reason for making Chet her minion on a new project.
Emma remembered she would need both hands on the wheel for the final turn. Only idiots blew down this canyon.
No way would her grandmother actually allow herself to fall ill. Not with her riding herd over the upcoming Jamboree in July. When God created Naomi Chambers, He had given her a double shot of stamina, and on the way out, she had snatched another.
Recognizing a familiar landmark, Emma shifted down for the descent. No one else on the road at this hour. Though Memorial Day weekend, travelers would be up and at it quick tomorrow; the early birds were already in their RVs for the night, parked at the local campgrounds, ready for the kick-off of the town’s summer season.
The Omni’s headlights swept left and right, with Emma letting the engine hold the car back. Biting her lip, she tapped the brake around another curve, readying for the last one.
She recalled smelling tourists’ and semitrailer brakes burning clear through to the center of town, coming from this canyon. Others, who thought they knew better than to slow down, rode with the tow truck or in an ambulance. The slow signs meant slow.
After she downshifted to first for the final blind corner and hairpin turn, she lowered the window; cool canyon air poured in. Here came the turn. She tapped her brakes. What was that ahead? When her headlights illuminated a blue sedan, she squinted. Off into the dark, up against an outcropping of rock spray-painted every year by graduating high school students, was a car lying on its side, steam pouring out from the hood, which was bent at many angles. Emma hit the brakes.
Pulling carefully to a stop at the side of the road along faint double tracks, she eyed the car, heart rate ramping. Yanking up her parking brake, she prayed it would hold on the steep downgrade, shut off the car and regretted that she couldn’t use her cell phone. Everyone in Heaven knew precisely where the lack of signal coverage ended for cell phones, and she wasn’t anywhere near it.
Please don’t be dead. Chastising her short height once again, she ran toward the car, looking around for something to stand on to see into it. Stepping onto a large flat rock that was close—yet not close enough to be really useful—she flung herself toward the car door, hanging on by her fingertips. Now what, genius? She couldn’t go back and she couldn’t let go, so she stretched up and peered into the sedan. She could see him now, see the blue collar of a shirt, a man’s head against the seat. He was blond, he was bloody and he wasn’t moving.
Do something. What?
The figure stirred as her fingers cramped from clutching the car’s side. Any minute now she was going to have to fling herself backward to avoid falling under the car.
His eyes opened, and despite the blood seeping down from a cut on his forehead, she couldn’t help noticing the dark blue eyes. Eyes staring right at her. Eyes with—deep questions? Don’t be dumb, Emma. He has a question as to what happened, not some complicated existential need.
“You’re beautiful—an angel? Am I dead?” he asked, then groaned and put a hand to his head. “My head.”
That struck her as funny—both the beautiful comment and that he actually did have questions—and she giggled, albeit a trifle hysterically. “No, you’re in Bigelow Canyon. The last turn. We call it The Last Nasty.”
“Nasty. Sure. About...how...my luck has been going.” He squeezed out the words.
Her aching fingers reminded her that she needed to change positions. Bending her knees slightly, she edged to the rim of the rock on which she teetered, and then shoved off the car. Back she fell, rear end hitting the ground first. She rolled to the side quickly and stood up, legs shaking. Dramatic rescues had not been part of the itinerary for the England trip, nor were they a common occurrence in her life.
The car door squeaked and then swung open with a metallic groan. The bloody, blue-eyed guy gazed at her and took in the surrounding area with a fuzzy frown.
She stared up at him. Even bloodied he was a jaw dropper. Blond hair sticking out all over, strong cheekbones that rose above a carved chin. Those eyes. Those questions.
“I think we’re both in trouble,” he mumbled, and dragged himself toward the open car door.
WHAT HAD THE angel girl just asked him? Thunderbolts banged around in Sparks’s head. The dampness and sting on his chin told him he’d have a souvenir of the Compact Car Crunch.
“I said, do you think you have a concussion?”
Minutes before, he’d started a slow pitch out of the car. Somehow—perhaps he’d recall later—she’d grabbed his long legs at the same moment he’d pushed off from the frame. It took him a few moments to realize he’d landed on his rescuer. She uttered gasping, grunting sounds from underneath him.
After he’d rolled off her, they’d both regained their breath, and she’d lugged his two suitcases out of the trunk and into her car. He focused on standing upright and making his legs move toward it, only to collapse onto the passenger seat. Oh, was his head throbbing.
She’d steered out onto the road, and they were on their way. Angel girl, Sparks thought. Short, dark haired and curvy in beige capris and a light-colored knit shirt, she was the prettiest part of the trip so far. And the prettiest thing to ever save him. Now, what was her name? It wasn’t like him to miss getting a name.
In the light of the dashboard, the skin over her knuckles was stretched taut, he noticed. Although in the midst of the rescue she’d kept saying, “What do I do? What do I do?” She’d been great.
He winced at the virtual bombs exploding in his head. “I’ve had concussions. This isn’t one.”
No response, yet her eyes widened at his comment.
“I’m kind of used to emergencies.” It would take more than a car crash to prevent Sparks Turner from getting a pretty girl to relax. She had a smudge of dirt on the cheek facing him. He raised his hand to wipe it off. She shrunk back. The car swerved.
“Man moratorium!” Her voice squeaked on the last part of moratorium.
He must have landed on her harder than he’d thought. “Did you hit your head?”
She ignored his question. “Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should take you to Regional for that cut on your chin. I’m...I’m headed in that direction.” Her voice sounded decidedly nervous.
He blamed himself for scaring her. Of course, taking a strange, bloody guy into your car was a risk. “No, ma’am. I’m a former smoke jumper and I’ve taken some pretty good bangs to the head before. I appreciate it, but a ride to the Safari Motel is good enough for me.”
Silence.
The knock on his head had opened a memory he’d slammed the door on five years ago. The tragedy that had driven him from a once-loved occupation and a part of his life that he was trying to forget.
A few more miles passed by, and the road flattened a bit before another plunge. She gestured to the left. “You can’t see much at night, but that’s the lake down there. Route 12 is Main Street.” So this was Heaven, his borrowed hometown for the summer.
