Chapter 8
Leah
Restless, I squirm and stretch within the confines of the passenger seatbelt, not because our first date and shopping were curtailed by the icy rain pelting the windows from the weather front moving in more rapidly than predicted but because Emanuel knows my biggest secret…
well, most of it anyway, and he’s not freaking out.
He’s the first person who hasn’t badgered me for all the gory details or berated me for ruining Bucky Trench’s racing career.
It’s probably too soon to tell him I’m falling in love with him. My tongue is sore from biting it throughout the day to keep from blurting out those few little words that even as a child I rarely heard.
The funny thing is, I thought my childhood was pretty normal, even though I lived with my grandparents.
Back then, I thought it was because Mom and Dad were on the road all the time, but in hindsight, I realize now it was because I was born a girl instead of a boy, and it ruined Dad’s dream of a son taking over someday.
When I was seventeen, Grandpa’s health took a rapid decline.
My grandparents, who owned sixty-five percent of Goodwin, saw the writing on the wall.
Unbeknownst to the rest of the family and their newest business partner, Bucky’s father, Grandpa and Grams made some strategic decisions of their own.
It was a good thing too, even though it drove a wedge between them and my parents.
The week after Grandpa’s death, mom and dad pressured me into marrying Bucky, ‘their boy,’ despite my grieving grandmother’s objections.
But like I told Manny, Gram’s made sure I came out on top. It was time to let go of the past.
“Wow. It’s really getting bad out here.”
As the wind picks up, I can hardly see the road or the taillights of the vehicle traveling a few car lengths in front of us.
Freezing rain turns into a heavy rain-snow mixture, giving the truck’s cab an eerie gray cast. The rhythm of the windshield wipers adds to the tension as the windshield is covered in white and then swiped away over and over.
“Don’t worry, Mama, I’ve driven in worse. We’ll make it home… Shit.”
The brake lights on the vehicle we’re following flash on, then off, and then back on as the rearend of the car loses traction, slinging the rear from side to side as the driver loses control.
The car spins, our headlights momentarily illuminating the terror on the faces of the driver and passenger in a freeze-frame slow motion, before everything snaps back into real time.
The car slides backward through the other lane, barely missing the oncoming semi-truck, then disappears over the embankment.
Suddenly, Manny has his own fight on his hands as we hit the same patch of frozen pavement. The wheels break loose, but he manages to control our slide and brings us safely to a stop on the shoulder.
What happens over the next few hours is a nightmare.
It becomes glaringly apparent how unprepared I am for Montana in the winter.
Other than a flashlight and a tub of sample quilts for my next class, I have nothing in my vehicle that’s of any use to anyone, including my phone, which has no service.
Luckily, the trucker who also stops does.
He tells us he’s already radioed the accident and mile marker to the state police.
While he sets up flares, Manny keeps me from landing on my backside as we slip and slide down the embankment, following the path of turned-up earth and snow.
My shoes and ankles are instantly wet, cold, and full of slush, and my face and hair aren’t faring much better, but my discomfort disappears and dread leaves me shaken as the beam of the flashlight bounces over the severely damaged vehicle.
It’s obvious the car has rolled. When I was married to Bucky, I saw crashes, and even though some of them were bad, the racers and their families and crews knew crashes would happen.
But those were always in a controlled environment with harnesses, helmets, barriers, and a safety crew waiting seconds away just in case. But this? This is insane.
While Manny wrenches open the driver’s side door and checks on the unconscious driver, I shuffle my feet to keep from slipping as I move to the passenger side. This door isn’t as smashed as the driver’s side, but when I try to pull it open, the darned thing won’t budge.
“Manny, hit the button to unlock the door,” I shout.
When it clicks, I grab the handle and pull.
The door swings wide, knocking me back a step.
I grimace as a glob of heavy, wet slush falls onto the dark-haired woman in the passenger’s seat.
I lean over her and try to recall the first aid training I had years ago.
My fingers are wet and cold, but I press them against the side of her throat.
I can’t feel a pulse, but then her eyes pop open. “H-Hey there, honey. You’ve been in an accident, but help is on the way. Can you tell me your name?”
“A-Anna.”
“That’s good, Anna, do you hurt any—”
“W-Where is Benji? Where is my s-son?”
I meet Manny’s gaze through the interior of the car as he holds a piece of torn and bloody flannel against the driver’s head. We both turn simultaneously and peer into the darkness of the back seat. Shit.
“I’ll check.” I back out of the car, giving Anna instructions on staying calm and holding as still as possible.
Taking a breath, I open the back passenger door. There, huddled in a booster seat, is a small boy. His eyes are wide and glassy with unshed tears, and his bottom lip is poking out, but he seems okay.
I crawl into the back seat with him. I don’t want to remove him from the car seat in case he’s injured, so I hold his hand. When more help arrives, I ask one of the men to grab the tub of blankets from the back seat of my truck; it doesn’t matter to me that they’re worth hundreds of dollars.
The second Samaritan sits with Anna. He tries to keep her calm as she begs me to look after her son. I reassure her every time she asks and wrap the warmest quilt in the box around him, and then we wait.
It seems like forever for the police and EMTs to arrive, but realistically, it’s probably less than an hour.
I stay with Benji as all the men help get the injured couple up the hill on backboards.
The truck driver, John, helps Manny carry the little boy still strapped in his car seat up to the road.
There isn’t a safe place to secure him in the ambulances, so Manny and I offer to put him and his car seat into my vehicle and follow the ambulances to the closest hospital in Missoula.
When we arrive, Anna has given the harried staff permission to allow Manny and I to see to her son’s well-being until the rest of her family arrives.
Manny is unusually quiet as he stares at Benji while he sleeps.
I wonder if this is his way of dealing with the stress of the accident or if it’s something deeper.