impatiently, her breasts rising and falling beneath the beaded décolletage of her dress. Sam grimaced and forced himself to concentrate on his task, aware that his hands were tingling like crazy where they’d come in contact with her. And that she was wearing the most incredible perfume—delicate, light, floral. Like a bouquet of West Virginia wildflowers, on the first brisk day of spring…
“Can you get it?” she asked impatiently after a moment, in a low, quivering voice that did even more to his ravaged senses.
“No,” Sam replied gruffly, making a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he struggled with both his rising awareness of her and his blithely assigned task. “Not like this, not without ripping your dress.” He dropped his hands regretfully and stepped back, aware that his pulse was pounding. And that his thoughts were not nearly as chaste or as gallant as they should be under the circumstances.
“Sorry,” he growled. He paused and slanted her a sympathetic look, able to imagine how aggravating it would be to be stuck in a wedding gown in a snowstorm. “Maybe when you get to a hotel…” he offered.
Their eyes met, and the color in her delicately sculpted cheeks deepened from a pale pink to a delicate rose. “Right.” She swallowed hard. “Of course. I’ll find someone—a woman—to help me there. Thanks just the same,” she said hurriedly. Frowning, she reached for the bundle of clothes on the bench, then stopped and, almost as an afterthought, paused to tug a pale gray bulky-knit fisherman’s sweater over her head.
Looking infinitely warmer, if a bit hilarious, with the full skirt of her wedding dress and long flowing train hanging from beneath the hem of her casual sweater, she gathered her belongings in one hand and swept up her skirt and train in the other.
Sam moved to hold the doors open for her as she swept regally toward the exit in another whisper-soft swish of satin, yards of fabric crumpled in one hand so that they wouldn’t drag along the snow covering the ground.
And suddenly Sam knew he couldn’t let it end there. “Let me help you to your car.” Aware that he hadn’t felt this gallant in a long time, Sam waited for her to pass, then strode with her out into the snow.
“Thanks, but it really isn’t necessary.” She tossed the words back over her shoulder, stomping determinedly past his black-and-white truck to her Volvo station wagon.
Sam saw that she was already shivering in the cold. “I insist,” he said. He followed her to the driver’s-side door of the car and waited for her to press the electronic door unlock button on her key chain. When it clicked, he stepped forward to open the car door for her.
“Thanks,” she murmured, bristling somewhat can-tankerously, still looking as if she would much rather have done it all herself.
“You’re welcome,” Sam replied.
Still a little mesmerized, he watched as she tossed her bundle of belongings into the backseat, then, hitching her skirts even higher, climbed in the driver’s seat. It took some doing, but finally she had pulled the gown above her knees and scrunched the fabric down enough to enable her to drive.
Sam tipped back the brim of his hat and regarded her cautiously. Though she had to be warmer with the sweater on, she couldn’t possibly be comfortable behind the wheel in that dress, no matter how she squished it down or spread it out. “You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, more sure than ever now that she was a runaway of some sort.
“I’ll be just fine, Officer. Thanks for the assistance.” The bride sent him a brisk, efficient smile that Sam decided was more dutiful than sincere, then shut her car door, put her key in the ignition and turned it, revving the engine.
Sam stepped back onto the curb as the motor rumbled to life with a powerful purr and the wipers moved steadily across the windshield. Out of habit, his glance lowered to the tags on the car.
A sticker on the trunk said the car had been purchased at a dealership in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The vanity license plate read NO1-DATR. Sam swiftly sounded it out and decided it was meant to read Number One Daughter. He wondered whether she had chosen the slogan herself or it was a gift from a parent or parents who found it impossible to let go.
Somehow, he found himself betting it was the latter. He felt a little sorry for the parents. Because, in his estimation, this was one runaway bride who was just aching to bust free. And maybe, he thought with a grin, recalling her statement about the wedding being called off, she already had broken out and started her run for freedom.
NORA HAD NEVER BEEN ONE to swoon over a man in a uniform, but there was no denying that the handsome stranger in the snow-dusted Stetson, starched khaki uniform and thick shearling coat had made an impression on her she wasn’t likely to forget. From the moment she laid eyes on his ruggedly handsome face, with its unutterably masculine features, she’d felt a peculiar electricity zigzagging through her. And that giddy awareness had only intensified when he blasted her with his boy-next-door smile.
She guessed him to be a couple years older than her own twenty-nine years. Like herself, she mused as she guided her car onto the freeway, he seemed to have a mind of his own. Plus, an easygoing nature, and the most compelling and understanding golden brown eyes she’d ever seen.
His chestnut-colored hair had been clean and soft and cut in short layers. It had also been rumpled by either his hands or the wind and creased by his hat.
His sturdy six-foot-three-inch—if her guess was right—frame had looked athletically fit, his shoulders broad enough for a woman to lean on, more than strong enough to serve and protect.
It was too bad he was a lawman, Nora thought. Had she spent any more time with him, he’d have been bound to ask her questions she did not want to answer.
Unfortunately, right now she had worse things to worry about as she upped the speed on her windshield wipers another notch. Like how and where she was going to weather the brunt of this storm.
All she had with her, she realized, as she spotted a tow-truck driver helping a motorist whose car had slid off the road, was a suitcase full of clothes meant for a ski vacation in Vermont in the trunk, her wedding gown, and the sweater, jeans and shirt she’d worn to the salon that morning to get her hair done. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her scarf and gloves—maybe back at the church—but she figured those could be easily replaced.
Thank goodness she had the traveler’s checks and cash she’d brought along for her honeymoon, Nora thought with relief, slowing down when she saw the Road Closed Ahead signs that prevented her from going any farther on the interstate. She didn’t want to use her credit cards; it would be too easy for her father to track her that way.
What she needed was to find a safe place to stay before the already slick roads became impassable. With that in mind, Nora headed down the exit ramp at a sedate speed. Knowing it would not be wise to stay somewhere directly off the interstate freeway, as those were the very first places her father would look for her, Nora bypassed two medium-size inns, four fast-food restaurants and a gas station, all congregated together, and headed for the major intersection up ahead. Once there, she paused at the directional signs marking the two-lane county road.
Clover Creek 30.
Pleasantville 15.
Nora had never vacationed in West Virginia and knew nothing about either town. Although, for some odd reason, the name Clover Creek did seem vaguely familiar. She searched her mind for what she knew, but could only recall someone—to her frustration, she had no idea who—once
