2. Holt
Chapter Two
HOLT
Six spots her before I do.
He sits up with a sharp woof, nose pressed right up against the passenger window. I follow his stare through the glass, then brake so hard that I nearly stand the truck on its grille.
The bride’s lacy white dress is glowing in the high beams. She’s been walking for a while, mud caking the lace up to the knees, and she has a hoodie zipped halfway over the top of it, but no raincoat.
Her arms are wrapped around her body as she braces against the wind.
Thank fuck, she doesn’t bolt into the trees when the truck’s lights pin her; instead she turns and looks straight into them.
I stop the truck and neither of us moves as the slanting rain falls through the beams, thick heartbeats thudding in my ears. Six whines and paws the window.
“Stay,” I tell the dog, and drop the window as she walks toward the truck.
She walks toward the truck with her chin up, arms crossed over the ruined lace, picking her footing on the gravel carefully.
She must be in her early twenties, pretty and curvy.
There’s no vehicle in sight, so she's walked at least from the pull-out below the switchback, and she left in a hurry; no coat or backpack. I glance down. Sneakers. At least she’s not trying to navigate this mountain in heels.
That means the likelihood of some asshole groom dumping her on her own out here is slim. All the evidence points to one thing: she ran.
“Car trouble?” I say, trying to keep it light.
“A couple miles back.” Her voice is steady, even though she’s shivering. “It died. The steering went with it.”
“That orange coupe at the pull-out?”
“You saw it?”
“Yes… passed it minutes ago.” I lean over and pop the door. “Get in. You look freezing and you’re shivering.”
A truck drives past and she looks over her shoulder, her eyes widening.
She doesn't move as her eyes assess the cab: me, the dog, then back to me. Measuring the exits and weighing the threat. Smart girl. I could tell her I spent twenty years doing exactly that, but she’d have no reason not to think I was spinning her a line.
I keep my mouth shut and let Six close the deal.
He pushes his dark muzzle out the open door, woofs politely, and thumps his tail on the seat.
A small smile breaks over her face, transforming it from pretty to beautiful. She climbs up into the cab, gathering her skirts around her. The scent of fresh rain mixed with a honey-vanilla perfume fills my truck, and I breathe it in like I’m a drowning man surfacing for air.
She really is a beauty; not in the carefully buffed, expensive style of the women I used to guard, though the dress she’s wearing is clearly expensive.
Her eyes are a dark, unusual green, cheeks flushed pink and the tendrils of hair escaping the hoodie are dark blonde and wavy.
I put my eyes back on the road where they belong.
I clear my throat. “Turned the heat up. Vents are on the dash if you want to warm your hands.”
She pushes the trailing sleeves of the dress up and holds her hands up to the vents, and the dome light highlights her wrist for a second.
There are bruises there, faded ones; finger marks, if I’m not mistaken.
My skin goes cold. I've catalogued too many injuries in my life and know exactly what a wrist grab looks like a few days on.
Some asshole held this girl hard enough to leave his signature.
She catches me looking and drags the sleeve down, looking out the window at the rain. No way is she ready to talk. Yet.
I give the dash dial a push instead. “There's a blanket behind the seat, if you don’t mind it smelling of him.” I tip my head at the dog, who has already melted against her side. “This one earns his keep as a heater.”
“He's lovely.” She scratches his neck and he leans in closer, making her skirt rustle. “What's his name?”
“Six.”
“Six…” She tries it out. “Like the number?”
“Yeah, sort of an in-joke. He watches my six… it means he has my back.” I don’t tell her that my dog is better at protecting my blind spot than most of the guys I ever worked a detail with.
“What happened to his ear?” She strokes the ear with the chunk missing.
“He came that way from the shelter… Six has a tough history.” I flick the wipers up a notch. “So do I, so we get along.”
She laughs, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, and partly around Six, then settles back in the seat. The only noise is the heater and the rain falling heavily against the roof of the truck.
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Where's the groom?”
She sits up in her seat, shoulders tense and I curse myself for asking.
“There isn’t one… I mean, there was meant to be one but I fixed it.”
“Good,” I say, and I mean it. More than I have any business to, considering I've only known this girl for five minutes. I was going to ask her name, but I give her some space and concentrate on the road instead.
A few miles later, Wildwood emerges from the gloom. The lights strung down the main road look for all the world like somebody hung lanterns in a fish tank. It’s late enough that most places are shut; the Sugar Moon Bakery and Latte Da! are both dark, chairs up on the tables.
“There's the inn,” I say, pulling toward the end of the block. Every window upstairs is lit, and there's a U-Haul and a bunch of cars with out-of-state plates jammed into the lot. The O’Connor family reunion party, of course; half of Wildwood's been baking for it all week.
“No vacancy… of course.” The girl reads the sign, her tired voice suggesting that she’s spent all her adrenaline and is now running on fumes. She moves the blanket from around her shoulders. “Is there a bus, or even a gas station? I can wait somewhere until morning; I just need it to have a roof.”
Shaking my head, I wave at the dark streets. “Nothing's open.”
I should call Mary; she’d find her a cot in the back office.
But Mary would also have the whole story out to most of the church by eight tomorrow.
She wouldn’t be able to resist spreading the gossip, and this girl's got somebody behind her she's running from. Small towns aren’t good at keeping secrets.
She's looking out the window at the dark street, biting her lip and trying to think of a plan.
“Look, I've got a cabin up the ridge. A guest bedroom, if I move some of my mountain gear off the bed.”
She turns and studies me, and I keep both hands on the wheel where she can see them.
“Why?” she asks. Her voice is curious, mixed with a little fear.
“It's forty degrees outside and dropping, everything in town is shut, and my dog seems to think you won’t murder me in the night.” Six thumps his tail, right on cue.
“And because whoever put that mark on your wrist might chase you.
Even if there was a vacancy, the inn keeps a guest register. I don't.”
She lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay, thank you.”
I turn the truck up the ridge road. She watches the town lights disappear behind us with a blank face. Either her instincts are good or everything behind her is worse. Both, probably.
“It's not going to be comfortable, my place is built for me and the dog.”
“Neither was where I came from,” she says to the window. “Comfortable, I mean. And that place had marble bathrooms with gold taps.”
I pull through the gate to my property and the outline of the cabin rises up against the dark fir trees. I catch myself running a perimeter check: sight lines, up to the single road in and out, the gravel around the house so nobody can enter without me or Six hearing it.
Old habits. That's all it is.