Forever A Hero. Linda Miller Lael

I guess I’m shaken up, is all—that was a close one.” She bit her lower lip before going on. “If you hadn’t been here—” She stopped, shook her head again and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

      “I was, though,” he said gently. “We’ll get you checked out, just to be on the safe side.”

      Her response was a disjointed jumble of words, partial sentences. “The car—it’s a rental—I’m not sure I signed up for the extra insurance.”

      “Let’s worry about that later,” he told her. “Right now, we’re headed for the hospital.”

      “I really don’t think I’m injured—”

      He held on to her arm with one hand while he bent to retrieve his phone from the asphalt. It looked a little the worse for wear, although it probably still worked just fine. “If it’s all the same to you,” he said lightly, “I’d rather hear that from a licensed medical professional.”

      She sighed.

      “Plus, this rain isn’t helping,” he added, squiring her carefully toward his truck. It would’ve been faster to pick her up and carry her, but if she was hurt, it wouldn’t do to jostle her around like a sack of feed.

      They reached the truck, and he opened the passenger door, but before he could offer any assistance, she’d climbed onto the running board under her own power and then settled herself in the seat. For the briefest of moments, looking into her face, Mace had the impression that he knew this woman from somewhere.

      “If I thought it would do me any good to argue,” she said with a hint of a smile, “I’d repeat what I’ve been saying all along. I don’t need to see a doctor. Besides, you’ve done enough already.”

      “You’re at least partly right,” Mace responded. “Arguing won’t do a damn bit of good, and I only did what anybody else would have done, under the circumstances. As for not needing to see a doctor, well, that’s debatable.”

      “Seriously. I’m absolutely certain that all I need is a hot bath, a couple of aspirin and some sleep. So if you’d just drop me off at my hotel—”

      “Sure thing,” Mace agreed amiably. “I’ll do that—after the doc looks you over and says you’re good to go.”

      “I’m fine.” She was certainly persistent, not to say stubborn, but this time, she’d met her match. He was as bullheaded as they came.

      Mace shut the truck door without answering. Maybe she was right, and she really was okay, but he didn’t intend to take the chance, and he was tired of standing there in the rain, yammering.

      As soon as he was behind the wheel and under cover, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

      It figured.

      She was shivering, arms wrapped around her ribs, and staring bleakly through the rain-speckled windshield.

      Mace cranked up the heat, glad he’d left the engine running earlier, and looked over at her. Tried for a grin and fell short. “Hey,” he said gruffly, switching on the wipers to clear the windshield. “You’re safe with me, if that’s what you’re worried about. I might be a stranger, but I’m also one of the good guys.”

      She glanced at him curiously. “But you’re not a stranger.”

      So, he’d been right. This wasn’t their first encounter.

      Damned if he could recall where and when they’d crossed paths before, though. And that was odd, because even wet and bedraggled and more rattled than she probably thought she was, she wasn’t the kind of woman a man forgot.

      “I’m not?” he asked, checking the mirrors before making a wide turn and heading back toward Mustang Creek.

      She sighed, rested her head against the side window. She sounded almost wistful when she responded. “You don’t remember?”

      “I know we’ve met someplace,” he replied. “But that’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

      There was a long, slightly forlorn pause. Another sigh. “Maybe we could talk about old times another day,” she said at last, seeming to shrink into herself. “I’m so tired.”

      Normally, Mace wasn’t the type to put things off, but he wasn’t going to press for particulars. Not yet, anyhow.

      “Just don’t fall asleep,” he said.

      “Why not?” she asked with another sigh and a small yawn. “I’ve had a long, hard day.”

      “Because you might’ve hit your head.”

      She opened her mouth, obviously intending to protest, but then she must have thought better of it. Or maybe she was too exhausted to put up an argument.

      “Thanks,” she said. “For everything.”

      Mace acknowledged her words with a slight inclination of his head, keeping his eyes on the road. Several minutes passed before he broke the silence. “What happened back there?”

      “I’m not sure,” she replied, and her voice was slow, sleepy. “One minute, I was cruising along, looking for the turnoff to the resort. The next, I was hydroplaning. Maybe I blew a tire or something.”

      “You were speeding,” he commented blandly.

      She frowned. “Are you going to lecture me on road safety? Because I’m really not up for that just now.”

      He grinned. “Unfamiliar roads, heavy rain—”

      “I was in a hurry.”

      “To do what?”

      “To get to my hotel. As I said, I was ready for this day to be over.”

      The outskirts of Mustang Creek were in sight by then; the small regional hospital was on the far side of town, about ten minutes away. He wasn’t given to cop fantasies, but at that moment he wished for a light bar and a siren.

      “Another few seconds and your life might have been over.”

      “Thanks for that,” she retorted with a new briskness Mace found reassuring, despite the tartness of her tone. “I might not have figured that out on my own—how I could’ve been killed, I mean.”

      Keep her talking, he thought. If she’s pissed off, oh, well. At least she’s awake.

      Although she’d been slouching before, she suddenly sat bolt upright, making patting motions with her hands. “My purse,” she said, her voice fretful. “It’s still in the car.”

      Mace was always astonished by how dependent women were on their handbags, as if the things were a necessary part of their anatomy rather than an obvious burden. Something else to keep track of. “It isn’t going anywhere,” he said quietly and with a note of prudent caution.

      Her eyes were big with alarm when she turned to look at him, and patches of pink pulsed impatiently in her cheeks. “My entire life is in that bag!” she cried. “And it’s a Michael Kors, too.”

      A purse with a name, he thought, but he wasn’t stupid enough to offer up the quip when she was clearly riled. Keeping her awake was one thing; causing her to blow a brain-gasket was another.

      “I’ll make sure you get it back.”

      “Suppose it’s underwater? My phone—my wallet—do you know how much a designer bag costs? And what about my laptop? My clothes?”

      “I guess that’s a possibility,” Mace observed casually, “given the laws of gravity and everything.”

      “How can you be so calm?” she asked, fuming. Then she answered her own question. “I’ll tell you how. It isn’t your purse!”

      “You have me there,” he admitted, not unsympathetically. “I don’t own one, as it happens. Reckon if I did, though, I’d keep that fact