Garrett Bravo's Runaway Bride. Christine Rimmer
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streaked with mud. And her bare feet? As battered as the rest of her.
“My God,” he croaked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She blew a tangled hank of blond hair out of her good eye and shrugged. “Well, I’ve been better.”
How could she be so calm? Had her groom gotten violent? If so, the man deserved a taste of his own damn medicine—and speaking of medicine, she needed a doctor. He should call for an ambulance, stat. He dropped his hot-dog stick on top of the ice chest by his chair and dug in a pocket for his phone.
But the phone wasn’t there. Because he’d left it in the cabin. Up here on the mountain, cell reception was nil.
Garrett let out a long string of bad words and then demanded, “Who did this to you?”
The bride remained unconcerned. She hitched a thumb back over her shoulder. “Little accident back down the road a ways.”
“Your groom...?”
“Oh, he’s still in Denver. Some stranger ran me off the road.” As he tried to process that bit of news, she added, “Camilla Lockwood. But please call me Cami.” She offered a scratched, dirty hand.
Numbly, he took it. It felt cool and soft in his grip. And real. She was definitely real. “Garrett. Garrett Bravo.”
“Good to meet you.” A frown tightened the skin between her eyes. “You okay, Garrett? You look a little pale.”
He looked pale? “How will I call you an ambulance when my phone doesn’t work?”
“You won’t.” She reached up, clasped his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s fine, really. I don’t need a doctor.”
“But—”
“Take my word for it, I would know. You think this looks bad?” She indicated her body with graceful sweeps of both hands. “I’ve been through worse. Lots worse—and who’s this?” She dropped to a crouch, her giant dress belling out around her, and held out a hand to his dog. Munch made a questioning sound. “Come on, sweetie pie,” she coaxed. When Garrett made no objections, Munch let out a happy little bark and scuttled right over. “Oh, aren’t you the cutest boy?” She scratched his ears, rubbed his spotted coat—and glanced up at Garrett with a beaming smile. “Beautiful dog. Such pretty markings.” Garrett dipped to her level, took her arm and pulled her to her feet again. “Hey!” She tried to jerk free. “Ease up.”
“We need to get you down the mountain.”
“No, we don’t.”
Ignoring her protests, he started pulling her toward his Jeep Wrangler Rubicon on the far side of the cabin.
“Garrett. Stop, I mean it.” She dug in her heels.
“Camilla, come on now.”
“I said, call me Cami. And no. Just no. I’m not going anywhere.” As she whipped her arm free of his grasp, he debated the advisability of scooping her up and carrying her bodily to the Jeep. But even with all the scratches and bruises, she seemed to have a lot of fight left in her. And say he did manage to get her over there and into the SUV. How would he convince her to stay put while he ran into the cabin for the keys?
Maybe he could reason with her. “You need a doctor. I only want to take you down the mountain to Justice Creek General.”
“No means no, Garrett.” She braced her hands on her hips and narrowed her one working eye to a slit. “And I have clearly said no.”
So much for reason. “Will you at least sit down? Rest for a minute?”
She flipped that same tangled hank of hair off her forehead. “Sure.”
Before she could change her mind, he caught her elbow and dragged her over to his chair. “Here. Sit.” She dropped to the chair with a large huff of breath, her big dress poofing out as she landed, then quickly deflating. Slowly and gently, he explained, “Relax, okay? I’m just going to go into the cabin and get the first aid kit.”
“First aid can wait.”
“But—”
“Please, Garrett.” She picked a twig from her hair and tossed it over her shoulder. “I need water. My tongue’s just a dried-up old piece of leather in my mouth, you know?”
That tongue of hers seemed to be working pretty well to him. But yeah. Water. He could do that. “Stay right there?”
“I won’t move a muscle.” Munch, always a sucker for a pretty girl, sidled close and plunked down beside the chair. For the dog, she had a tender smile. “Hey, honey.” She stroked his head. “What’s his name?”
“Munch.”
“Cute,” she said. And Garrett just stood there, staring down at her as she petted his dog. Finally, she glanced up at him again and asked hopefully, “Water?”
“Right.” Against his better judgment, he left her alone with only Munch to look after her as he ran for the cabin. At the door, he paused with his hand on the knob. What if she took off?
Well, what if she did? If she insisted on wandering Moosejaw Mountain in the dark barefoot in her torn-up wedding dress, far be it from him to try to stop her.
He went in, filled a tall insulated bottle with water, grabbed the dish towel and ran back out.
She was still there. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said when he handed her the bottle.
He flipped open the cooler, grabbed a handful of ice and wrapped it in the towel. “For your eye.”
She took a long drink and then let out a happy sigh. “Thank you.” Only then did she accept the ice. Pressing it gingerly to her bad eye, she frowned. “Don’t tell me I stole your only chair.” She started to rise.
“Relax.” He patted the air between them until she dropped back into the seat. “I’ve got a spare.” He grabbed the extra camp chair from where he’d left it leaning against a tree, snapped it open and set it down on the other side of the cooler from her.
Now what?
Awkward seconds struggled by as they just sat there. She sipped her water and iced her eye and he tried to decide what he should do next.
Maybe she needed food. “Are you hungry, Cami?”
She gave a long sigh. “Starved.”
He could help with that at least. “How about a hot dog?”
She rewarded him with a radiant smile. “A hot dog would really hit the spot about now.”
* * *
A half an hour later, the beat-up bride had drunk two bottles of water and accepted three hot dogs, each of which she’d shared with Munch. The dog remained stretched out beside her. Periodically, he would lift his head from his paws to gaze up at her adoringly.
Garrett still felt bad that he hadn’t convinced her to let him drive her to the hospital. She could have at least allowed him to get out the first aid kit and sterilize a few of those scratches.
He asked glumly, “Do you have a head injury?”
She repositioned the makeshift ice pack on her injured eye. “And you need to this know why?”
He shrugged. “I was going to offer you a beer. But if you’ve got a concussion, maybe not.”
That earned him another dazzling smile. “A beer would be so perfect.”
Apparently, she was never going to answer the head injury question. But she seemed reasonably clearheaded, so he flipped open the cooler and passed her a beer.
Tucking the ice pack into the cup holder on her chair, she popped the top and giggled like a happy kid when it foamed. He watched her throat move as she swallowed, after which she