The Getaway Bride

A beat-up truck sped past without slowing. A moment later a family sedan passed. The elderly couple inside it stared at her, but didn’t stop. She didn’t blame them. They were living in a crazy, dangerous world.

She was walking proof of that.

Walking was exactly what she should be doing, she decided with a sigh. She couldn’t sit here indefinitely, waiting for her car to suddenly decide to run again. She had to do something.

Although she knew nothing about engines, she reached beneath the dash and pulled the latch to open the hood. Maybe it would be something obvious even to her, she thought without much hope. A disconnected battery cable or a broken belt or something.

She slid out of the car and walked around to peer under the hood. It was a cool spring morning, and she shivered a bit as she leaned over and peered cautiously at the tangle of machinery. It took her only a moment to decide that whatever was wrong was not something visible to her untrained eyes.

A blue van slowed and pulled over to the side of the road in front of her car. Page tensed as a slender man climbed out and started toward her. His face was shaded by a large black Western hat and mirrored sunglasses. His clothing reinforced the cowboy-wannabe image—a brightly colored, Western-cut shirt and snug-fitting jeans over pointy-toed boots.

He looked innocuous enough, but she no longer accepted anyone at face value.

“Trouble, ma’am?” he asked in a low-pitched drawl.

She nodded, stepping to one side of her car, far enough away from him to make a run for it, if necessary. “It just died without any warning.”

“I know a fair bit about cars. Maybe I can get her goin’ for you.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she murmured, trying to see his face beneath the brim of the hat.

There was something vaguely familiar about him, but nothing she could put a finger on. Yet he seemed more interested in her recalcitrant car engine than in her. He hardly gave her a second glance before ducking beneath the open hood.

She risked taking a step closer. “Can you see anything wrong?”

“Yep. Think I’ve found it.” He reached in and twisted something, grunting with the effort. “Hell. I’m gonna’ need my tools. You want to hand ’em to me, ma’am? There’s a red toolbox just inside the side door of the van.”

Page was becoming wryly amused at his manner. He must be younger than she’d thought at first glance, she decided as she opened the side door of the van. She wasn’t even thirty yet and he’d been treating her like an aging aunt.

The van, which looked new, was empty except for a couple of soft drink cans and a small red metal box sitting behind the front passenger seat. Page lifted the toolbox and carried it to the man whose blue-jeaned backside was sticking out from beneath her hood.

“Thanks,” he said without looking at her. He set the toolbox on the car engine, rummaged inside it, and pulled something out.

“I need you to give me a hand here, if you don’t mind,” he requested over his shoulder.

She moved closer, ducking under the hood. “I don’t know anything about cars,” she admitted. “What can I do?”

“Hold this wrench,” he instructed, guiding her hand to a small silver tool he’d clamped to a connector of some sort. “Don’t let it slip, now.”

“I won’t.” She clung tightly to the wrench, hoping she’d be back on the road soon, thanks to this helpful cowboy mechanic.

“Thank ya’, ma’am. You’ve made this real easy for me.”

Something sharp jabbed into the soft inside of her outstretched arm. Page yelped in startled pain and let go of the wrench. “What—”

The man’s arm went around her waist. She could tell immediately that he was stronger than he’d first appeared. “There’s no reason to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her, his Southwestern drawl gone now.

Stunned into immobility, she stared fully into the face beneath the shadow of the Western hat for the first time, and mentally removed the concealing sunglasses.

“Blake,” she whispered, a sick feeling gathering in her stomach as she recognized him. “Blake Jones.”

“Well, that’s half right,” he murmured, his arm tightening around her when she began to struggle. “Settle down, Paula—er, Page. You don’t want to fall and hurt yourself.”

Her head was spinning, and her vision was beginning to blur. “What did you do to me?” she whispered, the words difficult to force out through her tightened throat. “What are you—”

Her knees buckled.

He supported her gently. “Easy, now.”