A Bolt from the Blue. Maggie Wells

this and your phone as I was checking the second story.”

      Hope stared at the bag for a long moment; then recognition kicked in. Two interlocking C’s. Chanel. Her purse. The young woman had brought her purse. “Thank you.”

      She clutched the bag. In a way, the leather satchel was her most precious possession. Her passport was in there. Her wallet. Credit cards. Cash. The plain platinum band John slipped onto her finger many years ago.

      She rarely wore the ring but always carried it with her. Usually, she kept the band in the blown glass bowl they bought in Venice, but her pretty glass bowl was safe in France. Here, she opted for her travel default and slipped the ring into the side pocket of the bag.

      After plunging her hand into the opening, she closed her fingers around the simple circlet. He’d wanted to buy her something big and flashy. A ring “befitting her station” as his wife. She never wanted to be any man’s wife, and she told him if he wanted her to marry him, they’d have to do things her way. She wore her wedding ring in those horrible days when he lay wasting away, then removed it the moment the last of the mourners left the Chateau.

      “May I see some identification, Ms. Elliot?”

      Some stubborn, snotty part of her wanted to correct the girl’s form of address, but she squashed the impulse. First, this was America. The woman wouldn’t know a Baroness from a barrette. Second, she never liked the honorific, even when used correctly. After all, she was an American, even if she was twenty-plus years removed, and titles sounded phony to her. Until she met John, she thought only characters in stage plays actually used them.

      She pulled out her blue U.S. passport. The young woman squinted at the name printed inside. The American aversion to titular grandeur allowed her to use the name she preferred, Hope Winston Elliot. But the moment Diana and her friends got hold of her, they’d insist on hand-lettered place cards with nothing short of The Right Honourable Hope, Baroness Ashford. Of course, they’d leave the U out of Honorable. Americans were always tripped up by their Americaness. John had often teased her about her own.

      “Ms. Elliot, is there someone you can call for a place to stay?”

      Hope looked at the mobile phone the young woman held. Her mobile. Or, rather, the temporary phone she bought to use while she was in the States. Diana. Her sister’s was the only phone number saved to the directory. But the last thing she wanted was to rouse her high-strung sister from her bed in the small hours of the morning.

      “I can’t stay here?” Like a child, she asked the question, even though she already knew the answer.

      “No, ma’am. We shut off the electrical service to the house in case power is restored. Until you can have the wiring checked, you don’t want to risk running any voltage.”

      “Right.”

      Looking at the phone in her hand, she ran through her options. Staying with Diana and Richard was not one of them. Though she loved her sister, they were very different people. Like their parents, Diana approved of little Hope said or did. And her brother-in-law was even worse. All his life, Richard’s friends had called him Dick rather than one of the many other derivatives of the name. Hope suspected the nickname wasn’t entirely affectionate.

      “I’ll check into a hotel. Can I gather some of my things?”

      Firefighter Graham hoisted her heavy-duty flashlight. “I’ll take you up.”

      Glad to have an escort, Hope slid down from the shelter of the truck. The rain had stopped, but the tree leaves showered the earth at a steady pace. She winced when her left foot touched down, and the younger woman caught the grimace.

      A hand clamped on Hope’s forearm. “Ma’am, are you injured?”

      Shaking her head, Hope tried to wave her off. “The thunderstorm startled me. I dropped the mug I was holding and stepped on some of the pieces when I was trying to get out of the house.”

      Without another word, Firefighter Graham grabbed her by both arms and propelled her back into the truck. “Get off your ass, Bobby. We need a medic.”

      The young man in the driver’s seat sprang into action. Hope craned her neck, watching as he practically launched himself from the front seat. The slam of the heavy door made her cringe. Seconds later, he appeared in the bay doors, a flush staining his smooth cheeks. “You’re injured?”

      “Only some cuts on my feet.”

      Firefighter Graham adjusted the light for the young man to get a closer look. “Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled as he opened a massive first-aid kit.

      She raised one shoulder. The Gallic shrug was one of the few truly French things she mastered in decades of living there. “You didn’t ask.”

      The young woman stepped aside to give Bobby better access to Hope. “I saw your suitcase and stuff upstairs. Do you want me to run up and grab your things for you?”

      A part of her stiffened at the thought of having a perfect stranger gather her personal items, but she was tired. Weary to the bone. And everything hurt. Not just her feet, but her head and her hip and a host of other body parts making their displeasure known. Bobby applied gentle pressure to the heel of her left foot, and she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.

      “You have a few pieces stuck in there.” He adjusted the light, then reached into the box and pulled out an impressive pair of tweezers. “I can try to get them out here, or we can send you over to Memorial.”

      Everything inside Hope froze at the mention of the local hospital. “No.” The answer came out instinctively. “There’s no need for the hospital.”

      Bobby inclined his head in acknowledgment. “This will hurt a bit, but I can get you lined out. At least for tonight.”

      “Ms. Elliot?” Ms. Graham inquired, prodding her back to the previous topic. “Would you like me to get your things?”

      “Yes, please,” Hope said, resigned. “I would appreciate the help.”

      “No problem,” she replied, but her attention was diverted.

      Hope followed the young woman’s gaze and spotted the other firefighters exiting the house. One gave a thumbs-up signal with his gloved hand, and then the two of them proceeded to the back of the truck and started stowing equipment.

      Within minutes, Hope’s feet had been cleared, cleaned, and bandaged. Blue medical tape crisscrossed the tops of her feet. Ms. Graham beckoned from the doorway, and Hope started to scoot down out of the truck, only to be stopped by the young man who’d treated her.

      “Oh, no you don’t.”

      She started to protest, but her words transformed into a whoop as he swept her up, threw her over his shoulder in the classic rescue hold, then stalked toward the house.

      “Gotta keep the dressings dry,” he admonished her. “And be sure you keep applying a topical antibiotic. God only knows what you stepped on out here.”

      Hope couldn’t reply. She was too aware her ass had been hoisted into the air for the whole world to see.

      “You had a recent tetanus shot?” He ducked carefully through the door and deposited her onto the small settee in the entrance with an unflattering grunt. Rolling his shoulders back as he straightened, he flashed a sheepish smile. “If you haven’t, you should get one as soon as you can.”

      “I’m up to date on all my vaccines,” she assured him, pushing the ropy tendrils of her tangled hair back from her face. A beat too late, she remembered her manners. “Thank you.”

      “I thought you might like to change before you go?” Ms. Graham touched the large rolling suitcase hauled out of the bedroom upstairs. “I also grabbed your makeup bag and brush out of the bathroom.”

      A warm rush of gratitude flooded her. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

      Bobby smirked and turned