Awol Bride. Victoria Pade

now she could see why. Built by Rickie’s great-great-grandfather, the place provided shelter but it was hardly a showpiece.

      The living room she was in featured rough-hewn log walls and a wood-planked floor, the old couch she was on and a scarred coffee table. Off to one side, the kitchen section was made up of a small utility table acting as an island counter and a few cupboards. There was also an old black-and-silver wood-burning stove in the corner, but that was it—no refrigerator, no other appliances at all.

      A doorway off the kitchen led somewhere she couldn’t see into, and another to Maicy’s left appeared to be a bedroom with a four-poster bed that looked old enough to have arrived by covered wagon.

      If there was a bathroom, she couldn’t see it from the sofa and she worried that the only facilities might be an outhouse.

      All in all, it was nothing like the cozy, quaint bridal suite at the Northbridge Bed-and-Breakfast, where she’d planned to spend tonight.

      Instead she was here. A runaway bride.

      What a mess this had all become...

      Rather than being at her wedding reception tonight, dancing and celebrating as Mrs. Gary Stern, she and Gary were over. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was stranded in a log cabin with yet another, earlier example of her lousy taste in men.

      “I keep thinking I’m making better choices than you did, Mom, but maybe I inherited some kind of faulty man-reader from you,” she muttered.

      There was no question that her mother had chosen poorly in Maicy’s father. At the first sign of any problem—big or small—John Clark had taken off. Disappeared, sometimes for a year or two at a time.

      Her mother had excused him, saying their shotgun marriage after her mother had discovered she was pregnant with Maicy had not been easy for him. Maicy hadn’t had much sympathy.

      To her, her father had been a drop-in houseguest whom her mother waited—and waited and waited—for. A man who never stayed long before he was gone again.

      And every time he left, her mother had sunk into dark depressions that lasted for months.

      Once, Maicy had asked why her mother didn’t divorce him and find someone who would be there for her. For them both.

      Her mother’s only answer had been that she loved the man.

      That had seemed silly to twelve-year-old Maicy.

      Until she’d fallen in love herself.

      With Conor.

      Sitting sideways on the sofa, she pulled her knees to her chest and huddled under the blanket, staring into the fire now, wondering where he’d gone.

      Conor was as unreliable as her father, she reminded herself. As untrustworthy.

      But Gary? She’d thought there was no risk with him.

      Steady, conservative, hometown Gary.

      Gary, who had been hurt as badly by love as she had.

      Gary, who she’d been convinced was predictable and safe...

      Oh yeah, she definitely had a faulty man-reader.

      She wasn’t sure if it made things better or worse that she hadn’t been wholeheartedly in love with Gary, the way she’d been with Conor. When she’d caught him today, she’d still been angry. Hurt. Embarrassed.

      But she was also secretly relieved.

      And now, sitting alone in the aftermath, she couldn’t help wondering why that was—because relieved was still how she felt.

      “I really need to talk to you, Rach,” she muttered, wishing she had her cell phone to call her friend.

      Everything was just such a mess...

      Pain shot through her gashed forehead just then, forcing her eyes closed until it passed.

      If the bleeding had stopped or at least slowed down, maybe she could finally take something for the pain.

      “Conor?” she called, hoping maybe he’d hear her from wherever he was—maybe there was a basement or a cellar or something...

      But still there was no answer.

      Where was he?

      It occurred to her suddenly that if he was outside in this storm, maybe something had happened to him.

      That sent a strong wave of alarm through her and she got up.

      Too fast.

      Her head went into such a spin that she fell back onto the sofa.

      “Okay, that wasn’t great,” she said out loud.

      She waited, took some deep breaths, tried to relax.

      The dizziness began to pass.

      But the worry that something might have happened to Conor didn’t. She had to see if he was okay.

      She got up again, this time much more carefully. She was definitely weak. Her knees felt as if they might give out.

      But she wasn’t going to let that happen. She did what she’d been doing since the day Conor had left her on her own—she willed herself to push through. Pain, weakness, fear, depression, whatever—she stood on her own two feet regardless!

      And now that she was on those two feet all she needed to do was go to the other side of the room. That was nothing, she told herself.

      She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a cape and clutched it in front with one hand. Keeping her other hand against the wall for support, she took careful steps, aiming for the other side of the room and the window over the kitchen sink. Hoping as she did that she wouldn’t discover Conor outside, hurt or incapacitated in some way. Because she was in no shape to rescue him.

      Along the way she reached the doorway off the kitchen and found that there was another small room with a door leading outside.

      The room appeared to be a catchall—a pantry stocked with food and a supply room where she saw snowshoes and a shovel and an ax among other things.

      Other things that didn’t include Conor.

      So she bypassed the room and finished the trip to the kitchen sink.

      When she got there she maintained her grip on the blanket with one hand and held on to the edge of the sink with the other.

      “Wow,” she said as she peered out the window at the storm. She’d seen some bad ones, but this topped the list.

      Just then the snow swirled away from the cabin and she caught sight of something moving to the left.

      She craned forward, looking hard through the window. There was definitely someone out there. Someone big. It had to be him. Maybe at a woodpile? Getting firewood made sense.

      Feeling relieved, she turned and slowly retraced her steps back to the couch as a slight shiver shook her. Even with her blanket cape, the blood-soaked wedding dress was not the warmest of attires.

      The sofa was a welcome respite when she got there again. Sitting at one end she pulled her knees up to her chest, tightened the blanket around herself so every inch was covered and returned to staring into the fire that was the only source of heat.

      Her short venture had used up the little oomph she’d had and she rested her head to the back of the sofa cushion, thinking that it was a good thing Conor didn’t need her help.

      And what kind of a weird practical joke was fate playing on her today, anyway? First Gary’s old flame dropped into his lap and now hers?

      She closed her eyes at that thought and made a face.

      She did not like the way things had gone with Conor so far. Most of all, she didn’t like that she’d lost control over her emotions. She hadn’t even realized she was still that angry with him. What had happened with him was ancient