On the Way to a Wedding (2 page)

She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Then she clutched the edges of his jacket and pulled it tighter. “I’ve got a cell,” she said, looking at the ground. “I’ll call a tow truck.” She started to get up.

He put his hands on her shoulders, stilling her. “Not out here.”

She met his eyes then. Yes, her eyes were green.

“No coverage out here.”

She looked away from him, staring at the grass and the budding fireweed, and probably trying to figure out what options she had.

He’d better get her in his truck. “Don’t move.” He got up off the ground, retrieved the first aid box and walked over to her car.

“What are you doing?”

Reaching inside her car, he pulled the keys from the ignition. Her purse—a sensible navy blue canvas bag—rested on the floor. The bag tilted on edge, recovering from its slam into the dash.

He turned back to her. “You’ve got stuff in your trunk?”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m transferring your luggage—and you—to my truck.”

A few thin drops of rain sprayed through the tense air. He slipped her keys into his pocket and then reached for her purse. Better move her first, and then her luggage.

He opened the passenger door of the truck, dropped her purse and the first aid box on the floor, and walked back to where she was sitting. Then he picked up her running shoe, set it in her lap, and scooped her up in his arms.

She immediately shuddered and tried to squirm out of his hold. “What are you―”

“Look, will you loosen up? I’m getting you out of the rain. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

She stopped struggling, but she didn’t relax. She was squeezing her hands around her running shoe, gripping it like a lifeline.

He deposited her on the passenger seat and then went back to her trunk. Two red suitcases—one larger, one smaller. He stowed them on the backseat floor with his duffel bag. Then he returned to her car. There was something in her backseat. Something big and white. And fluffy.

A dress? He touched the fabric, felt its silkiness, and then swung it out of the car.

A wedding dress? Was she on her way to her wedding? Was that the hurry?

The wind puffed up the dress, furling it like a flag. Didn’t women put these things in protective packaging? He carried the dress over to her open door.

“Is this a wedding dress?” He held it up by its bodice, holding out the full skirt with his other hand. The wind rippled the soft material.

“I’m getting married,” she said, raising her chin.

“I’m getting married, too,” he answered, folding the dress in half. He tossed it on the backseat just as the dark sky started dumping its rain.

· · · · ·

I really am getting married, she thought. She hadn’t lied about that. She just wasn’t getting married anytime soon. But, someday, she would marry.

She shivered and hugged the jacket around herself. A navy blue jacket with a fleece lining. It didn’t feel right taking his jacket.
He
needed his jacket.

Except—she watched him getting into the driver’s seat—he was tall, with dark hair, and he didn’t seem like he was cold. She felt a moment of dizziness, and then it went away.

He was wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And jeans. And heavy work boots—dark brown leather, with laces. The rain pinged on the windshield.

His truck was . . . nice. Fairly new, and clean. The heater was blowing hot air. He’d turned the heater on as soon as he’d started the motor.

“Do up your seat belt.”

Yes. Seat belt. The buckle was wedged into the seat, shiny new, reflecting the weak light. Where was the rest of the seat belt? As she turned to look for it, she felt him reach over her, felt his arm brush her shoulder. He smelled like the trees at the side of the road. The spruce trees. Then she felt the seat belt pull across her chest and heard it click securely.

He didn’t need to do that. She would have found it.

Now he was turning the truck around on the narrow road. Spinning it in a neat circle, dipping into the ditch on the other side and pulling back onto the road, all in one motion. The wipers swung back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat accompanying the tap of rain on the roof.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to the ER. In Canmore.”

“Canmore?”

“It’s two―”

“I know where it is. I don’t need to go to the ER.”

“You’re going.”

“No. I’m not. You can take me to a gas station. I’ll get a tow truck to―”

A long flash of lightning rippled and the trees appeared, silhouetted, swinging limbs. Thunder boomed, closer this time, a giant hand clap. Rain sloshed over the windshield.

She glanced across at him. Who was he? And why was he here?

She didn’t need to go to the ER. It was a sprain. It didn’t even hurt very much. Now.

Now that he’d wrapped her ankle with the tensor bandage. She squeezed the running shoe in her lap and closed her eyes. And she saw Isabelle, standing by the chalkboard, pulling down a map.

Just go this way, dear. Not many people know about this route.

And neither, it seemed, did Isabelle. Isabelle may have lived out here for a hundred years—well, maybe not that long, she wasn’t that old, but―

The truck lurched. She grabbed the armrest and braced, but it was only a pothole. Another pothole. She let go of her breath, forcing herself to breathe. She was all right. Nothing had happened.

“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 wind, 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.