Formula for Danger. Camy Tang

and then rising early to go for a bike ride. Maybe she’d cut her ride short today so she could get into work early. She coasted down the hill, the breeze cooling her, the wind filling her lungs.

      Another car engine sounded behind her, ruining the feeling of freedom and being alone out here in the crisp air. She damped down her irritation and, mindful of the last car, moved closer to the side of the road.

      The engine seemed abnormally loud—and close. She glanced over her shoulder.

      Her movement caused her bike to slip off the asphalt and skid a little in the gravel bordering the road.

      Suddenly she felt as if the car behind her had bumped into her back tire. The bike bucked her off and flung her upward.

      She screamed.

      For a stricken heartbeat she hung poised in midair, staring at the ground sloping from the road to a field of grapevines. And then she plummeted down, rocks and juniper bushes rising up to meet her.

      She curled as she landed, striking her right shoulder with a crack! that trembled through her entire frame. She rolled and pitched, head over heels, sideways and underways and every which way. She finally landed with a jarring thud! to her spine that snapped her head back into the ground.

      For long, excruciating seconds, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t make her diaphragm move. She stared at the pale blue sky, misted with incoming clouds, and struggled to make her body obey her frantic mind.

      Then she gasped long and hard. She coughed, hacking up dust from her lungs, burning her throat. And pain exploded in her bones.

      She curled onto her side, thorns pricking her cheek. She could suddenly hear the whistle of the wind, and the receding sound of a car engine.

      Someone had hit her—and was driving away.

      He’d come. The one man she wouldn’t have expected but wanted.

      As soon as Edward’s truck pulled alongside her and she met his fierce gaze through the windshield, she relaxed muscles that she hadn’t realized were tight.

      She had never been more thankful for her rugged waterproof phone—it had been unscathed from her accident. After calling Aunt Becca, she’d made her way back to the road and moved away from the sloping hill so that she’d be out of range of any cars speeding down. Also, a stubby tree that she could lean against grew a few feet in from the road. She still felt as if her bones were creaking, but at least she could walk.

      She vaguely registered Naomi, Monica and Aunt Becca also getting out of the four-door truck, but Edward filled her vision. He reached her first, folding her in his tanned arms, strong and warm, smelling of earth and pine.

      He had never embraced her before.

      She never wanted to move again.

      “Are you all right?”

      “Where’s your bike?”

      “You look awful. Let me look at you.”

      This last was from Monica, who wedged between them so she could stare critically at Rachel’s face and her limbs. “Any pain when you walk?”

      “No.” She glanced around Monica’s head, but Edward had already walked away, his back to her.

      Her sister touched her at various places on her body. “How about your arms? Ribs?”

      “My shoulder hurts.” It throbbed, actually, as if the blood would pulse right out through her aching muscles.

      “Hmm, doesn’t look dislocated.” Monica gave a few experimental touches.

      “Ow!” Pain lanced through Rachel’s shoulder.

      “Hold still,” Monica said grimly.

      “Did you call the police for me?” Rachel asked Aunt Becca through gritted teeth.

      “I spoke to Horatio personally. He’s on his way.”

      “What happened?” Naomi demanded.

      Rachel relayed what she could remember, trying to block out the memory of her terrifying flight and painful tumble.

      Monica shook her head in disbelief. “Not to be mean, but you’re not hurt very much considering you were rammed by a car. You should be grateful it’s not worse.”

      “Well…” She remembered the jumbling of the bike frame as her tires skidded. “I turned back to look at the car, and my bike ran off the road because I was hugging it too closely. Maybe that made the car only sideswipe me rather than hitting me full on.”

      “Praise Jesus!” Becca said. “He took care of you.” She wrapped her in a hug against Monica’s protests.

      Had God been taking care of her? Did He really care so much about her that He’d do something small like making her bike skid? Was He really orchestrating her life like that? Rachel wondered.

      Her mind shied away from the thought. She had never really thought of God as that intimately concerned about her. She had always thought of God as a distant, powerful figure who didn’t bother Himself much about her, which was a view of Him that was easier for Rachel to understand and fit into her life. Did God really care about her like that? The idea seemed foreign to her. A God who cared about her might require more of her than she’d been used to giving Him—more than going to church with her family, reading her Bible once in a while, praying once in a while. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that.

      “Did you see anything about the car?” Edward approached her again. “Make, model?”

      She could barely remember that Naomi drove a Lexus and Aunt Becca drove a pink Cadillac. “No. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

      “That’s too bad.”

      The disappointment on his face made her spirits sink a fraction. She racked her mind, but couldn’t remember more than a flash of chrome. Or was that from the first car that had passed her?

      “Why are you here?” she blurted out. She wanted him here, but felt shy about telling him so, and it came out awkwardly. She’d never be as smooth with her words as Naomi or Monica.

      “I went to your house this morning with a report for you about the greenhouse,” Edward said. “Don’t worry, I also spoke to your father about it. To reassure him.”

      Had he thought she couldn’t relay the information herself accurately? Or had he wanted to spare her and instead put himself in the line of fire—her father’s detailed grilling? Edward’s closed expression couldn’t tell her anything.

      She opened her mouth, but the words didn’t form. I’m glad you’re here but you didn’t have to tag along sounded ungracious, and her mixed emotions seemed perversely paradoxical today.

      He was obviously reading her mind, because he said, “Don’t worry, Rachel, I’m glad I was there when you called and could see for myself that you’re okay.”

      His words made a smile rise to her face. “Thanks.”

      “There’s Horatio,” Aunt Becca said. She and Rachel’s two sisters walked toward a car in the distance, waving their arms.

      Edward glanced at their backs and leaned closer to Rachel. “I do want to ask a favor, however.”

      “What?”

      “I want you to come with me to talk privately with your father.”

      Privately? “About what?” she asked, bewildered.

      He glanced at her mangled bike. “About protection. For you.”

      “For me?”

      “You’re not safe. Someone may be out to kill you.”

      Edward followed Rachel into her father’s study. Augustus Grant looked up quickly from his desk, and his body seemed to relax at the sight of her striding into the room