One Bride for Four Ranchers

Her expression brightens. “It’s actually coming along really well. You guys can read it before I send it to my editor if you want.”

“That’d be great,” Clay says. Then he raises an eyebrow at her. “If only to make sure you at least say some nice things about us.”

Jessa grins. “There might be a complimentary thing or two about you Hollister brothers in there.”

I grin, and Clay chuckles.

Clay and Jessa start talking more about the article while I do my best pay attention to driving instead of the sexy thing sitting next to me on the bench seat. But when we approach a big bend in the road, and I stamp on the brakes, nothing happens.

Shit.

“Everybody got their seatbelts on?” I ask with a growl. I know they do, but I have to be sure. I stamp on the brakes several more times and not a damn thing happens. We’re approaching the bend too fast, and I downshift, but it isn’t enough.

I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. Next to me, Clay and Jessa are asking what’s going on. I ignore them. Instead, I focus on aiming the truck toward a field instead of the bunch of trees lining the road. There’s a huge drop-off on the curb that I have to avoid, and I do, just barely saving us from dropping down several hundred feet into a ravine that is taken more than one life since this road was built. I miss the first tree and the second. But I can’t avoid the third.

Jessa screams, Clay shouts and throws an arm over her chest. I do the same, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough. The seatbelt digs into me as it does its job of holding me in place as we crash. The scream of bending metal and breaking glass cuts through the quiet day.

Steam and smoke are coming into the cab, and I blink a few times, trying

to catch my bearings.

“Get Jessa,” I mumble. Then more loudly, “Get Jessa out.” I look over, to yell at my brother again. But it’s no use. Clay and Jess are both unconscious I can see blood dripping down my brother’s temple, but I don’t see anything so obvious on Jessa. Shit. And with the way the truck is crunched up around us, I’m not even sure how to get her out.

I try to open my door, but it takes three strikes of my shoulder before it finally opens with a loud crunch. Clay’s truck isn’t coming back from this. But that’s the least of my worries right now.

I get out of the cab, and if I’m hurt, the adrenaline rushing through my veins keeps me from feeling it.

My cell phone. Hell, my brain isn’t working right and neither my fingers. Takes me two tries to get my cell phone out of my pocket, but the rush of adrenaline when I see it isn’t broken doesn’t help.

I call 911. I sound calm, at least myself. I tell the operator where we are and what happened. But I sure as hell don’t feel calm. The 911 operator wants me to stay on the line, but I need to get Jess and Clay out of the truck.

I know cars blowing up isn’t something that happens often—despite what movies would have us believe. But I’d still feel better getting both of them out of the vehicle. Clay’s side of the truck is too crushed for me to open the door but when I bang on the window, his head moves. A few bangs and screams later and he’s blinking at me and looking around him.

“Don’t shake her,” I yell at Clay through the glass when he touches Jessa’s shoulder. He turns back to me and gives me a glare that clearly asks if I’m an idiot. As I watch, he takes out his pocket knife and cuts himself free from his seatbelt. Then he rolls down his window just enough to slip through—it just won’t open any more than that—and I help him climb out.

Blood is still seeping from the wound on his head, but otherwise, he looks okay.

“Are you all right?” I ask, to make sure.

Clay nods and winces at the motion. He touches his head gingerly. “Going to have a hell of a headache, but I’m fine. Let’s get Jessa out of there.”

But Jessa is wedged in the truck, her legs trapped by metal that—thank, God—doesn’t seem to be actually crushing her legs. It’s just holding her in place. And neither of us can figure get way to get her out that doesn’t involve injuring her worse in the process. Somehow, in the thick of it, Clay thinks to call Joshua and Tyler. But before they can get there, emergency services finally arrive.

It’s a shit show, and they won’t let Clay and I anywhere near the truck while they work. Fear shoots through me as we watch them carefully extract her from the twisted metal of the truck. Clay and I are silent, but I feel like somebody is cutting out my damn heart. I turn to glance at Clay, and tears are streaming down his face while he watches Jessa. My gaze returns to her, and I touch my cheek. I’m crying, too, and I didn’t even notice.

Helpless, we watch and wait. And when they finally pull her out of the truck, and she moans, relief hits me. It’s so profound that the feeling almost knocks me to my knees.

At some point during the drama, a helicopter arrived—the hospital’s air unit. How fucking out of it was I that I didn’t even notice that?

We run after her, but a couple sheriff’s deputies stop us in our tracks.

“We have to go with her,” Clay shouts at the deputies.

“I’m sorry, sir. But that isn’t possible. You have to meet her at the hospital.”

“She’s carrying my fucking baby!” Clay shouts, his voice full of fear and panic.

The officer’s stony expression breaks, and he clasps Clay on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry, sir. But you still can’t ride with her. I suggest you go to get checked out by these paramedics to make sure you’re okay when she needs you. You’re still bleeding pretty good.”