Chapter Two
Martina
What is this guy doing?
I could swear he just tossed his cookies. And now he’s frantically looking around my car like a maniac. Why isn’t he helping me get out? Or at the very least calling 911.
I can’t find my phone that is Lord-knows-where, along with the rest of the contents of my purse that went flying after my car skidded and ran into the tree.
Holding my sore wrist, I wonder what other horrible things are in store for me after the hellish few days I’ve already had.
“Excuse me!” I shout.
It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. He’s searching the ground behind the tree I hit. He’s looking all around the car. What the hell? It’d be just my luck to have wrecked my car in the middle of nowhere and have the only guy around be some unmedicated schizophrenic. Or worse, a serial killer living out in the boonies just waiting for helpless women to drive down his road.
I let my head fall back and rest against the seat. Why did I go off route? I curse my old GPS. Or rather, I curse myself for not paying the few hundred dollars to update it at my last service appointment.
“Hey!” I yell.
The guy has to hear me; the front windshield is broken.
I look around. Deflated airbags. Broken glass. The hood a crumpled mess. I fear there will be no salvaging this old trusty car. All I can hope is that I can find my phone, call a tow truck, and get to the nearest car rental place.
Taking stock of my injuries, I breathe a deep sigh of relief that I can wiggle my toes, feel all my extremities, and don’t seem to have any kind of whiplash—though I’m no medical professional. For all I know, I have a brain injury that will kill me in five minutes time.
For now though, I focus on the good. With the exception of my wrist, all in all, I dodged a major bullet here.
I think.
Unless the crazy man outside is the bullet.
“Mister!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Are you going to help me out of here or what?”
Finally, he stops looking at the ground and runs over. “How old is your child?”
“Uh, three,” I say, confused as to why he’s asking.
His face goes completely pale, and he turns to scan the ground.
“Mister! Get me the fuck out of here!”
“Not until I find your child.”
Everything begins to make sense as I put myself in his position. The empty car seat in the back. The hole in the windshield. I look at the heavy branch that settled into the passenger seat, happy no one was there to be impaled by it.
“He’s not with me.”
The man stills, takes the biggest breath I’ve ever seen anyone inhale, and walks back over to me. “Jesus Christ, why didn’t you say so?”
“Me?” I furrow my brows, taking offense. “You’re the one out there going all batshit crazy while I’m trapped inside my car. Now… do you mind? And maybe call 911 or a tow truck or something in the meantime. I can’t find my phone.”
In the ten minutes I’ve been stuck here, snow has started piling up on what’s left of the windshield, some of it coming in through the broken glass and coating the dash.
The guy seems to totally ignore my request. Either that, or he doesn’t have a phone on him. Who doesn’t carry a phone?
“Can you open your door from the inside?” he asks.
“Do you think I’d still be sitting here if I could?”
I think he rolls his eyes. I can’t be sure, however, as chunks of his longish hair have come out from under his hat, concealing the upper part of his face.
He goes around to the passenger side and that door opens easily. “Are your legs injured?” he asks. “Can you crawl over?”
Without calling the man stupid, I look between him and the large branch now occupying the passenger seat.
He doesn’t call me out on my sarcastic eye movements. Instead, he says, “Let me see if I can get this out of here.”
He tugs and pulls and twists, but the branch doesn’t budge. He steps back and removes his outerwear—a light rain jacket and hoodie—leaving him in a skin-tight, long-sleeved T-shirt.
My eyes trace the outline of his muscles when he reaches back inside and manipulates the branch until he can lift and push it back through the windshield.
Damn. This guy is strong. Lumberjack strong.
And now, instead of being worried he’s a serial killer, I’m having thoughts of him being an eccentric recluse who lives in the woods, cuts logs, and, I don’t know, reads and sips wine every night just waiting for his soulmate to show up at his door.
Stop it, I tell myself. How can I think of such things after Charles just died?
Because it’s been years since you’ve been with a man , my subconscious reminds me.
And this man—wow—I can’t think of a finer specimen.
Sweat dotting his brow, he removes his wool beanie, and I swear to God I forget all about the pain in my wrist and my mouth actually waters. His dark-blond hair falls down to meet his shoulders. It has body most women would kill for. Not curly, not straight, but the perfect combination of both. His chocolate brown eyes are striking, but they aren’t even his best facial feature. That would be his chiseled jawline. Or his full lips. Or his five o’clock shadow that looks like it’s been through a dozen five o’clocks.
If only I wasn’t in a hurry to get to my son, I could stay here and live out a full-on romance novel. I can see it now: woman gets into accident, is rescued by gorgeous hermit who whisks her off to his secluded cabin where they laugh and cook all day and make love all night. Throw in an accidental pregnancy and I’m thinking it could be a NYT best seller.
“Lady?”
I shake my head, realizing I’ve been staring—maybe even a bit obsessively.
Ouch! The sharp head movement triggers a pounding near my left temple. I reach up and feel something sticky. I look from my blood-covered fingers to the stranger, fear in my eyes.
“I don’t think it’s bad,” he says, reading my expression. “From the looks of it, you might have banged your head on the window. Can you crawl over now?”
“My wrist hurts, but I can try.” I go to unhook the seat belt, but it doesn’t release. I keep pushing the button. “It isn’t coming off.”
He reaches around his back and swivels around something that looks like a cross between a fanny pack and what a handyman carries on his belt. Fishing through it, he comes out with a knife sheathed in a leather casing. My eyes widen and I gulp down my breath. Holy shit! Is this hot, reclusive, lumberjack actually some psycho murderer dude who’s going to stab me right here? Or maybe he’s just salivating at the chance to lure me back to his lair.
My heart beats a million times a minute, all kinds of horrible scenarios playing out in my head.
I pull away, moving my body as close to my door as possible while still tethered by the seat belt.
“Relax,” the guy says. “I’m just going to cut you out, not cut you to pieces.”
An exasperated burst of air escapes me. “Are you trying to make me have a panic attack?”
He backs off and moves the knife away. “Okay, maybe we got off on the wrong foot.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Dallas Montana. I live around here. I was out for a run and heard your car horn. Good thing as nobody travels these roads. What the heck are you doing this far away from the highway? You don’t know Abe, do you?”
“Abe? No. I’m um… going to pick up my son in Cicero. I’m from Florida. Drove straight through the night. I was supposed to get off on I-90 and go west to Syracuse then pick up I-81 north, but around the Utica area my GPS messed up. Or I did. I ended up on NY-12 north and then my GPS went blank, along with my cell service. I figured I just needed to keep going west so…”
His brows knit together, and he looks down at his still outstretched hand. “Was there a name in there somewhere, or should I just keep calling you lady?”
I roll my eyes and shake his hand. “Martina Carver. My friends call me Marti.”
“Okay, Martina—”
“Marti,” I interrupt.
He flashes me a look of amusement. “So now we’re friends?”
“Are you going to get me out of here or what?”
“Are you going to keep freaking out about my knife?”
“About that,” I say. “Exactly why do you carry an eight-inch knife?”
“Because the gun is too heavy to carry on my runs.” He chuckles silently at my shocked expression. “I’m kidding. Well, not exactly. I do have a gun, and it is heavy, but I only have it because of the bears.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “Bears?”
He shrugs. “They don’t usually bother people. They just look for food.” He nods to his fanny pack thing. “When you live in the middle of nowhere, it’s good to be prepared for anything.”
“I’m assuming you have a phone in there. I can’t seem to find mine. Can you call a tow truck? And maybe a car rental company?”
“This is a dead zone. There’s no cell service out here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You’re the one who noticed your GPS and cell phone weren’t getting signals. It’s not like I’m lying.”
“So what do I do?”
He holds up the knife. “For starters, how about we get you out of here?”
“Okay.”
It’s hard not to be nervous when a complete stranger comes at me with an eight-inch knife that he could plunge into me faster than I’d even know what was happening. But he is meticulously careful as he finds a gap in the belt and saws his way through, the blade moving away from my body.
Finally freed, I climb one-handed over the console and out the other side, happy to be out of the car, but devastated that it seems to be totaled.
“What’ll I do now?”
“I have service at my cabin,” he says.
I snort out a laugh. “I think I’ve read a thriller about this. Stranded woman goes with kind stranger who lends a hand and she’s never heard from again.”
“There’s not much of a choice here.” He looks up. “It’s almost dark. And the snow is coming down harder. Not to mention, the animals will be coming out soon.”
I swivel my head in every direction.
“I have a truck. I have cell service. I can either give you a ride or we can call someone.”
“Or…” I put my hand on the roof of my mangled car. “I just stay in my car, and you go back to where you have cell service and call me a tow truck.”
He eyes me up and down. I shiver from his appraisal, then take a deep breath to calm my nerves, but the shaking doesn’t abate. I hadn’t even realized how cold I was until just now. I’m wearing yoga pants, a T-shirt, a light jacket, and ballet slippers.
“You’ll freeze in an hour.”
“An hour? You think it’ll take that long?”
“Longer.” He points to his left. “I’m still five miles from home. Add in the time it will take to summon a tow truck and you’ll be a popsicle for sure. Assuming you can walk and have something better to walk in than those flimsy shoes, coming with me is the best option. My cabin is warm. I have food, water, and cell service.”
I lean against the car, weighing my choices.
Stay here and freeze. Or put faith in a complete stranger.
I am so screwed.