This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-040-3

ISBN-10: 1-61935-040-8

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Dedication

To my sister Jacqueline,

who has been there for me through the best times and the worst.

She has also turned out to be an awesome editor,

picking up all those missed prepositions and changes in tense.

And to Lenore Ross. If I could pick another sister, you would be it.

Acknowledgements

Writing is a lonely profession, or would be but for all the wonderful people you meet along the way. I want to thank everyone who has helped me attain my dream, those who have been there at the beginning, and those who continue to be a part of the process.

My first writers group, Diane Lawrence, Marlene Stead, Paulette Williams, Donna Knezic, Gill Villanueva, and the amazing writing teacher, Sheila Martindale, who brought us all together and showed us how creative we could be.

To my present writing group. Kelley Armstrong for constantly encouraging me that I can do it, and to get my writing out there. John Jeneroux, Pat Brown, and John Weiler for their invaluable suggestions and editing help.

Thanks also to Claudette Savoie Foy, Jane Gloor, Michael Rieder, Gary Joubert, Tina Gowing, Sue Atchinson, Kristel Jute, Leesa and Elly Keough, Cathy Mott. They have all been there helping to make my dream come true. Nicole Dietze for her encouragement, her editing, her Facebook expertise, and her highlights.

Brian Henry, who continues to teach and support writers to attain their goals. Lee Child, who graciously read my WITHOUT CONSENT and gave me that all important pre-pub blurb. Michael Palmer for his kind words acknowledging my writing talent and for giving me the encouragement to persist.

And so many others, too many to name, who have supported my in this awesome journey. support
.

Chapter 1

“No one ever said life was fair.” Molly clutched the leather-wrapped steering wheel of her Elantra, her grandmother’s favorite saying echoing in her head.

Well, wasn’t that the truth. Fight or flight. Those were her two options. But was fleeing the right decision?

The sun had set an hour before, and the cloudy sky overhead hung like a mantle of coal. Molly tried to banish the fatigue descending on her. She should have stopped at that last motel, even if it did look like it would qualify for a five-star roach award. She could add that to her list of regrettable decisions.

The highway, arrow-straight when it left Hillsborough, now twisted and turned like a corkscrew. Pine trees bordered the roadway, encroaching like shadowy ghosts. Scenes from horror movies with lonely highways sent a shiver down her spine. Why hadn’t she left while it was still light?

Molly tried to suppress a yawn.
Wake up girl, you need to stay alert.

She flipped the airflow to maximum. Maybe the cool air would keep her going for a few more miles. She glanced in the rear-view mirror—no one else on the road, nothing to distract her, nothing but blacktop and an inky saw-toothed line of trees. She turned the radio up and listened to the lonesome country tunes.

It wasn’t working. She switched to a rock station. “I’m not ready to make nice, I’m not ready to back down.” That was better. Just the way she felt. Molly sang along. Opening the window, she let the pine-scented breeze slap her awake.

A car approached, its bright headlights flickering like fireflies between the thick trunks of the evergreens. At last, a sign of life, the first she’d seen in the past half hour. The lights came closer, causing the pavement to take on the appearance of a striped swamp snake. The roar of a high-powered engine amplified as the distance between them shrank. Thankfully, the high beams switched to low.

Molly jerked herself alert.
What’s wrong with you? He’s on his side of the road, and he isn’t speeding.
Why did she have a sudden sense of apprehension?
Calm down. The road’s wide enough to share.

There was a flash of movement. A white-tailed deer darted across the highway fifty feet in front of her. Instinctively, she white-knuckled the steering wheel. Her foot eased off the gas, and the car slowed.

At least something was going right. Her hands loosened their grip, and she settled back into the seat. A screech of tires broke into her thoughts. Her back stiffened and her heart rate spiked. She clutched the steering wheel again, but her palms were sweating and she had trouble maintaining her grip. The oncoming car veered towards her, its headlights hitting her full in the face, momentarily blinding her. Molly froze. Oh God, no. Her breath wedged in her throat. There was nothing she could do. Her heart skipped several beats as she battered the brakes. Too late. She was heading straight for the car. She hunched forward, bracing for the inevitable crash.

Unable to breathe, Molly watched as the sports car lurched to the left and hurtled away from her.

Hands trembling, Molly relaxed her foot and eased the Elantra to the side of the road. One car out of control was enough. She watched in horror as the Jaguar’s wheels caught the ridge where pavement met gravel. It freewheeled sideways. There was a thunderous crash. A mushroom cloud of sand and gravel littered the darkness, obliterating the car.

Where was her cell phone? She fumbled through her purse. When would she learn to keep it on? The phone had migrated to the bottom corner of her canvas bag. Her fingers grasped the oblong object, and she flipped it open. Molly pressed the ‘on’ button. Only three numbers, why was she having trouble finding them? Seconds crawled as she waited for the screen to illuminate.

She twisted in the seat. Like a theatre curtain drawn in reverse mode, gravel and dust sifted back to the ground. In horizontal slices, the car inched into view. The hood and driver’s side were crunched into the base of a large pine tree. Her thumbs finally managed the number.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“There’s been a car accident...on Highway 57...about 15 minutes north of Arva. There’s someone in the car...he swerved to miss a deer...the car slid into a tree. Get an ambulance!”

“How many are injured?’

Still clutching the phone, Molly raced to the car and peered inside. “A driver. He doesn’t seem to be moving.”

“Is there anyone else?”

Molly squinted through the tinted windows. “I don’t see a passenger.”

“I’ve dispatched an ambulance. Keep your phone on in case they need directions.”

Molly snapped the phone shut and shoved it into her jeans pocket. She looked into the car again. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. The tinted glass obstructed her view, and she couldn’t detect any movement. She heard her heart, each slow, thudding beat. Was the man alive?

She jerked the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. The Jaguar’s gleaming hunter green front end was crumpled like a recycled pop can, and the driver’s door wedged into the frame. She wiped her sweat-coated palms on her jeans and tried again.

Nothing.

Would the passenger door be the same? Using the car to support her jellied knees, Molly stumbled to the other side. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint odor of gas?

She let out a sigh. This side was less damaged—barely dented, barely dimpled. She pulled on the handle. The door screeched open, and the interior lights flashed on. Molly leaned inside.

The driver hadn’t moved. His head, tipped forward, rested on the leather-wrapped steering wheel and the remnants of the deployed airbag lay beneath him like a white plastic morgue sheet. Wavy black hair curled over the nape of his pale, immobile neck. His craggy silhouette reminded her of an aristocrat’s granite profile.

“Sir, sir are you okay?”

There was no response.

Molly’s hand trembled as she reached out to touch him. He was warm. Did he have a pulse? Her fingers traveled along the powerful arc of his neck. She pressed two fingers just below his jawbone and felt the blood pulsing through the carotid artery.

Thank God. He’s alive. The thudding in her chest faded as her heart rate returned to normal.

She counted his pulse. It was faster than it should be, but at least he had one. She placed her palm on his chest and waited. Her hand moved in and out with the expansion and deflation of his chest. He was breathing.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

A sound coming from the back seat startled Molly and she gasped out loud and glanced over her shoulder. A child of about four was strapped in a car seat. On seeing Molly, the toddler began to cry.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help you.” Molly tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Are you hurt?”

The child sobbed. “I want my daddy.”

Molly glanced at the man’s limp form.
What do I tell her? Her dad had a pulse, but was he unconscious?
She hoped her nose didn’t grow with the lie. “He’s sleeping right now. I’m going to get you out of the car, then I’m going to help your daddy.” The child’s eyes were bright as silver dollars. That was a good sign. There was no visible blood—another good sign.

“My name is Molly. What’s yours?”

Another sob racked the tiny frame. “I’m Gracie. Gracie Melissa Taylor.”

Molly said another prayer. The child was alert and knew who she was. The bad sign was the smell of gas seemed to be getting stronger. Was there a chance the car could explode? Molly needed to get them out. She couldn’t wait for the ambulance.

“Do you hurt anywhere?”

Gracie shook her head.

“I’m a nurse. I want to check you. Is that okay?”

The child nodded, and Molly climbed part way into the back seat. “I’m going to feel your head, your arms, your legs. I want you to tell me if anything hurts.”

The child stared, her eyes serious and intent. There was no facial blood so Molly started at the child’s crown. “Keep very still.”

Gracie whimpered but remained quiet.

Molly ran her fingers through the child’s hair. She dreaded coming in contact with any warm, sticky fluid. She was relieved when her fingers remained dry. “You’re being very good, Gracie.”

A curved pillow behind the child’s neck had probably protected her in the impact. Right now, it was perfect for what Molly needed.

“Can you stay very still?”

The child tipped her head.

“I’ll be right back.”

Molly ran to her car, and popped the trunk. She was glad she’d decided to buy the super-size first–aid kit. What else could she use? A couple of gray flannel car blankets—they would be useful. She tucked them under her arm along with a couple of beach towels.

As she grabbed the towels, she uncovered a telescoping window scraper. She didn’t know why, but she took that, too. Draping the blanket and towels over the Jaguar’s open door, Molly placed the first-aid kit on the ground. She shoved two rolls of tape into her pocket.

“I’m going to make you a special necklace, okay, Gracie?”

Molly wound tape around the small curved pillow, securing the ends under the child’s chin to form a cervical collar. Molly didn’t know if Gracie had a neck injury, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. She grinned at the child. “That’s a special necklace to remind you to stay still. Do you think you can remember to keep still?”

Gracie nodded.

“Good girl. I’m going to check your arms and legs. You tell me if it hurts.”

Molly ran her fingers down both arms at the same time, feeling for any abnormalities and searching for any cuts or any bleeding. The legs were next. The child didn’t even wince. Molly let out another sigh. No broken bones. No apparent injuries. Great.

“Now I’m going to tickle your tummy.” Molly placed her hand on the child’s abdomen and gently ran her fingers across it. It was soft and non-tender. Good. The child didn’t seem to have any abdominal injuries. With the damage done to the car, this was one lucky little girl.

She had to get her out of there. It would be safer to keep her supported in the car seat than risk moving her. “Gracie, I’m going to put you in my car, then I’m going to help your daddy.”

“I want my daddy!”

Molly’s hands shook as they scrambled for the clasp holding the car seat. Then the cold metal was in her hands. With a loud click, the belt snapped free. Her arms encircling the car seat, Molly backed her way out of the Jaguar.

“Daddy, Daddy.” Gracie’s plump arm reached out toward her father.

Molly kept her voice low and reassuring. “I’m going to get your daddy as soon as I put you in my car.”

By the time she’d settled Gracie in the back seat of her Elantra, her arms ached from the weight of seat and child. She swathed her with a fleece blanket, then gave her a bright smile. “You wait here while I get your daddy out of the car.”

“Get Daddy. I want my daddy.”

Molly rolled the back window down. “You call me if you need me. Gracie, what’s your ’daddy’s name?”

“Daddy.”

Molly chuckled. “Yes, but what do other people call your daddy?”

“Pearce. Pearce Taylor.” Gracie’s blue eyes were large and luminous and trusting. “Get Daddy, now.”

“I’m getting him.”

Molly ran back to the Jaguar. The man remained slumped over the steering wheel. It had only taken her a few minutes to assess and move the child, but had it been too many for him? Molly prayed he was still alive. She held her breath as she stretched out a hand to touch his neck.

He was warm. She checked for a pulse. Still there. Was it faster? She wasn’t sure. She squeezed his shoulder. “Mr. Taylor.” There was no response. Why was he unconscious? What were his injuries? There could be so many reasons. Did he have a spinal injury, a head injury? Molly’s heart pounded. How long before the ambulance arrived?

The wind whistled through the evergreens, carrying the soft scent of pine in through the open car door. But something overpowered that scent—the smell of gas. Molly looked at the ground beside the car. A dark stain grew as she watched. Her heart jumped to her throat. A gas leak. Could she wait for the paramedics? The expanding discoloration in the gravel prompted her decision.

“Mr. Taylor, I need to get you out of the car.”

Still no response. Not that she’d expected one, but it felt better talking to him. Could he hear her?

Breathing in, she inhaled a mouthful of fumes. What if it caught on fire? What if it exploded? She shuddered at the thought. Reaching for one of the towels she’d left on the doorframe, she rolled it into a long tube and slid one end behind his head. Grasping the ends, she secured them under his chin with the tape. ‘That would protect his neck if he had a spinal injury.

Running her hands over the back of his head, Molly was surprised at how soft and silky the strands of dark hair were. She found a swelling on the left side just behind his ear. Her hand came away coated with warm, sticky fluid. A laceration and a hematoma. Was that why he wasn’t rousing?

Molly hunched on the seat beside him and unsnapped the seatbelt. Securing her hands on both sides of his head, she eased him into the valley between her breasts, then used her chin to anchor his forehead against her. His hair was like a black velvet mantle draping the exposed skin of her neck. The bouquet of pine drifting through the window and his musky, sandalwood shampoo was an enticing mix—a welcome change from the pungent gas fumes.

Girl, this is no time to be thinking about the man’s scent, no matter how agreeable it is.
Molly gave her meandering mind a smack, then refocused.
How am I going to move him? He must be six two, or three, all muscle and sinew
.

“Mr. Taylor, wake up. I’ve got to get you out of the car.”

Had she imagined a low groan?

Aligning her arms with his, she grasped handfuls of solid thigh muscle and let the dead weight of his body ease onto hers. A hair’s breadth at a time, she snaked backward. Molly took care to maintain his head in the middle of her chest, then to maintain the critical neutral position and to maintain his fragile hold on life.

It seemed to take forever to maneuver him along the supple leather. Perspiration glued her T-shirt to her back. She tugged again. She was almost to the edge of the seat.

An unexpected groan ricocheted through the confined space. Startled, Molly lurched backward into the seat. Her heart soared up her throat, blocking the intake of air. The pause before it beat again was long, too long. She gasped for breath and waited as her heart sank back in place.

Was he rousing? “Mr. Taylor, can you hear me?”

It was a good sign if he could react to pain. Molly stared at his pallid face. He lay as still and silent as a stonewashed sculpture. “Mr. Taylor.” Her breath expelled in an audible wheeze. “Pearce, open your eyes.”

There was no answer. No response at all. Her nails dug into flesh, and she backed up again. As her knees slid over the edge of the bucket seat, another groan parted his lips.

“It’s okay, Mr. Taylor, the ambulance is coming.” Molly’s adrenaline was pumping. She had him out from behind the steering wheel. “We’re almost there.”

She yanked at an edge of the blanket and shoved its length under his torso.
Now, to get him out of the car without causing him further injury.
Molly gathered an edge of blanket in each hand and hauled. He moaned several times, yet she persisted. When his legs slid up over the seat edge, Molly saw the reason for his discomfort. His left ankle was twisted at a forty-five degree angle.

Where’s the ambulance? This man needs help. I need help
.

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