“You can drop me at a gas station,” she said, again.
He didn’t answer, didn’t seem to hear her. He was watching the road, squinting through the windshield, steering with one hand and shifting gears with the other. And ignoring her, like everyone else ignored her.
She couldn’t go back, not to that. There had to be a way out of this. And oh God, what if Greg was following her?
Her chest tightened. The truck bounced over another pothole and she gripped the armrest.
No, she thought, trying to reassure herself. He wouldn’t come down this road. He’d take the main route. But―
What if he was worried? What if he started phoning hospitals? Emergency rooms?
A wave of dizziness washed over her. She pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes.
And saw herself whirling down a twisting out-of-control roller coaster ride. When she opened her eyes, the spinning stopped. Had she hit her head?
She couldn’t remember. It had happened so fast.
The heater fed warmth into the cool night, but she was cold. To be warmer, she put her arms in the sleeves of the jacket. Nylon material with a fleece lining that smelled like wood, or spice.
Like him. The sleeves covered her hands. Her fingers were cold. Her toes were cold. Her head hurt. Her ears were ringing.
Even if she got him to leave her at a gas station, then what? She didn’t have a car anymore. And the gas station would report the accident. That wouldn’t be good.
Another wave of dizziness. That woozy feeling.
They were bumping back the way she’d come. Rain pounded over the truck, banging on the roof, flooding over the windshield. The drought is over, she thought, remembering the long dusty days of spring.
He slowed down, and switched the wipers to high speed. But even on high, they had trouble keeping up. He slowed down, even more. And then he came to a full stop.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re not going to get through this.”
Suddenly he was turning the truck around. This time it slipped on the side of the road, like the wheels were spinning. He moved the gear shift, the wheels caught and they were back on the road, turned around.
Wouldn’t it be worse? Going farther along this road? And how come this road was so bad? Isabelle had said to take the first turnoff after Spray Trail.
But what if she’d missed that turnoff and taken a different one? What if she wasn’t even on the right road? Where did this road go?
Nowhere, she thought. I’m going nowhere.
“We’re moving to higher ground,” he said, reading her mind. “Lower down, it could wash out. It’s not a great road—they close it in the winter. And it doesn’t get much traffic anyway.” He paused. “Most people don’t come down here.”
In other words, he was wondering what she was doing here, in the middle of . . . nowhere.
“What are you doing here?”
A good question. “I may have been on the wrong road.”
· · · · ·
This, he thought, as he shifted to a lower gear, is a royal mess.
This was not the way Ryder Michael O’Callaghan ran things. This was supposed to be a break. A time to sort out the new partnership deal. A time to sort out the confusion of the wedding. A time to put the whole poodle thing into perspective.
And now he was stuck with this bimbo who couldn’t even tell her tire was flat. He sighed. Never mind flat. It was snapped off the axle.
The headlights gleamed over the wet gravel. Rain pelted the truck. And the temperature had dropped. The way his luck was going, this would turn to hail. A chunk of gravel loosened from the edge of the road and dropped into the stream of water flowing through the ditch. At least they were moving to higher ground.
The cabin was supposed to be at the end of this road. But how much farther? And why did it have to rain now? Sure, they needed rain. But why now, for Chrissake?
He gripped the steering wheel and downshifted, scanning the roadside, looking for the lane. They had to be close. Pro had told him―
Good. There it was. The headlights lit up the crooked sign, nailed to a tree. Road’s Inn, it said. This road’s end. The sign was flapping in the wind.
He drove into a short lane and reached a narrow parking area sprinkled with gravel. According to Pro, the cabin was about a hundred feet ahead at the end of a curving dirt path.
Rain hammered over the truck, like it was trying to get inside.
They could just stay put. Stay in the truck. Because if they tried to make it to the cabin, they were going to get wet. Never mind wet. They were going to get soaked.
But—he turned to look at her—she wasn’t getting any warmer. Even with the heater on full, her teeth were still chattering. If they could get to the cabin, he could build a fire. And there would be food in the cabin. He could make her something hot to drink.
“Why are we stopped?”
“We’re here.”
“Where is here?”
“There’s a cabin here.”
“There is?” She stared out the windshield, trying to see.
So they’d get wet, and cold. But they couldn’t stay in the truck all night. He turned off the ignition, darkness closed over them, and he reached under his seat.
For his flashlight.
Except it wasn’t his flashlight. One of his framers had borrowed his mag light, again, and left this piece of crap. He pulled out the small replacement light and clicked it on. A pale orange glow.
“Christ.”
“What’s the matter?”
Everything. The rain. The road. This unexpected passenger. The wedding, his business. His life.
“Slide over here.”
“What?”
He took her running shoe out of her hands and set it on the dash.
“You can’t c-carry me. Not far.”
“You can’t walk.”
She picked up her shoe. “I c-can sort of w-walk,” she said, teeth chattering. She reached in her shoe, pulled the sock out and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. Then she started to ease the running shoe over her bandaged foot.
With eyes squeezed shut, she tugged the shoe on. Then she loosely tied the lace. Her hands were shaking and her fingers looked stiff.
“Okay, I—I’m ready.”
Stamina, if nothing else. No brains, but stamina. He felt for the key in his pocket. Pro had given him the key. This was one of Pro’s stupider ideas.
“Do you want your c-coat?”
“No. I’ll get wet anyway.”
“But―”
“Come on.” He opened the door and stepped into the cold dark rain. The icy wet stung his face and neck. In a few seconds his clothes were drenched.
She slid down next to him, standing on her right foot. Her arm, tentative at first, slipped around his waist. Her hair blew over his throat and her body trembled against his.
He shoved the truck door and heard it latch. Then he put his right arm around her and aimed the dying flashlight at the cabin. He could barely see the path.
With the rain and the wind slamming into his skin, the mud sucked at his boots. She kept her arm around his waist, trying to put weight on her damaged foot.
At least she tried for about three steps. With each step, her whole body tensed. She let herself lean on him more and hopped with her good foot. The mud was slippery. She’d have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her.
They were halfway up the path, when he noticed the mud wasn’t sucking him down anymore. He pointed the flashlight onto the path where the dim light showed interlocking bricks, covered in puddles. Rain peppered the bricks and the wind blasted waves over the water.
And then the flashlight oozed out.
“This way,” she said.
They stumbled forward, in the direction of the cabin. At least he could tell he was walking on bricks. All he had to do was follow the bricks, because he couldn’t see a damn thing.
He could hear though. The w
ind, the trees swinging and creaking, and . . . water flowing, like they were near a stream?
The eaves troughs. He could hear them, overflowing, splashing down.
“Here,” she said, pausing.
He felt with his boot until he touched the first step of the porch directly in front of him.
He pulled her tighter against his side and lifted her up the step, and then up a second step. And then they were on the porch and out of the rain.
A loud clap of thunder boomed overhead at the same time as a wavering flash of lightning illuminated the door in front of him. Then all was dark again.
Holding the dead flashlight in his hand, he reached for the door and touched it, tapping, metal against wood. Then, still holding the useless light, he felt with the backs of his fingers for the door knob, and the key hole.
There.
She had both her arms around him, like she was trying to press against his warmth. She was shivering, a lot, and she wasn’t letting go.
“I have to get the key,” he said.
She seemed to realize what she was doing, let go of him and moved away. He heard her, hopping toward the door.
Carefully, he took the key out of his jeans pocket and found the lock again. This key had better work.
It did. The wind swung the door open, crashing it inside. He reached out to find her, touched her shoulder, and waited for her to hop into the entrance. Then he followed her inside and closed the door, pushing against the wind. The latch snicked shut and they were out of the storm, standing in complete darkness. His clothes were soaked, and he was cold, and tired, and hungry.
He could hear her, close by, her teeth chattering. Outside, the wind howled and the trees shrieked, but in here, the cabin was quiet and still. Except for the sound of her teeth chattering, and his heart pounding in his ears.
He leaned his forehead against the door, took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
She must have found a chair near the door. He could hear it scraping over the floor as she moved it.
“Is there a table beside you?” Maybe she could feel it. She couldn’t see any better than he could.
She didn’t say anything. Then he heard the rasp of a match and saw the sudden flare of its light. She’d found the matches that Pro had said would be on the table by the door. There was a lantern too. But her hand was shaking so badly the match flickered out.
Maybe he should have left her in the truck until he’d got the fire started.
“I’ll do it,” he said. He felt her ice cold hand take his as she pressed the match box into his palm.
“This way,” she said, setting the box so it was right side up. He felt for a match, lit it, and saw her taking the globe off the lantern. She slid the lantern toward him, he lit the wick, and then took the globe out of her hands and replaced it.
Soft light filled the cold room. Outside, the storm raged, emphasizing the quiet of the cabin. But the lantern’s light made it seem—somehow—warmer.
And maybe if he’d left her in the truck, she wouldn’t have stayed.
She was sitting on the chair beside the table. Her hair was dripping and the jacket she was wearing, his jacket, was plastered to her shivering body. She bent down, and with fumbling fingers she started untying her running shoe. The one on her injured foot. She carefully pulled off the muddy shoe and dropped it on the floor. Then she started plucking at the laces on her other shoe.
Good idea. He got out of his own boots. They were covered in mud but his feet were dry—the only part of him that was dry.
He picked up the matches from the table and walked across the room to the stove, a pot-bellied black stove with a glass door. Next to it, a brass bin held wood and kindling and old, yellowed newspapers. Kneeling in front of the stove, he clinked the door open and—thank you Pro—wood and kindling were laid inside. He lit a match, held it to the kindling, and watched as the fire caught and leapt and spread over the logs. Then he creaked the stove door shut, stood up, and turned around.
She was still sitting on the chair by the door. Her teeth were still chattering and her hair was still dripping.
“Take off your clothes.”
He pulled one of the four wooden chairs from the table toward the stove and turned it backward to the heat. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the back of the chair. After retrieving a second chair from the table, he unzipped his soaking jeans, hung them up and considered his boxers. They were wet too.
Better leave his boxers on. For her. She was still just sitting there. Hugging the wet jacket around herself.
He picked up the lantern, walked into the bathroom and lifted a towel from the stack on the shelf. He had a feeling she was going to make a fuss about getting out of her clothes. When he returned to the main room with the towel, he dropped it on her head.
“At least dry your hair,” he said. And he left her. He’d light the hot water tank.
Five minutes later, that was done. And the stove was already heating the main room of the cabin.
“I’ve lit the hot water tank,” he said, putting the lantern back on the table, “but it’ll take a while to heat up. You’d better get out of . . .”
She was quiet. Her teeth weren’t chattering anymore. She wasn’t shivering either. She was holding the towel in her lap, looking at it. Her fingers were white.
Christ.
He grabbed the lantern again, rushed to the bedroom and snatched a blanket off the bed. Returning to the main room, he set the lantern on the table, tossed the blanket on the couch and pushed the couch close to the fire. Then he headed back to her chair.
He lifted the towel out of her limp hands and rubbed it over her head, scrunching her thick, wet hair. That helped a little. He tossed the towel on the table.
“Come on.” He pulled her up, so she was standing on her good foot.
“What?”
After removing the jacket, he unbuttoned her shirt—the useless pink sleeveless shirt—and he had it off her shoulders before she figured out he was undressing her.
“You can’t―”
She reached for her wet shirt, but he whipped it off her in the next second.
“You’re hypothermic,” he said, hoping she would understand. She was wearing a white bra. A lacy white bra. Crossing her arms in front of herself, she started to sit again.
“It’ll be all right,” he said. He pulled her up, unzipped her jeans and tugged them down just as she sat back on the chair. She tried to grab hold of the wet jeans but she didn’t have any strength left in her, so it wasn’t much of a contest.
He peeled off her one wet sock, left the tensor, and thought about her underwear. Her underwear was wet too, but it was thin. It wouldn’t hold much water. And he didn’t feel like wrestling her out of any more clothing. For the second time this night, he picked her up in his arms, and then carried her to the couch. He dropped down on the couch with her on his lap, wrapped the blanket over both of them and held her.
“I―I’m―”
He leaned his head down, putting his ear near her mouth.
“What?”
“I’m cold.”
He smiled. “I know.” The stove was throwing lots of heat. He was already feeling warmer.
But she wasn’t. Her bra—wet and cold—pressed against his chest like a band of ice. He reached behind her and undid the clasp. She didn’t seem to notice. Wisping the wet fabric away from her, he tossed it on the back of the couch.
That was better. They both were wearing damp underwear, but it didn’t feel right being completely naked under the blanket. The tensor was still on her foot. Wet. And cold. That was probably good for her foot.
The fire crackled, dancing patterns behind the glass of the stove door. The thunder boomed again, ricocheting through the woods, farther away now. The rain was settling down to a steady pitter patter.
After a few minutes, she started to shiver again. Good. She needed to shiver. She moved tighter against him, instinctively seeking warmth. That was g
ood, too.
He inhaled deeply, the worry leaving him. She would be all right.
Chapter Two
She must have fallen asleep. Somewhere. Had she made it to a motel?
She’d left last night, Monday night, because of Greg. Because of what he’d said. About the china.
That was when she knew she had to leave. And it wasn’t like it was the real reason. It was just something she could put into words. Something she could say to him.
She smiled to herself. It was the china. How silly was that? But, that was when she’d made the decision. To leave. To follow Isabelle’s advice and drive to Kalispell. By the back roads. But―
The road.
Something about the road. The winding road, the wrong road. The accident―
She opened her eyes.
A fire burned in front of her, glowing coals behind glass panes. She’d been cold before, she remembered that. And her head had hurt. She remembered that, too.
Her head felt better now. Still not right, but better. Her head was spinning, but it wasn’t as bad. Firelight flickered behind the sooty panes of glass in the stove, and she realized she felt warm. She had been so cold before. But now she was warm.
Warm and safe. Greg would never find her here. Wherever here was . . .
She drifted, floating on the edges of sleep. But she needed to wake up. She didn’t have time to rest.
What had happened? After the accident? The car―
She remembered now. Her car was in a ditch. And someone had stopped. She’d thought it was Greg at first, but it wasn’t. It had been someone else.
Her stomach tightened. Maybe she was hungry. She’d eat first and then figure it out. Somehow she’d fallen asleep sitting up. And now she was stiff, and aching, and―
Someone was holding her?
Someone with strong, solid arms. He smelled like the spruce trees, and his head rested on top of hers. She could feel his chin.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“Why?” She yawned.
“You’re naked.”
Naked? The word dinged through her mind, meaningless.
Images tumbled back into memory. Of the rain. Of him moving her luggage. And carrying her to his truck. And more rain. The road, getting worse. Turning around. Walking to this cabin. And being so cold.
On the Way to a Wedding Page 2