yanked her down out of sight, just before the group of reporters turned their curious gazes to his pickup. Luckily his truck sat high up off the ground, so no one could see much unless they were standing right next to it.
“What are you doing?” she protested, struggling.
“Those reporters don’t know you’re in here, and I don’t want to be named in your tabloid drama. Stay down and don’t get up until I tell you to.”
His jaw tensed as he stuffed the white fluff beneath the dash. He was caught up in this mess whether he wanted to be or not.
Her struggles ceased. He fired up the truck and threw it in Reverse. Mustering some restraint, he eased down on the accelerator. Damn. He didn’t want to be the driver for this bride’s getaway, but what choice did he have?
He knew all about reporters—they were like a pack of starving wolves, just waiting for a juicy story. For their purposes he’d be “the other man.” Scandals always made good sales—it didn’t matter if you were an innocent bystander or not. In the court of public opinion, when your face hit the front page you were crucified. He should know.
Cash pulled his cowboy hat low, hoping no one would recognize him. He didn’t want to draw the attention of the reporters who were searching behind rocks, shrubs and cars. There would be no quick getaway. Slow and steady.
When the bride once again attempted to sit up, he placed his hand on the back of her head.
“Hey, you!” a young reporter, standing a few yards away, shouted through the open window.
Cash’s chest tightened as he pulled to a stop. “Yeah?”
“Did you see which way the bride ran?”
“She ran around back. Think there was a car waiting for her.”
The reporter waved and took off. Cash eased off the brake and rolled toward the exit. He hadn’t had a rush of adrenaline like this since his last showdown with a determined steer.
“What’d you say that for? You’re making things worse,” the bride protested, starting to sit up.
He pressed the side of her face back down. “Stay down or I’ll dump you in this parking lot and let those hungry reporters have you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” He was in no mood to play around with some woman who didn’t know what she wanted.
Now he needed to get rid of this bundle of frills so his life could return to its peaceful routine.
Before he could ask where she wanted to be dropped off she started to wiggle, bumping the steering wheel.
“Watch it.” He steadied the wheel with both hands. “What are you doing down there?”
“Trying to get comfortable, but I think it’s impossible. Are we away from the church yet?”
“Just approaching the parking lot exit, but don’t get any ideas of sitting up until we’re out of town. I’m not about to have people tracking me down and bothering me with a bunch of questions I can’t answer.”
“Thanks for being so sympathetic,” she muttered.
He slowed down at the exit, checking for traffic before merging. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to hijack my truck.”
“I didn’t have any other choice.”
“Get cold feet?”
“No…yes. It’s complicated.” She squirmed some more. “I don’t feel so good. Can I sit up yet?”
“No.”
The rush of air through the open windows picked up the spicy, citrusy scent of the colorful bouquet she was still clutching. A part of him felt bad for her. He’d heard about how women got excited about their wedding day and, though he personally couldn’t relate, he knew what it was to have a special moment ruined, like getting penalized after a winning rodeo ride.
He checked the rearview mirror. No one had followed him out of the parking lot. He let out a deep breath. So far, so good.
He tightened his fingers around the steering wheel, resisting the urge to run a soothing hand over her back. “Where am I taking you?”
“I…I don’t know. I can’t go back to my apartment. They’ll be sure to find me.”
“You’re on the run?” He should have figured this was more than just a case of cold feet. “And what was up with the reporters?”
“My boss thought the wedding would be a good source of free publicity for my television show.”
“You certainly will get publicity. Runaway Bride Disappears Without a Trace.”
She groaned. Her hand pressed against his leg. The heat of her touch radiated through the denim. A lot of time had passed since a woman had touched him—back before his accident.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose at this point we should introduce ourselves. I’m Cash Sullivan.”
He waited, wondering if there would be a moment of recognition. After all, he hadn’t retired from the rodeo circuit all that long ago.
“Meghan Finnegan.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued, “I’m the Jiffy Cook on TV, and the reason those men are armed with cameras is to see this hometown girl marry a millionaire.”
Nothing in her voice or mannerisms gave the slightest hint that she’d recognized his name. Cash assured himself it was for the best. His name wasn’t always associated with the prestige of his rodeo wins—sometimes it was connected with things he’d rather forget. Still, he couldn’t ignore the deflating prick of disappointment.
“I don’t watch television,” he said, gruffer than intended. “Okay, we’re out of Lomas and this road doesn’t have much traffic.”
When she didn’t say anything, he glanced over. Her complexion had gone ghostly pale, making her pink glossy lips stand out. “You feeling okay?”
“No.” Her hand pressed to her stomach. “Pull over. Now.”
He threw on his right-turn signal and pulled to a stop in a barren stretch of desert. Meg barreled out of the vehicle, leaving the door ajar. She rushed over to a large rock and hunched over. So this was what she’d been doing when she ran out of the church. Must be a huge case of nerves.
He grabbed some napkins from his glove compartment and a bottle of unopened water. It was tepid, but it’d be better than nothing. He exited the truck and followed her. He wasn’t good with women—especially not ones who were upset and sick.
“Um…I can hold this for you.” He reached for the lengthy veil.
He didn’t know if he should try talking to her to calm her down or attempt to rub her back. He didn’t want to make things worse. Unsure what to do, he stood there quietly until her stomach settled. Then he handed over the meager supplies.
“You
