One

      She was a mess.

      Royce Wolfe clenched his teeth and gave another yank on the driver's-side door of the mangled sports car. A grunt of satisfaction vibrated his throat as the door popped open. The interior light flashed on. Pushing the door back, he stepped into the opening.

      The woman was slumped over the steering wheel, her face concealed by a mass of long, dark red hair. A frown of annoyed disapproval tugged at his brows and lips.

      She was not wearing the seat belt.

      Royce shook his head and reached inside, grimacing at the faint but unmistakable scent of alcohol. Booze and rain-slick roads were a deadly combination.

      Brushing the long tresses aside, he pressed his fingertips to her throat. The pulse was rapid, but strong.

      The deflated air bag, now draped limply over the wheel, had very likely saved her life.

      The woman moaned, and her eyelashes fluttered.

      “It's all right,” Royce said, giving her shoulder a comforting pat. “Help's on the way,” he assured her, catching the sound of sirens in the distance, swiftly approaching from opposite directions.

      “Wha-what hap—?” The woman blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut, in obvious pain.

      “You went off the road,” Royce said, answering her unfinished question. “Crashed into the guardrail.”

      And you were going like hell. Royce kept the disgusted observation to himself. The information would go into his report, but right now, she had enough to contend with.

      A drop of water fell from the wide brim of his hat and splashed onto her pale cheek. The woman flinched. Royce pulled back, away from the opening. Cold rain pattered on his hat and slicker.

      March. Where was spring?

      Royce shivered, and shifted his bleak gaze, first back the way he had come, then toward town. The wail of the sirens was louder, closer, as the vehicles converged, lights flashing atop the ambulance and police car.

      Well, at least it isn't snow, he thought, shooting a glance at the woman as the vehicles came to a screeching stop—the ambulance facing him, opposite the sports car, the other vehicle, Pennsylvania State Police emblazoned on its side, directly behind his own car.

      “She's alive,” Royce said to the paramedic who jumped from the driver's side.

      “What you got here, Sergeant?” the police officer asked, loping up to Royce.

      “Hi, Evans,” Royce said, acknowledging him. “Female, all alone,” he said, sending a spray of rainwater flying with a jerk of his head toward the car. “Shot out of Pine Tree Drive, back there.” Water ran in a narrow stream from the brim of his hat as he inclined his head to indicate the side road, less than a quarter of a mile back. “Cut right in front of me, doing at least seventy. She lost it almost at once. I had no sooner taken off after her in pursuit when she plowed into the rail.”

      “Drinking?” Evans asked, stepping closer to the sports car to give it the once-over.

      “I caught a whiff of alcohol.” Royce shrugged. “But I don't know if it was above the legal level.” He raised his voice to the two paramedics working to ease the woman from the car. “You guys come across a purse?”

      “Yeah,” the man who had entered the vehicle from the passenger side replied. “Just found it.” He handed it to the man outside, who passed it to Royce.

      “Thanks,” he muttered. “Can you tell if she's going to be all right?”

      “Can't see anything major from here,” the paramedic said. “Won't know for sure until we get her out of here and back to the hospital.”

      “Need the jaws?” Royce asked, referring to the jawlike apparatus used to pry mangled metal apart, commonly called the Jaws of Life.

      “Naw,” he said. “She's regaining consciousness, and if she can move to help, there's enough room for her to slide out from between the wheel and the seat.” The man ran a quick glance over the front of the car. “But I'm certain you're gonna need a wrecker for this heap.”

      “Yeah.” Royce shared the man's opinion.

      “I'll call for one, and get some flares set up,” Evans offered, turning away. He took two steps, then turned back, a frown drawing his brows together. “Didn't you go off duty at eleven, Sergeant?”

      “Supposed to,” Royce answered. “I stayed to finish some paperwork, left the barracks around eleven-thirty. I was on my way home when this lady cut out of the road in front of me.” While he was speaking, he kept an eye on the paramedics, monitoring their progress as they transferred the woman from the car to a gurney, then to the rear of the ambulance.

      “How's she doing?” he asked.

      “Okay,” one of the men answered. “She managed to slide out, but she's lost consciousness again.”

      A gust of wind blew rain under the wide brim of his hat and into his face. Royce shivered.

      “Why don't you go on home now?” Evans suggested. “I'll ask for assistance when I call for a wrecker, then I'll go on in to the hospital.”

      The rear ambulance door thunked shut. Royce started for his car, shaking his head. “Night like this, we need every man on the roads.” He opened the door, shucked out of his slicker, then slid behind the wheel. It felt good to get out of the stiff coat and the pouring rain. “You wait here for the wrecker,” he said, tossing the woman's purse and his hat onto the passenger's seat. “I'll follow the ambulance into town. I live only a couple of blocks away from the hospital. I'll go home after I've talked to the woman, and I'll file a report in the morning.”

      “Whatever you say, Sergeant.” Evans sketched a salute of thanks for being spared the chore of the extra paperwork, then strode to his car.

      Royce tailed the ambulance into the small town of Conifer, Pennsylvania, and pulled alongside the covered, brightly lit entrance to Conifer General Hospital's emergency unit, where the ambulance had parked.

      Having been alerted to expect an accident victim, a nurse and two orderlies were awaiting their arrival. Since Royce's assistance was