and get to his interview in an hour and fifteen minutes? His mind scrambled for a solution.

  The only immediate answer was to call Duncan Connery and get the meeting postponed. He dug his phone out of an inner jacket pocket and flicked it on. All that showed up where his signal bars should have been was the dread no-service circle-with-a-line-through-it.

  “You have got to be kidding me!” he shouted at nobody.

  He considered removing the bike’s engine covers right there on the dirt road. He knew his way around the inside of the Bonne. But the engine was too hot.

  He lowered himself to the hillside. Give her a chance to cool down. She’ll start; she will.

  After fifteen minutes, Chase sent the most positive vibes he could muster to his motorcycle and swung one leg over the seat. Six stomps later he leaned onto the handlebars and buried his head in his arms. A fried coil, a burnt-out cylinder ring—there were a number of potential culprits. But he didn’t want to start thinking about what it would take to find parts for his granddaddy’s baby. They would not simply be lying around.

  With no choice but to hike, Chase pushed the bike into the grass, slung his duffel bag over one shoulder, and set off, keeping his mind blank but his eye on his cell phone. It wasn’t until he’d gone at least a mile that he came to a crossroads—two gravel lines intersecting the grass—and his phone screen awarded him two bars of service. Stopping in his tracks before he could lose them, he found Connery’s phone number in his contacts list. Five minutes later, he’d explained his situation to Connery’s secretary and made arrangements to call as soon as he knew when he’d arrive. He hung up, slightly relieved, although he had no way to get himself the twelve miles to Northfield.

  But now what? He couldn’t even get hold of Dewey Mitchell at the service station—he had no wireless connection to look up Mitchell’s number.

  “Nice cluster, Preston,” he said out loud.

  It was almost funny. He, a man of a thousand contacts in Memphis, knew no one here. He trudged forward three steps, then stopped again.

  Except he did know someone.

  His heart raced as he looked at his palm, almost able to feel the gentle scratching from her pen. He’d washed away the ink, but not before entering that number in his phone. Of course, based on events this morning she might not answer at all, but he dialed anyway.

  “Hello?” Her voice flowed through the phone, and he sent up a prayer of thanks.

  “Jill? It’s Chase.
”

  She replied with dead silence.

  “Preston?” he added.

  “As if I could forget.”

  He tried to ignore the frost on her words. “I’m real sorry to call you, but I seem to have run into a little trouble, and I’m hoping you’ll give me Dewey Mitchell’s number.”

  “Oh dear. What happened?” For an instant the warmth he remembered returned.

  He could almost, maybe, hear the line thaw as he related his predicament and explained the black hole he’d fallen into.

  “I’ll call Dewey,” she said simply. “Hang tight, I think I can tell him right where you are.” She hung up with nothing more.

  Sure enough, it took only fifteen minutes before he heard a motor. He stood, amazed, stomped dust off his boots, and waited. It nearly knocked him on his rear when a metallic-tan Suburban led a dusty cloud tail straight toward him. Although he’d never seen it on all four tires, he’d have known The Creature anywhere.

  “Hello.” She stopped beside him and leaned out the window.

  “Well, pat my head and call me surprised.”

  He could tell it took some effort for her not to smile. “Yeah, we seem to have perpetually bad timing. Dewey says he’s sorry. He’s out on another delivery. I couldn’t make myself leave you stranded. We’ll meet him at the station.”

  “That was awful nice of you. I’m sorry you had to leave work, though. I’d have been fine.”

  A tiny shrug lifted her good shoulder. “I owe you a couple. C’mon. Get in. Show me where the motorcycle is so I can give Dewey exact directions.”

  The ride was silent, slightly strained. When they reached the Triumph, Chase happily left the confines of The Creature. He tried to start the bike again, but it was unquestionably dead.

  “And you made me get on that thing.” Jill shook her head.

  “She had me fooled. I didn’t think there was anything wrong,” he admitted, angry with himself and annoyed enough with Jill that he kept his eyes from straying to hers. “I’m sorry I endangered you.”

  “Hey. I was kidding.”

  At that he met her eyes. Her stance had softened, but her brown eyes still kept him at a distance. His calm finally gave out.

  “You wanna tell me how I’m supposed to know this morning what you’re thinking? We were doing fine last night. This morning I’m in an igloo doghouse. You kidding about that, too?”

  “I think you maybe got the wrong idea about … things yesterday.”

  “Things? What things?” He waited for her a second and changed his mind in a rush of irritation. He didn’t have the time or the desire to play games with a girl he barely knew. “No, forget that. I know exactly why your fur is all ruffled, and I refuse to pussyfoot around you.”

  Her spine stiffened, and she made no effort to hide an angry frown. “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

  “You’re right, I don’t owe you anything.” The words obviously confounded her. “But I do respect you, and I’m selfish enough to want your respect in return. You saw your sister kiss me last night. I’m sorry you did.”

  “I’m sure you are.” She crossed her arms stubbornly in front of her chest. Despite looking like a teddy bear in a snit, somehow he knew not to take her anger lightly.

  “The kiss would have ended the same way regardless. About two seconds after she tried starting it.”

  “Chase, this is your business. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “But I shot off my mouth about Southern men. And that’s what’s at the core of this. Admit it.”

  For the first time she looked away. He tugged gently on her good shoulder to make her look back.

  “I don’t like excuses,” he said. “I’m a big boy, and I should have known what Dee planned to all along, but I didn’t believe it until it happened.”

  The hardness eased from Jill’s features, and a knot in Chase’s gut loosened.

  “She’s a piece of work, my sister.”

  “Regardless, it was no kind of kiss. Trust me, after last night Dee won’t be giving any stirring eulogies at my funeral.”

  Jill’s eyes closed in acceptance and reopened, warmed to gentleness by soft flecks of golden light. Her sheepish smile sent a flush coursing through his body, as unexpected and unnerving as a chill during a fever.

  “I’m sorry. My day had gone so badly.” Her voice, soft in contrition, only fanned the heat in his body. “When I believed Dee had managed to do what she does best, make a fool of me and get her hooks into a handsome guy, I chose to believe my bad luck was holding and you were actually a jerk.”

  “I’m a jerk often enough.” He started to reach for her arm, started to make a joke about her handsome guy line, but he decided touching or teasing her was a bad idea this soon. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So what now? Where are we really?”

  “At one time this was going to be a housing development.” Her eyes roamed the surroundings, and the slight breeze sifted through her ponytail. “The paths winding through here were planned as residential streets. But the company funding the quarry project bought up all the land within the past year, put up the fencing, and is ready to make all of this into access roads. You’re at the heart of the controversy, mister.”

  “That explains why my directions were wrong. They’re old. How’d you know where I was?”

  “We ride here,” she said. “It’s a great place to take the horses out and let them gallop. If it’s any consolation, you were headed in exactly the right direction. At a brisk walk, you’d have made civilization in an hour.”

  “How long to walk to Northfield?” He grimaced.

  “Oh! Your interview.” She looked at her watch.

  “Postponed until I can get there.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best. Fate keeping you out of the hands of the enemy.”

  He glared at her despite the teasing quirk of her lips. She held up her hands. “Kidding. Kidding. Let’s go. We’ll find a way to get you to Northfield.”

  They headed back to the intersection where Jill had found him. She slowed and stopped on the side of the road.

  “If you’re willing to take two minutes, I’ll show you something.”

  “What’s two minutes out of an epic adventure?” He sighed.

  Jill led him across the intersection from The Creature and up a rise in the road. “Look.”

  Spread beyond the Suburban was the section of land Chase had just escaped. He could see dark impressions slicing and curving through the rolling terrain that marked the roads he’d been winding through. The view left him stunned.

  “No wonder I felt like a trapped rat.”

  “Yeah. Now turn around.”

  He obeyed. A quarter of a mile away lay an oasis of trees flanked by more flawless fields. A spot of glistening water lay in the middle of a fenced pasture. Dotted through the idyllic setting were buildings, including a house and barn.

  “Nice.”

  “A little local color for you. In truth, this is the heart of the quarry fight. That farm belongs to a man named Robert McCormick. He owns six hundred and forty acres, and most of them are in the middle of the future quarry. But he’s refusing to sell. He’s lived here all his life and is quite elderly. People who know him say he’s pretty much a loner nowadays, and there are rumors he’s run the quarry people and the Connery people off at gunpoint. I don’t know if that’s true.”

  “Have you ever met him?” They returned to the corner of the intersection.

  “Weird, but no. He’s only a crotchety hermit to me. But, tell you what. He’s my hero.”

  “I wonder why that doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  For the first time in hours—no, in ever—he wanted to laugh at the situation. How could he not? He’d broken down in a crazy little town that was in a crazy fight, and now there was a crazy hermit farmer man, and a girl he was crazy to care about. Life was freakin’ hilarious.

  “I like the troublemakers.” Her brows rose along with the c
orners of her mouth.

  “Very funny.”

  Jill started toward her truck, but Chase put his arm out to stop her.

  “Hold on, listen. What’s that?”

  A low rumble from the direction of the stashed Triumph grew in volume until its source came suddenly into view—a forest-green Lincoln Navigator bouncing over washboard ridges a little too fast for Chase’s liking.

  Jill squinted. “I’m not sure. Regardless, they’ll be turning left to the main road. We’ll just wait for them to pass.”

  The Navigator gunned closer. Jill waved at the sole occupant, but the man gave no indication he saw her. His jaw worked furiously into the phone he held to his ear, and he headed for their corner with careless speed.

  “Watch out!”

  Chase literally stepped in front of Jill seconds before the driver spun his powerful SUV around the corner and missed them by inches. The driver sped on, clueless, his Lincoln spewing pebbles sideways like bullets. One struck Chase’s lower leg, another must have stung Jill.

  “Hey!” she hollered, and rubbed furiously at her thigh.

  Chase coughed on swirling dust. “Are you all right?”

  Anger sparked from her eyes, but she didn’t seem to be in pain.

  “I’m fine. You wanna see a jerk? There goes one right there.”

  The Lincoln finally had to slow as the uneven road bed ascended. Pictures of Tiana flashed into his brain, and Chase’s blood surged with rage. He’d had it to the red behind his eyeballs with drive-bys. He gauged the distance to the Navigator and grabbed a fist-sized rock.

  “Wait. Chase, what are you thinking?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He sprinted after the vehicle, closed the twenty-foot gap in seconds, and hollered out. The fortyish-year-old man still held a phone to his ear, and Chase’s next two shouts went unheeded. In desperation, he halted, took minimal aim, and pitched his rock. It flew squarely into the vehicle’s green door. The vehicle’s nose dove. The driver’s elbow, balanced on the open window frame, shot up, and the phone disappeared from his hand.