It was possible that it had been consensual. What people did behind bedroom doors was nobody’s business. But he’d spent the better part of the past decade in countries where men routinely mistreated women and he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. But when he’d asked, she’d stared at her wrists, as if it was the first time that she’d seen them, seen the damage.
Then he’d seen the small trickle of blood on the side of her face. He’d been very concerned when he’d felt the lump on her head, which he suspected she’d gotten from connecting with the fence post, and had been relieved when he’d seen that the cut itself was just a slice that would heal quickly.
He’d pushed aside his concern over her possible mistreatment and dealt with the immediate need of getting her out of her wet clothes.
When he’d pulled the T-shirt over her head and lowered her dress, he’d done a quick inspection of the rest of her to assess for injuries. Had caught a glimpse of pretty breasts and smooth skin but no other significant bruises or red marks.
The wedding dress had been wet and heavy and, quite frankly, had knocked him off his stride.
And oddly enough, it had seemed to have a similar effect on her. She’d ripped the pins out of her veil as if she was attacking a nest of snakes with a garden hoe. Her wet dark hair, free of constraints, had fallen around her shoulders.
How had a bride ended up in the snowdrift? Where the hell was her husband?
When he’d picked her up, he’d made a visual inspection of the surrounding area. No footprints besides the ones he’d left. No sign of a vehicle, with the exception of the wide tire tracks on the road, but he was fairly confident that the truck hadn’t stopped. There was no sign of heavy exhaust in the fresh snow that would have been there if a big truck had idled for any amount of time.
Was it possible that she’d fallen out of the truck while it was moving? That someone had pushed her out?
None of it made sense and she wasn’t helping. She’d lied about her name. He was pretty sure about that. Had tried to let her know that he knew in a nice way by calling her Stormy instead. When she’d asked his name, he could have reciprocated and lied. He had a half-dozen different aliases that he’d gone by in the past years. Instead, he’d offered up the truth.
It might have been a mistake but he’d felt the need that one of them should be honest. Why it was important, he wasn’t sure. They were ships passing in a storm. He was offering a helping hand until she could reach out to someone else.
Which she didn’t seem inclined to do. He’d expected her to look upon his cell phone as an unexpected lifeline but there didn’t seem to be anybody she was interested in calling.
Odd. To say the least.
There were probably a couple choices. He could keep driving toward Ravesville and take her to the old house. But given that he didn’t know her story, he wasn’t inclined to want to do that. It was too great of a risk that he might be bringing trouble to his family, to Chase especially, and he was done with that.
He had enough guilt already.
He could disregard her instructions that she didn’t need either a hospital or the police and drop her off at whichever he encountered first.
Or he could turn around, take her back to the Interstate, find the hotel that the waitress had said was just miles down the road and send her on her way.
That was probably the best option. Now that he’d gotten a closer look at her, he could see the fatigue that shadowed her eyes. He supposed it was a busy time leading up to a wedding.
Had she gotten cold feet? Was there a groom pacing the aisle in some church, at a loss to understand where his bride might be?
But it was a Tuesday. Cal didn’t know much about weddings but he was fairly confident that they were usually on a Saturday. Maybe she was simply unconventional. Maybe she and/or the groom worked on the weekends. Maybe they got a better price on the reception if the event was on a weekday. Could be a hundred explanations.
She did not, however, look interested in offering up any of them. She was staring straight ahead, her arms wrapped around herself.
In all likelihood, he’d saved her life. It would be nice to know her name but not necessary. He wasn’t the type to brag or dwell on past accomplishments and this, quite frankly, wasn’t the first time he’d saved an unknown person’s life. That was what SEALs did best. Save the good guys. Kill the bad guys.
He was going with the assumption that she was on the side of right and that he wasn’t assisting the wrong person. That was what his gut told him and he’d learned to listen to it.
“Buckle your seat belt,” he said. He checked his mirrors, slowed down and then made a narrow U-turn on the snow-covered highway.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice small.
“Back to the Interstate. There’s a hotel a couple miles east. I’ll drop you off there.”
He turned on the radio. Maybe he’d try to get some information on the weather after all. It seemed as if the storm was picking up in intensity. It dawned on him that he hadn’t cared as much when he’d only had himself to worry about. Now he was responsible for her.
It should have felt suffocating to a man who’d recently deliberately shed all his formal responsibilities. At least irritating that he’d been sucked back in so quickly.
But oddly enough, it felt okay.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
She said nothing for a long minute. Over the sound of the radio, he could hear the tires working hard to grab pavement.
Finally she turned to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I owe you.”
* * *
IT WAS TRUE. She owed this man her life. But as soon as she could, she was getting away from him. He was young, maybe not even thirty, but his hazel eyes seemed to hold knowledge beyond that. He had short dark brown hair in a buzz cut and his skin was very tanned.
The only time he’d really pushed for information had been when he’d asked her name. She’d had to tell him something. And he’d called her on the fact that he didn’t think it was legitimate. Yet he was still willing to help her.
She wished she could accept that it was as simple as one human being extending a kindness to another. But something told her that she should trust no one. No one.
He was a good driver. His hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. She’d have been a nervous wreck.
She didn’t like to drive in bad weather.
Didn’t know how she knew this. Just knew it.
In less than five minutes, they were on the Interstate that he’d mentioned. She saw a sign. St. Louis, 194 miles.
St. Louis. She let that dance around in her head for a minute. “Joe Medwick. Ducky Medwick,” she corrected.
He turned to stare at her. “What?”
“St. Louis Cardinals. He holds the record for most runs batted in during a single season. Late 1930s.”
“Thirty-seven,” he said, “1937.” He paused, then added, “How the hell did you know that?”
She’d surprised him. Oddly enough, that made her want to smile. Nothing else that had happened up to this point had seemed to faze him but he looked absolutely flabbergasted that she knew baseball. “Sports trivia is not reserved for the male species,” she said.
“Right,” he said. He was silent for a long minute. “Motel should be