Page 4 of Saved By the Sergeant

Her hand hits mine, and a jolt shimmies up my arm and goes straight to my chest. Great. Now I’m having a heart attack. She helps me into the cab and then buckles me in with the seatbelt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in my ear.

Something about how close she is and how she apologizes sends shivers across my skin. “Just get me home without killing me, will you?”

“One mistake,” she grumbles, then slams the door shut.

“One mistake? Tell that to my eyes and my esophagus,” I call out. I pry my eyes open and catch a blur of what looks like a middle finger. The girl’s definitely got spunk.

She climbs up into the truck and gets behind the wheel. “Where to?”

“Straight. Don’t forget to turn the flashers off and turn the windshield wipers on.”

“This isn’t my first time driving, you know.”

“Sweetheart, I just watched you swerve all across Route One. I know it isn’t your first time. I also know driving in the snow is not in your skill set.”

“Stop being so judgmental.”

I bite my tongue. I want to get home in one piece. “Please, sweetheart, drive. Or we’ll have to walk four miles up the mountain.”

“Why do you live on a mountain?”

I hear the windshield wipers come on. “Because,” I growl. “Drive. Slow.”

“I am driving slow,” she huffs.

“A half-mile on the right, you’ll see a blue bungalow. Turn right after the house. Then it’s straight up the mountain until you see my cabin.” I rub my eyes, and wait for the burn to stop. I feel the truck turn right and breathe a sigh of relief, thankful I’m almost home.

We’re going to be snowed in together for the next few days.

I just pray she doesn’t kill me in my sleep.

2

GENEVA

By the timewe reach the clearing, my stomach has stopped churning which doesn’t make a lick of sense. I’m on the run because my life is in danger. My car is stuck in a snowbank. I’ve blinded a stranger whose only crime was being a good Samaritan. And I’m going to sleep in the very same stranger’s cabin.

I should be on my way to the closest Emergency Department for treatment of an acute bleeding ulcer and to get a mental health evaluation.

But I’m not.

For the first time in my life, I feel safe.

It’s probably due to the abnormal size of the man beside me. He’s huge— as in gigantic. His hands are the size of baseball mitts, and his boots —I swallow as I steal another peek— are humongous. Because I don’t want to be rude, I’m not going to look at the crotch of his pants to see if the old adage is true. But if it is… damn.

His face is pretty impressive, too. He’s ruggedly handsome with chiseled features and a strong jaw covered in dark stubble that matches the thick brown waves that cover his head.

I snap my eyes back to the windshield. My life is in chaos. I’m living on a diet of panic and fear. And now I’m inspecting the stranger beside me like he’s a Grade-A slab of beef. I must be suffering some sort of bizarre PTSD response.

Up ahead, I don’t see a small log cabin. I see a two-story home that looks more like a converted barn with big windows. “I thought you said you lived in a cabin.”

“I do.”

“That’s not a cabin.” I scowl. I knew it! All men are liars. It’s in their chromosomes.

“It is a cabin. I designed it myself.”

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