held her close, pulled tight against his coat.
And he started walking.
She tried to struggle, to force him to loosen his grip. But it was as if his arms were bands of iron. And her arms and legs felt heavy, useless.
She was dying. She knew it.
She closed her eyes and waited for it.
She felt him shift her weight. Suddenly, she was standing. She needed to run. Go. Now.
So tired.
Took one step. Saw the vehicle. Saw the door that he’d just opened.
“Get in,” he said.
When she didn’t move, he scooped her up again and deposited her into the warm, the heavenly warm, SUV. He shut the door. Within seconds he was climbing into the driver’s side.
He was big and snow-covered and for one crazy minute, she could only think of the Abominable Snowman. But then he was moving, reaching a long arm into the backseat. She heard the sound of a zipper.
He had a big gray T-shirt in his hand. Suddenly, he was rubbing her face, her arms, brushing snow off. It was piling up on the floor, by her feet. He flipped the heater on high and more of the delicious heat poured from the vents.
His hands stilled suddenly. She looked down. He was staring at her left wrist. Saw his gaze move swiftly to her right arm. She looked, too. They matched. Both wrists sported a wide reddish band of skin.
And she remembered pulling, pulling with all her might. And being so angry.
“What happened here?” he asked, his words sharp.
She didn’t answer. Just stared at him.
He hesitated, then reached into the backseat again. Pulled out another T-shirt, this one white and long-sleeved, and some gray sweatpants. “We’ve got to get you out of that wet dress,” he said.
What?
She looked down. Saw what she was wearing and felt her heart start to race in her cold body.
How had this happened?
“Are you injured?” he asked.
Huh? He had evidently easily gotten past that she was wearing a wedding gown but she was having trouble moving on.
A wedding gown. She lifted her hand, touched the satin fabric, noting, rather dispassionately, that it was dirty in several places. Her hand started to tremble.
The man reached his own hand out, caught her fingers. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“Cold,” she said. She had been. For sure. But that wasn’t why she was shaking. Her body felt odd. As if she was on edge, just this close to spiraling out of control. At the same time, she felt nauseous, as if maybe she’d drunk too much and gotten too little sleep.
She turned her head to look at him. To try to offer up some sort of explanation.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his cadence quick. “I didn’t see that earlier.” He leaned toward her and, with surprisingly gentle hands, prodded the right side of her head, just above her ear, with the tips of his fingers. She heard him hiss.
“You’ve got a hell of a knot here,” he said. “But just a small slice in the skin. It’s already stopped bleeding.”
She reached up. Their hands connected and she could feel his barely contained energy. His skin was warm. Vibrant.
He pulled his hand away. She continued to press and realized there was something on her head. A veil. Pinned tight into her hair.
She started yanking bobby pins and tossing them onto the floor. One bounced off the dash. She pulled and pulled. When the veil was loose, she ripped it off her head.
The man was staring at her, his hazel eyes assessing.
She reached up, pulled down the visor and stared into the mirror. Terror seized her, making her want to throw up.
Think. You need to think.
But it was as if all coherent thoughts had deserted her.
She started to shake. Badly. Not just her fingers or her hands. Her whole body.
And the man moved suddenly. Using both hands, he pulled the dry T-shirt over her head, stuffed both arms in. Pushed her forward in the seat, so that he could reach around her back. She felt him release the zipper of the dress. Felt him unclasp her bra.
Then he was pulling down her dress, her strapless bra, and lowering the T-shirt at the same time, preserving her modesty. His touch was quick, impersonal, but she felt the intimacy of it. She shook his hands off.
If she didn’t do this, he would.
She pulled the T-shirt down. It came to her thighs. Then she yanked on the wet, heavy wedding dress. When she had it off, she handed it to him. He tossed it into the backseat. She pulled on the sweatpants, cinching the tie strings as tight as she could. When he handed her thick white socks, she put those on, too. She was drowning in his clothes but it felt absolutely wonderful to be warm and dry.
“I’m not sure where the nearest hospital is,” he said, “but I think our safest bet is to head back to the Interstate.”
Hospital? She grabbed his arm. “No.”
He stared at her. “What the hell is going on here?”
She had no idea. All she knew was that she couldn’t go to a hospital. Couldn’t go anywhere.
They would find her.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t trust this man with the truth.
He waited.
“What’s your name?” he asked again.
“Mary. Mary Smith.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t think so.”
She said nothing.
“How about I just call you...” He paused. Then looked forward, into the blowing snow. “Stormy,” he finished. “That’ll do.”
“What’s your name?” she asked quickly, desperately trying to shift his focus.
He seemed to hesitate for just a moment. “Cal. Cal Hollister.” He put the car in gear, pulled back onto the highway and started driving.
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer her.
He was taking her to the hospital. She just knew it. She had to get away. She reached for the door latch.
He was faster, stretching his arm
