in a deep breath and pushed open the truck door. She walked over to him and was grateful when he didn’t just sort of duck and run for cover. He undoubtedly considered her a menace. “I’m sorry about your car,” she offered. It came out more tentative than she’d have liked, but then, so much about her did. What was one more instance to add to a lifetime of them? “Have you had it a long time?”
“Long enough.” His voice was surprisingly neutral, given the circumstances.
“Indiana,” she murmured, spying the license plate on his car. “Where were you heading?”
“Why?” His gaze sliced her way.
She lifted her shoulders, hugging her arms to herself. “Most people come through Lucius on their way to somewhere else. We’re barely a bump in the road.” Maybe that was a slight understatement. Lucius had its own hospital, its own schools and three different churches. There was also a fairly decent crop of restaurants and even a movie theater, complete with four screens. “I, um, have a cell phone if you need to call anyone.” He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but that didn’t have to mean anything.
And why she was noticing his ring finger she had no idea. Hadn’t she spent ten minutes that day already railing at Stu that she was not looking for a husband?
His lips twisted a little. She thought he almost looked amused. Almost. “No, thanks.”
Which didn’t exactly say that he’d had no one to call.
She shifted. Pushed her fingers into the pockets of her jacket. Freddie had climbed up on the back of the tow truck and was guiding the chains in some complicated fashion as her brother controlled a lever. The car creaked and moaned as it was pulled upward onto the slanted ramp. She winced a little and looked up at the man again. “Does your head hurt very badly?”
“Not as much as the car hurts.” As if he couldn’t stand to look at it any longer, he turned his attention to her pickup, where a good portion of candy-apple red from his car was decorating the side of her truck. It was the brightest color on what was otherwise pretty indeterminate.
“Is Palmer going to take you in to the hospital?”
“No.”
She was surprised. “Palmer’s a great EMT. The best. So’s Noah. But you should probably still see a doctor about your head.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Are you sure? I thought head injuries were tricky. What if you have a concussion or something?”
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
He didn’t sound as if he were used to being questioned, and she bit back more comments.
Shane had clearly finished looking at whatever he’d figured needing looking at and was heading toward them again. He held out his clipboard to the driver. “Fill that out. I’ll need to see your license, too.”
The man didn’t take the clipboard. “We can settle this matter without all that.” His voice brooked no disagreement, and Hadley mentally sat back a little, curious to see how her brother, I-am-sheriff-hear-meroar, reacted.
“Some reason you don’t want to file an accident report?” Shane’s voice had turned that silky way it did whenever he was really displeased. He knew where Hadley’s distaste for accident reports came from, she knew. But a stranger wouldn’t be accorded a similar understanding.
Nevertheless, the driver looked unfazed, despite the gauze and tape covering half of his forehead. “Just the time it all takes,” he said. “Neither one of us is hurt and we both agree to pay for our own damages.”
Hadley made an involuntary sound, looking pointedly at his forehead. The truth was, they hadn’t agreed to anything.
“My sister pulls out in front of you, and you’re willing to cover the damages on your own car.” Shane’s gaze shifted to the vehicle in question that was now secured atop the flatbed of the tow truck.
“That’s a ’68 Shelby.”
The driver’s expression didn’t change. “I was going too fast. We’re both culpable.”
Shane sighed a little. Settled his snow-dusted cowboy hat on his head a little more squarely. “I can measure the skid marks,” he said, all conversational-like. “To prove the point. But we both know what I’m gonna find.” His smile was cool. “You weren’t speeding. So that just leaves me a mite curious as to why you’re in a such a hurry to go no place.”
“I have business to attend to.” The driver still seemed unfazed, and Hadley had to admire him for it. Not many people could stand their ground against that particular smile of Shane Golightly’s. Even Stu, Shane’s twin, had been known to back down in the face of it.
If the man wanted to claim a share of responsibility in the accident, who was she to argue? After all, she didn’t particularly want that report filed, either.
Shane appeared to be considering the driver’s smooth explanation. “Well. The registration is in order.” He tapped a folded piece of paper that was still in his possession. “Let’s just look at your license for now. Then we’ll see.”
The driver’s expression didn’t change one whit. “I don’t have it on me.”
Oh, dear. Hadley looked down at her boots, scuffling them a little in the skiff of snow.
“Well, that’s kind of a problem now, isn’t it?” Shane’s voice was pleasant.
She closed her eyes. Shane never sounded that pleasant unless he was completely and totally peeved.
The driver didn’t look like a car thief. Not that she necessarily knew what car thieves looked like. But if she were going to write one into one of her stories, she wouldn’t have given him thick, chestnut-colored hair and vivid blue eyes with a rear end that was world class. She’d have given him piercings and tattoos and slick grease in his hair, and he definitely wouldn’t be the hero—
She jerked her thoughts back to front and center. “Shane,” she said in that dreaded, tentative voice of hers. “You don’t have to give him the third-degree, surely. Mister, um—” she glanced up at the driver and simply lost her train of thought when his gaze found hers and held.
“Wood,” he said.
Dear Lord, please don’t let him be a car thief. He’s just too pretty for that. “Pardon me?”
“Wood,” he said again. “Tolliver. Atwood, actually, but nobody calls me that.” The corner of his lips twisted. “Not if they want me to answer.”
There was a molasses quality in his deep voice, she realized. Faint, but definitely Southern. And it was about as fine to listen to as her dad’s singing every Sunday morning. When she was alive, her mother’s voice had possessed a similar drawl.
With a start she realized she was staring at him.
Again. It was even more of a start to find that he was staring at her right back. Her skin prickled again, and it was not at all unpleasant.
“Well, Atwood
