Awol Bride. Victoria Pade
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to make those last fifteen miles.
Luckily he wasn’t far from a cabin owned by the family of an old friend. When he noticed his patchy cell service was working for the moment, he’d called Rickie Dale to find out if the cabin was still standing and if he could use it.
Thankfully, the answer to both of those questions had been yes.
Just before he reached the turnoff, he saw the first car he’d seen in the last hour—nose-first in a ditch.
The sedan’s horn was blaring and the driver’s side door was ajar so the dome light was on. In the dim glow he could see that the driver was still in the car, slumped over the steering wheel.
As a doctor, his duty was clear. He came to a slippery stop and ran against the wind to the other vehicle.
The driver was a woman. In a sleeveless wedding dress without so much as a coat on over it. There was an abundance of blood from a head wound, likely the result of hitting the windshield since—for some unknown reason—the airbag hadn’t activated.
She didn’t react to him opening her door. He couldn’t even tell if she was breathing. So the first thing he did was check for a pulse, grateful to note that it was strong. She might be unconscious, but she was alive.
“Miss!” he shouted to be heard over the howling wind. “Can you hear me?”
She didn’t so much as moan.
But Conor was a doctor of emergency and trauma medicine and a commander in the United States Navy, trained to work in the field. He knew what to do.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it firmly around her neck to stabilize it. Then, keeping her head and neck aligned, he eased her back against the seat.
She had a massive amount of hair and much of it had fallen forward into her face, heavily coated in blood. Still, something about her struck him as familiar. But nothing concrete clicked for him, with his focus on her condition. Right now, all that mattered was getting her out of this cold.
He dashed back to his SUV and opened the passenger door, lowering that seat so it was as flat as it would go. Then he ran back to the sedan. With special care to keep her head and neck supported, he eased her from behind the steering wheel into his arms, took her to the SUV and laid her on the passenger seat.
Conor reached across her to crank up the heat, closed that door, ran back to the sedan to turn it off, lock it and pocket the keys before he rushed back behind the wheel of his own vehicle and put it into gear again.
It was a little less than a mile to the cabin. But already the dirt drive was covered in snow and drifts. The only thing Conor could do was go slow enough to feel that his tires were in the wheel ruts, letting them guide him. And hoping like hell that he’d opted for the right road and was headed toward shelter.
Just as he was beginning to doubt it, he caught sight of the small log cabin in the clearing of trees.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he drove the SUV up to the cabin’s front porch and stopped. Leaving the engine—and the heat—running for his passenger, he made his way onto the porch and found the key in Rickie’s hiding spot. He unlocked the door and entered with a mental thank-you to whoever had used the cabin last and left wood and tinder in the fireplace, ready to be lit.
If only he could find matches.
Matches. Matches. Matches...
After a moment of searching, he finally found a box of stick matches near a bucket of wood to the side of the hearth.
With a fire going, he returned to the SUV and carefully removed his passenger.
Inside with her, he laid her on the floor in front of the fire, letting the hard wooden surface act as the backboard he would have used had he had one.
She was breathing without any problems—that was good.
As he covered her with a blanket from the worn sofa nearby, the woman groaned.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Come on, come to...”
But when she didn’t stir again, he ran outside to turn off the SUV and then returned to survey the territory.
With the exception of shelter, the cabin didn’t likely offer much in terms of medical tools or supplies. Rickie had assured him that there was plenty of bottled water so Conor went in search of that, a cloth of some sort to clean the wound as best he could and a first-aid kit.
Returning to his patient—who was moaning again—he saw that bleeding from her head wound was increasing as she warmed up.
Working fast, he dampened the cloth with the bottled water and cleaned the wound.
“Can you wake up for me?” he urged. “Come on, open your eyes...”
More moaning but her eyes remained closed.
The wound was a clean cut free of debris. It could have used a couple of stitches but he had to settle for three butterfly bandages covered with a compression wrap.
Then he wet the cloth again to clean her face and get the hair away from it. The more he saw of her, the more he was struck by that sense of familiarity.
Her hair was thick and lush and the color of a new penny—he hadn’t registered that before but now he did.
Red hair.
Maicy had had hair like that...
Just as that thought struck him, the woman opened her emerald green eyes.
Conor reared back and froze.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
No, it couldn’t be. It just wasn’t possible for the woman coming to on the floor in front of him to be the girl he’d left behind.
And yet the more closely he looked at her, the more he knew it was...
* * *
Everything was hazy. Maicy’s mind, her senses, were slowly fading in from darkness. She could hear a voice but she couldn’t quite make out words. And she felt too heavy to move.
Her head hurt. And she was lying on something hard.
Why would that be?
She remembered that she’d been in her car...
And it had been cold. So cold.
And then, too, there was that voice. A man.
She faded in a little more and blinked open her eyes. Her vision was blurry, and the light seemed dim. There was a man there...
“Good girl! Come on, wake up.”
This time she heard the words.
But she still couldn’t quite focus her eyes. And she was so disoriented that for a minute the sound of the man’s voice actually made her think of Conor Madison. As if that made any sense...
“Can you tell me your name?” the man asked.
Definitely not Conor Madison, then—he would know her.
“Maicy,” she managed.
“How about your last name, Maicy?”
“Clark,” she muttered.
She heard him say, “Holy...” under his breath before shifting back into a calm, professional tone to ask, “Can you tell me what year it is?”
“A new year. January...” The date rolled off her tongue.
But maybe that wasn’t the right date. Maybe she only said it out of habit. She’d given that particular date a million times in the last few months while planning the wedding.
The wedding...
“How old are you?” the man asked.
These questions were dumb. “Old enough,” she said peevishly.