Chapter 5
GINNY
Charlie Boy sits up straight in the passenger seat, ears perked forward as we cruise down the highway.
“What kind of music are you in the mood for tonight, buddy?” I ask, reaching over to scratch behind his ears while keeping my other hand on the wheel.
He utters a dismissive grunt.
“Okay. My choice.”
I flip through the radio stations, passing static and commercials. Charlie Boy usually prefers country—his ears always perk up when he hears that twangy guitar.
Yet tonight, when John Mayer’s smooth voice fills the car, he settles back against the seat with what I swear is a contented sigh.
I regret stopping at Lucky’s tonight. Regret seeing Wyatt and his new bride. And regret loving him so much, for so long.
“It was all in my head,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Charlie Boy makes a low, rumbling sound beside me, as if he understands exactly what I’m going through.
I give my dog’s ears a quick tussle. “That’s the spirit, buddy. Best to forget him.”
My compassionate canine understands me better than most people do. Sometimes I swear he’s more human than animal.
Charlie Boy suddenly goes rigid beside me.
His head snaps toward the passenger window. Then he lets out a series of sharp, urgent barks that make me jump in my seat.
“What is it, boy?” I squint into the darkness beyond the headlights.
Probably just a dead deer on the side of the road.
No—Charlie Boy wouldn’t react like this to roadkill. He’s been trained better than that.
Something’s definitely wrong.
I ease my foot onto the brake and pull over onto the shoulder, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
As soon as I open his door, Charlie Boy hurls himself forward. He stops a few yards away, turns back to me, and barks again—more insistent this time.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming!”
I hurry to the trunk, pop it open, and dig through my emergency kit until I find my heavy-duty flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness as I follow Charlie Boy’s lead.
The light catches something reflective—chrome handlebars twisted at an unnatural angle.
My stomach drops as I sweep the beam across the scene.
A motorcycle lies on its side. The expensive kind—with all those fancy gauges—now shattered across the asphalt.
Ten feet away, a man’s body is sprawled face-down on the gravel shoulder. He’s wearing a dark blue parka with a fur-lined hood, one arm bent underneath him.
I force myself to remain calm as I run toward him.
“Please don’t be dead,” I whisper, kneeling beside him. My hands shake as I press two fingers against his neck like they taught us in the forestry first-aid course. I hold my breath, counting.
One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand...
There it is—a steady pulse beneath my fingertips.
He’s alive.
But he seems to float in and out of consciousness. I gently roll him onto his back, supporting his neck the way I remembered from training.
Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.
I shouldn’t even notice that right now, but I can’t help it. His face has these perfect cheekbones under all that blood, and dark eyebrows that look like they belong on a movie poster.
Definitely not from around here.
I run my hands along his arms and legs, checking for broken bones while trying to stay professional.
Nothing seems broken, but his face is covered in blood from a nasty gash above his eyebrow.
I pull out my phone to call for an ambulance, but the service is dead.
Figures.
Looking down, I see the man’s flutter, and I lean closer.
“Can you see me?”
I hold up three fingers right in front of his face.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
He squints, then answers correctly.
“You wiped out on your motorcycle,” I tell him. “Pretty bad crash. Do you think you can stand up?”
He tries to push himself up but immediately slumps back down with a groan.
“Let’s try together,” I say, positioning myself beside him. “On three. One... two... three.”
I heave upward, and Charlie Boy circles us, barking encouragingly.
“You can lean on me,” I offer, though it’s laughable given our size difference.
He towers over me—I’m barely five-two, and he must be at least six-five. His arm feels heavy as a tree branch across my shoulders. I stagger slightly under his weight, which has to be double mine.
“Easy does it,” I say, taking baby steps toward the car as he leans on me. I can feel his warm breath against my hair as we walk.
When we finally reach my vehicle, I yank open the passenger door.
Charlie Boy’s eyes follow me as I help the stranger fold his long body into the seat.
As I reach to fasten his seatbelt, I catch a whiff of leather mixing with the metallic tang of blood.
Then the stranger’s head lolls slightly as I click the buckle into place.
“Charlie Boy, let’s go,” I call, opening the back door. He jumps in, settling with his nose practically touching the stranger’s shoulder.
I slide behind the wheel and drive, pushing the speedometer higher than I normally would on these winding roads.
The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the familiar curves I’ve driven a thousand times.
The cabin is at least twenty minutes away, with nothing but forest between here and there.
No hospitals.
And now, no cell service.
Just me, my dog, and this semi-conscious man.
Our only hope is to get him somewhere warm and safe as quickly as possible.