“We don’t know you,” she reasoned. “It’s not that far. We can walk.”
“And risk getting hit again?” Regretting his brusque tone, Nick stepped closer to her, the cold rain chilling him to his bones. “Look, I’m perfectly safe. I’ll take you to the truck stop. Maybe they can call a wrecker for your car.”
“I can’t afford a wrecker,” the woman said, almost to herself.
“We’re broke,” the little boy supplied, his eyes big and solemn, their depths aged beyond his five or so years.
“Patrick, please hush,” the woman said gently, holding him tight against her jeans-clad leg. Gazing up at Nick, she shot him that proud look again. “I’d appreciate a ride, mister.”
“It’s Nick,” he supplied. “Nick Rudolph. I live in Shreveport.” As he talked, he guided them toward his car, wondering where they were from and where they were headed, and why they’d broken down on such an awful night. “I’m on my way back from Dallas,” he explained, opening doors and moving his briefcase and clothes bag out of the way.
“We used to live near Dallas,” the little boy said as he scooted onto the beige-colored leather seat. “Wow! This is a really cool car, ain’t it, Mom?”
“It’s isn’t,” his sister corrected, her voice sounding hoarse and weak.
The boy gave her an exaggerated shrug.
Nick stepped aside as the woman slid into the front seat. Her eyes lifted to Nick’s, and from the overhead light, he got his first really good glimpse of her.
And lost his sense of control in the process.
Green eyes, forest green, evergreen, shined underneath arched brows that dared him to question her. An angular face, almost gaunt in its slenderness, a long nose over a wide, full mouth. Her lips were chapped; she nibbled at the corner of her bottom lip. But she tossed back her long auburn hair like a queen, looking regal in spite of her threadbare, scrappy clothes.
Nick lost track of time as he stared down at her, then catching himself, he shut the door firmly, his body cold from the December wind blowing across the roadway. Running around the car, he hurried inside, closing the nasty night out with a slam.
“Mom?” the little boy said again, “don’t you like Nick’s car?”
“It’s very nice,” the woman replied, her eyes sliding over the car’s interior. “And it’s Mr. Rudolph, Patrick. Remember your manners.”
The expensive sedan cranked on cue, and Nick pulled it back onto the highway, careful of the slippery road. “What’s your name?” he asked the woman beside him.
“Myla.” She let one slender hand rest on the dashboard for support as the car moved along. “Myla Howell.” Nodding toward the back of the car, she added, “And these are my children, Patrick and Jessica.”
The little girl started coughing, the hacking sounds ragged and raspy. “Mama, I’m thirsty,” she croaked.
“They’ll have drinks at the truck stop,” Nick said, concern filtering through his need to get on home.
“We don’t got no money for drinks,” Patrick piped up, leaning forward toward Nick.
“Patrick!” Myla whirled around, her green eyes flashing. “Honey, sit back and be quiet.” Her tone going from stern to gentle, she added, “Jesse, we’ll get a drink of water in the bathroom, okay?”
Nick pulled the car into the busy truck stop, deciding he couldn’t leave them stranded here, cold and hungry. He’d at least feed them before he figured out what to do about their car. Turning to Myla, he asked, “Is everything all right? Can I call somebody for you? A relative maybe?”
She looked straight ahead, watching as a fancy eighteen-wheeler groaned its way toward the highway. “We don’t have any relatives here.” A telling silence filled the car. Outside, the icy rain picked up, turning into full-fledged sleet.
“Where were you headed?” Nick knew he was past late, and that he probably wasn’t going anywhere soon.
“To Shreveport.” Myla sat still, looking straight ahead.
“Mom’s found a job,” Patrick explained, eager to fill Nick in on the details. “And she said we’ll probably find a place to live soon—it’d sure beat the car—”
“Patrick!” Myla turned then, her gaze slamming into Nick’s, a full load of pain mixed with the pride he saw so clearly through the fluorescent glow of the truck stop’s blinding lights.
His mouth dropping open, Nick gave her an incredulous look. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing.” Her chin lifted a notch. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Rudolph. We’ll be fine now.”
The car door clicked open, but Nick’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm. “Hey, wait!”
Her gaze lifted from his hand on her arm to the urgent expression on his face. “Let me go.”
“I can’t do that.” Nick surprised himself more than he surprised her. “If you don’t have any place to go—”
“It’s not your problem,” she interrupted. “If I can just make it into town, I’ve got a good chance of still getting the job I called about yesterday. Once I find steady work, we’ll be fine.”
“I can help,” he said, almost afraid of the worn wisdom he read in her eyes. “I can call a wrecker, at least. And find a place for you to stay.”
From the back seat, Jessica went into another fit of coughing, the hacking sound reminding Nick of memories he’d tried to suppress for too long.
“That does it.” He reached across Myla to slam her door shut. The action brought them face-to-face for a split second, but it was long enough for Nick to get lost in those beautiful eyes again, long enough for him to forget his regrets and his promises and wish for things he knew he’d never have. And it was long enough for him to make a decision that he somehow knew was about to change his life. “You’re coming with me,” he said, his tone firm. “I won’t leave a sick child out in this mess!”
The woman looked over at him, her eyes pooling into two misty depths. “I…I don’t know how to thank you.”
Nick heard the catch in her throat, knew she was on the verge of tears. The thought of those beautiful eyes crying tore through him, but he told himself he’d only help the family find a safe place to spend the night. He wasn’t ready to get any further involved in whatever problems they were having.
“You need help,” he said. “If you’re worried about going off with a stranger, I’ll call someone to verify my identity.” A new thought calculating in his taxed brain, he added, “In fact, my sister is a volunteer counselor for Magnolia House. I’ll call her. She’s always helping people.” Having found a way to get out of this sticky predicament, Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
Myla turned back, her eyes wary. “What’s Magnolia House?”
He waved a hand. “It’s this place downtown, a homeless shelter, but a bit nicer. According to my sister it has private rooms where families can stay until…until they get back on their feet.” He really didn’t know that much about his sister’s latest mission project, except that he’d written a huge check to help fund it.
Giving him a hopeful look, she asked, “And we don’t have to pay to live there?”
“No, not with money. You do assigned tasks at the home, and attend classes to help you find work, things like that. My sister helped set the place up and she’s on the board of directors. She’ll explain how it works.”
“Can