Country Roads
Authors: Nancy Herkness
Also by Nancy Herkness
Take Me Home
Shower of Stars
A Bridge to Love
Music of the Night
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 Nancy Herkness
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
PO Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477807699
ISBN-10: 1477807691
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013904922
To Maxine Kumin, who made me feel like a real writer
Discussion Questions for Country Roads
J
ULIA
C
ASTILLO HURLED
the lug wrench into the tall, dusty weeds by the side of Interstate 64. The odor of tar being cooked out of the asphalt by the midday sun made her cough. Wasn’t it supposed to be cooler up here in the misty blue mountains of West Virginia? She kicked the flat tire on the rusty old Chevy Suburban. Twice.
If her uncle Carlos could see her now, he would frown and shake his head, since this just proved his conviction she wasn’t safe out in the real world.
Thank God he wasn’t here
.
Before she could prevent herself, she focused her gaze on a nearby pine tree, checking for any waviness in her vision. “Stop it!” she muttered. She had driven all the way here without any sign of trouble despite the stress. She didn’t need to start doubting herself just because she had a flat tire.
Julia raked her fingers through the tangled mass of her red hair, trying to think of what to do next. Her prepaid cell phone had run down its battery while searching for a signal en route. She’d left the one her uncle had given her in her studio, because she was pretty sure it was possible to track people through their cell phones. Or that might be one of those things you saw on television that wasn’t true. Either way, she wasn’t taking any chances, because she didn’t want her uncle knowing where she was. As frustrated as she was with him, she preferred not to hurt
him unnecessarily, and he would be very wounded by her current mission.
Squinting at the green-and-white sign at the top of the long uphill slope of the highway, she tried to read how many miles it was to Sanctuary. It was a single digit, but she couldn’t tell if it was a three or an eight.
She could walk three, but not eight. Not in this heat.
The problem was her junk heap of an SUV had one door that wouldn’t lock, and her paintings were too big to carry that far. She didn’t care if thieves helped themselves to everything else in the car, but it would kill her to lose those paintings.
Scanning the landscape around her, she searched for a house or a store. All she could see was a river snaking under the bridge just behind her and a lot of green trees marching up the mountainsides. Four vehicles sped past her in loud rushes of hot, gritty air. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful not to have to worry about accepting help from a potentially murderous stranger or annoyed that chivalry seemed to be dead.
Another vehicle whooshed past, then flashed red brake lights and pulled over to the side of the highway well in front of her. Now that she had a possible rescuer, all the warnings about what happened to unprotected women with broken-down cars flashed through her brain. As the black, low-slung car reversed toward her, she wished she hadn’t tossed the wrench; hefting it would have made her look a little threatening. Instead she had to settle for arranging her keys between her fingers so their ends stuck out as she made a fist, another tidbit she’d picked up from television.
The car’s door swung open, and a man in a pale-blue shirt, red tie, and navy slacks emerged, unfolding his long legs as he stepped out onto the gravel.
“A tie seems pretty upstanding,” she muttered, loosening her grip on the keys. “Serial killers probably don’t wear ties on a regular basis.”
She planted her feet wide apart and crossed her arms as the good Samaritan approached with a fluid, ground-eating stride. She guessed he was in his early thirties, and her artist’s sensibility quivered with the urge to paint the planes and shadows of a face that was too strong for classic handsomeness but far more interesting. He had hair like an ancient Greek portrait: thick, dark waves you wanted to bury your fingers in. As he approached, his silver-gray eyes almost glowed in contrast against his olive skin. He would be a perfect model for one of those half-immortal, half-human offspring the Greek gods were always fathering. What were they called? Demigods.
His cool silvery gaze skimmed over her, making her aware of the dirt on the knees of her jeans from her futile attempt to change the tire. And the sweat that glued her white gauze peasant blouse to her shoulder blades. And who knew how crazed her long, curly hair looked after being blown around by the passing vehicles?
“Got a flat?” he said, stopping a few feet away as he shifted his survey to the limp pile of rubber nearly falling off the wheel rim.
She shook off her flight of whimsy. “That’s an understatement,” she said. “Could you call someone to come fix it? I’d be very grateful. My cell phone died.”
She could have sworn he sighed. “If you have a spare, I’ll put it on for you. No sense in paying for a tow if you don’t have to.”
He must have noticed the swaths of rust and multiple dents in her car and concluded she couldn’t afford a tow truck. Which was true at the moment. She just needed to get to the Gallery at Sanctuary and things would improve.
She hoped.
“My lug wrench is somewhere over there,” she said, gesturing toward the weeds while a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks. “I think the nuts have rusted onto the bolts. I couldn’t get them to budge, so the wrench seemed useless.”
She had also been careful not to overexert herself, just as a precaution.
The corners of the demigod’s mouth twitched slightly, but he said nothing as he squatted down to inspect the wheel. He picked up a rock and scraped at the rust on the lug nuts. She admired the stretch of blue cotton over a pair of distinctly godlike shoulders. Now she wanted to paint him in the nude.
“You may be right about that,” he said, “but let me get my wrench and give it a try.”
As he straightened to his full height, Julia felt a little frisson of nerves. He was a lot bigger than she was and still a total stranger. Maybe she should get back in her car and hope he didn’t realize one lock didn’t function.
“Be right back,” he said, walking away before she bolted for the dubious safety of the SUV.
It was broad daylight, and plenty of vehicles whizzed past. Someone would notice if he grabbed her and dragged her off into the weeds, wouldn’t they? She tightened her grip on her keys as he approached with a gleaming silver wrench in his hand.
“What’s your name?”
If worse came to worst, at least she’d know who had killed her.
“Sorry, ma’am, I should have introduced myself sooner. Paul Taggart.” The sudden flash of his smile vaporized her fear as he held out his hand to her.
She had made a tactical error. She couldn’t tell him her last name. “I’m Julia.” His handshake was perfect: firm, warm, and not at all damp. He should be in politics with a smile and a handshake like that.
“I see.” That clear gaze roamed over her face for a long moment before he released her hand and bent to fit the wrench onto one of the lug nuts. The muscles in his shoulders pulled at the shirt’s fabric and he grunted with effort, but the nut didn’t budge. He stood and braced his foot on the wrench, throwing his
weight onto it. Still no movement. He turned to her with a shrug of regret as he pulled a slim phone out of his trouser pocket. “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than human muscle to get this changed.”
Damn!
She was going to have to use her credit card. And then her uncle would be able to find out where she was.
She blew out a breath of frustration and examined Paul Taggart closely. His tie held the sheen of fine silk, and his trousers showed the drape of expensive wool. The vehicle parked in front of hers was some sort of sleek, powerful sports car. He looked like a man of substance. She screwed up her courage and did her best to project an air of honesty. “Er, I don’t suppose you could float me a loan for the tow. I swear I’ll pay you back. I just need to get to Sanctuary, and it’s right up the road. Please.” She injected a note of pleading into the last word.
