On the Way to a Wedding
by
Suzanne Stengl
www.suzannestengl.com
Copyright 2013 Suzanne Stengl
All rights reserved.
KDP ISBN 978-0-9880365-5-0
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Publisher: Mya & Angus
Cover Design: Tammy Seidick
From the inside flap . . .
Ryder O’Callaghan finds Toria Whitney on the side of a forest road with a totaled car, a sprained ankle, and a wedding dress. Both Ryder and Toria are scheduled to be married in three weeks—but not to each other.
Deep down inside, Ryder longs for the freedom and simple honesty of a less complicated life, but his pride has him hell bent on proving a point to his father. He’s building an estate home and marrying the sophisticated, elegant woman he’s chosen for his fiancée.
Confident in his conviction that love is overrated, Ryder is determined to make the lukewarm relationship work, so he denies his surprising fascination for his roadside damsel in distress.
Toria is running scared. She has called off her wedding to her parents’ idea of the perfect husband, and she needs time and space to discover what she really wants. The last thing she needs to complicate her life is the overwhelming attraction she feels for Ryder.
But sometimes love arrives in the most unexpected places.
(A 66,000 word novel – Coming of Age, Sweet Contemporary Romance)
To my dad,
Ted Carron
Chapter One
A poodle.
He could hardly believe it. She wanted a poodle—a toy poodle. Something cute to go with the executive floor plan, the European wall-mounted oven and the cork floors.
Ryder Michael O’Callaghan stared out the windshield, blindly following the road. Their last argument had been about a dog.
He heard the static on the radio and tapped the button, silencing the noise. The music had slowly died out, and he hadn’t noticed. An hour ago, he’d left the highway and turned south onto the secondary road, which had gradually changed from tar cover to dusty gravel.
Gravel with a lot of potholes, still not repaired after the spring thaw, but in reasonably good condition, considering where he was. And, so far, he was lucky. The weather held. The storm had not come.
The road wound up into the foothills, with the spruce and the aspen shading what little was left of the ebbing twilight. He’d caught a glimpse of the moon as he’d left the highway. A pale thin crescent slipping behind the mountains. The sun had set half an hour ago. The days were growing longer. Almost a week into June and the partnership agreement still sat on his desk.
Annoyance pushed into his thoughts and he tried to forget about it. The engine rumbled as he shifted into a lower gear. Rounding the next sharp corner, he saw a car. In the ditch.
It was an old Honda Prelude, probably the last year they made them. Dust-covered . . . red, maybe. Hard to tell in the failing light. Faded red. He pulled off the road, hit the flashers and then turned off the ignition.
The Prelude’s engine was still running and, judging by the noise, the muffler had broken off. A tinge of adrenaline, and irritation, flashed through him. He didn’t need any more problems. He had enough of his own.
The accident must have just happened. He scanned the area and saw someone sitting on the ground by the side of the road, about ten feet beyond the loudly idling car.
A woman. Long dark hair fell over her face as she bent forward, both hands pressed to the ground beside her, like she was holding herself up. Her arms were bare, her right knee drawn up, left leg stretched out in front of her. She might be hurt but at least she was sitting up.
He got out of his truck and stepped into the cool air. It still smelled thick, and heavy, the way it had in Calgary, as the world hovered on the verge of rain.
She didn’t notice him because the sputter of her car’s engine and the roar of the broken muffler masked all other sound. Her head rested on her knee and her hair still shielded her face. She wore jeans and running shoes and a sleeveless pink top.
Not warm enough. He shook his head. Some people didn’t know how to dress for the backcountry.
When he reached her car, he smelled the exhaust and a whiff of gas. The Prelude’s door was open and the air bag drooped over the steering wheel. The front tire tilted out. The bead on the tire was broken and the tire sagged over the rim.
She must have hit hard.
He looked ahead to where she sat, still unaware of him. Watching her, he reached inside the car and turned off the engine.
Silence echoed over the forest. She lifted her head and looked at him. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him like he was a ghost who’d materialized out of the trees. In the background, a low rumble of thunder mumbled.
“You all right?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she waited two seconds, then twisted to her right side and stood. She took a step with her left leg—away from him—and fell down.
Terrific.
A moment later, she was trying to sit up again. He knelt beside her, taking hold of her icy shoulders, hoping he could get her to lie down. But she tensed, grabbed his forearms, and tried to push him away.
He hadn’t expected that. “Lie still,” he said, holding tighter. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t move.”
She bit his hand.
A sharp pain registered on his knuckle and he jerked his hands away. So much for this approach. Apparently, she didn’t want to lie still.
She was twisting onto her side again, trying to sit up. He took hold of her face with both hands so she couldn’t bite him again, but she gripped his wrists. Her hands were freezing.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He tried to make his voice sound calm. He could do calm. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “Let me check if anything’s broken.”
She looked dazed, but she must have decided to listen to him. Letting go of his wrists, she sank back on the grass. A light breeze stirred in the trees.
He was still holding her head. She didn’t look like she’d bite him again, so he moved his fingers over her skull. No lumps or bumps there. No cuts on her face.
She shivered. Her right elbow was scraped, probably from falling a minute ago.
He ran his hand over her other arm. Not injured. He pressed over her ribs, avoiding her breasts. Nothing broken there. Then he skimmed his hands down her left leg to her ankle—which was sprained, or broken—and swelling up in her running shoe. Her other leg was all right. But her ankle was a problem.
He could wrap it with a tensor, then get her to the ER in Canmore. Except Canmore was two hours away. Longer, driving in the dark down this road. Even longer if it started to rain.
He’d better check her head again, to be certain. As he reached for her, she raised her hand, palm out. She sure was spooky. “Just checking for bumps,” he said.
She held her hand up a second longer, then slowly dropped it to her side.
Letting his fingers slip into her hair again, he noticed how soft it was. Thick, and long, and soft. Right. He took his hands away. “I think it’s just your ankle.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said, in a quiet voice.
“I’m sure you will.” She was shaking. She needed a coat.
“I’m late,” she said, sitting up. “Thank you for stopping. I’ve got to be going.”
The incongruence of her polite thank you clanged in his mind. He sat back on his heels. “Where were you going?”
She’d say the Kananaskis Lodge. This tourist had decided to take a shortcut through the
forestry reserve and had somehow made a wrong turn.
“Kalispell.”
Kalispell? Across the border? Into Montana? “You’re taking the long way around, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
Did she have any idea where she was? Detouring through here on the way to Kalispell proved she was lost. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll get my first aid kit.”
“I―I’m all right.” She was trying to get to her knees again.
Maybe she was in shock, but he hoped not. He didn’t need to deal with a shocky female. He could tensor her ankle. Hysteria, he wasn’t so good at. The breeze picked up and a blast of cooler air shot out of the trees.
He left her sitting on the ground and walked to his truck. As he pulled the red box out from under the front seat, he noticed his jacket, crumpled next to the passenger door. He grabbed it and turned around.
She was standing on her good foot, wobbling slightly, and looking weak. The breeze rippled over her, blowing her hair across her face.
“I’ve got to be going,” she said. And then, “They’re expecting me.”
Somehow, he doubted that. “Who?”
“My―my friends. My family,” she said. A slight pause, and then, “My father.”
He didn’t think so. Probably no one was expecting her. She was saying that, hoping she could make him think she’d be missed. On top of everything else, she was worried about him.
Did he look that scary? He rubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the coarse stubble. He hadn’t shaved in three days. He should have shaved before he’d left town.
“So, I’ll get going now.” She hopped on her right foot in the direction of her car.
He gave her points for stamina, if not brains. She hadn’t seen the front tire yet. All she had to do was look.
He walked closer and she stopped moving. She stood straight—perfectly straight—like she was trying to make herself taller.
He sighed. She was afraid of him, no surprise there. She was alone in the backcountry with a rough-looking stranger and she was injured.
Concerned, he set the box on the ground, then wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. He could feel her trembling, but was that from the cold? Or from fear?
Probably some of both. He released her shoulders. Maybe he should have held her for a moment to steady her, but that would make her more scared.
“Before you try to drive off, how about you let me bandage that with a tensor?”
She looked pale in the dying light. She was probably pale anyway, and very fair for a brunette.
A quick glance at her foot, then at her car, and then at him. Lifting her hand, she hesitated. Then she wrapped her cold fingers around his wrist and lowered herself to the ground.
He knelt in front of her and started to undo the lace of her running shoe. Gray Adidas with pink stripes. She sucked in a breath and pressed her hands on the ground, bracing.
Better get it over with. He slipped off the shoe as gently as possible. Her eyes were tearing up. Hard to tell what color her eyes were in the twilight. Green, maybe.
He peeled off her sock and got a good look at her foot.
It was sprained. Possibly broken. Already a purple tint spread over her skin. He shifted himself onto the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of her. Resting her foot on his ankle, he reached in the first aid box for the tensor bandage. He wrapped and secured her ankle, and in a few minutes at least that problem was dealt with.
“Thanks,” she said. “That feels better.”
Anything would feel better. She was hugging his coat around herself and still shaking. The breeze had washed the mugginess out of the air, making it cold.
“I’d better be going,” she repeated, as she let go of his coat, picked up her sock and stuffed it inside her shoe.
Was she having trouble seeing? It wasn’t that dark yet. “Can you see your car?”
“Oh. Of course. But―” She looked at the car, then back at him. “You could help me get it out of the ditch?”
He almost laughed, but stopped himself. It’d been a long time since he’d met someone so clueless. “Uh . . . that car isn’t going anywhere.”
She stared at him like she didn’t believe him, and set her running shoe back on the ground.
“Look at the front tire.”
She did. “Oh,” she said. “Is that very bad?”
Very bad? Was he really having this conversation? “Looks like you’ve got some major damage to your suspension.” Probably snapped an upper control arm.
She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Then she clutched the edges of his jacket and pulled it tighter. “I’ve got a cell,” she said, looking at the ground. “I’ll call a tow truck.” She started to get up.
He put his hands on her shoulders, stilling her. “Not out here.”
She met his eyes then. Yes, her eyes were green.
“No coverage out here.”
She looked away from him, staring at the grass and the budding fireweed, and probably trying to figure out what options she had.
He’d better get her in his truck. “Don’t move.” He got up off the ground, retrieved the first aid box and walked over to her car.
“What are you doing?”
Reaching inside her car, he pulled the keys from the ignition. Her purse—a sensible navy blue canvas bag—rested on the floor. The bag tilted on edge, recovering from its slam into the dash.
He turned back to her. “You’ve got stuff in your trunk?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because I’m transferring your luggage—and you—to my truck.”
A few thin drops of rain sprayed through the tense air. He slipped her keys into his pocket and then reached for her purse. Better move her first, and then her luggage.
He opened the passenger door of the truck, dropped her purse and the first aid box on the floor, and walked back to where she was sitting. Then he picked up her running shoe, set it in her lap, and scooped her up in his arms.
She immediately shuddered and tried to squirm out of his hold. “What are you―”
“Look, will you loosen up? I’m getting you out of the rain. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”
She stopped struggling, but she didn’t relax. She was squeezing her hands around her running shoe, gripping it like a lifeline.
He deposited her on the passenger seat and then went back to her trunk. Two red suitcases—one larger, one smaller. He stowed them on the backseat floor with his duffel bag. Then he returned to her car. There was something in her backseat. Something big and white. And fluffy.
A dress? He touched the fabric, felt its silkiness, and then swung it out of the car.
A wedding dress? Was she on her way to her wedding? Was that the hurry?
The wind puffed up the dress, furling it like a flag. Didn’t women put these things in protective packaging? He carried the dress over to her open door.
“Is this a wedding dress?” He held it up by its bodice, holding out the full skirt with his other hand. The wind rippled the soft material.
“I’m getting married,” she said, raising her chin.
“I’m getting married, too,” he answered, folding the dress in half. He tossed it on the backseat just as the dark sky started dumping its rain.
· · · · ·
I really am getting married, she thought. She hadn’t lied about that. She just wasn’t getting married anytime soon. But, someday, she would marry.
She shivered and hugged the jacket around herself. A navy blue jacket with a fleece lining. It didn’t feel right taking his jacket. He needed his jacket.
Except—she watched him getting into the driver’s seat—he was tall, with dark hair, and he didn’t seem like he was cold. She felt a moment of dizziness, and then it went away.
He was wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And jeans. And heavy work boots—dark brown leather, with laces. The rain pinged on the windshield.
> His truck was . . . nice. Fairly new, and clean. The heater was blowing hot air. He’d turned the heater on as soon as he’d started the motor.
“Do up your seat belt.”
Yes. Seat belt. The buckle was wedged into the seat, shiny new, reflecting the weak light. Where was the rest of the seat belt? As she turned to look for it, she felt him reach over her, felt his arm brush her shoulder. He smelled like the trees at the side of the road. The spruce trees. Then she felt the seat belt pull across her chest and heard it click securely.
He didn’t need to do that. She would have found it.
Now he was turning the truck around on the narrow road. Spinning it in a neat circle, dipping into the ditch on the other side and pulling back onto the road, all in one motion. The wipers swung back and forth, back and forth. A steady beat accompanying the tap of rain on the roof.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to the ER. In Canmore.”
“Canmore?”
“It’s two―”
“I know where it is. I don’t need to go to the ER.”
“You’re going.”
“No. I’m not. You can take me to a gas station. I’ll get a tow truck to―”
A long flash of lightning rippled and the trees appeared, silhouetted, swinging limbs. Thunder boomed, closer this time, a giant hand clap. Rain sloshed over the windshield.
She glanced across at him. Who was he? And why was he here?
She didn’t need to go to the ER. It was a sprain. It didn’t even hurt very much. Now.
Now that he’d wrapped her ankle with the tensor bandage. She squeezed the running shoe in her lap and closed her eyes. And she saw Isabelle, standing by the chalkboard, pulling down a map.
Just go this way, dear. Not many people know about this route.
And neither, it seemed, did Isabelle. Isabelle may have lived out here for a hundred years—well, maybe not that long, she wasn’t that old, but―
The truck lurched. She grabbed the armrest and braced, but it was only a pothole. Another pothole. She let go of her breath, forcing herself to breathe. She was all right. Nothing had happened.
On the Way to a Wedding Page 1
