Snowbound Bride

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

And, to Sam’s consternation, her attractiveness did not end there. Tall and willowy, she was nonetheless curved in all the right places, with softly swelling breasts, a slender waist and sleekly proportioned hips.

  The intricately beaded bodice of her off-the-shoulder white satin wedding gown revealed a graceful neck and elegant shoulders just right for kissing, and a collarbone that was, Sam admitted on a wave of uncensored desire, unspeakably sexy. It was a good thing she was already spoken for and he didn’t believe in love at first sight, Sam thought on a wistful sigh, because if he did…he’d be tempted to whisk her away himself.

  Unless… Sam stared at the woman in front of him.

  No. It couldn’t be, he reassured himself firmly. This woman couldn’t in any way be connected to his brother, Gus, could she?

  Irked that he might have been having libidinous thoughts about his future sister-in-law, Sam glanced out the plate-glass windows of the deserted lobby and worked to calm his pounding heart. Though he could see other cars slowly moving on the freeway beyond, there was only one other car in the parking lot in front of the comfort station, aside from his own black-and-white sheriff’s four-wheel-drive vehicle. And that was a Volvo station wagon, which could not possibly have been Gus’s, since Gus would never be caught dead in such a practical car. Gus much preferred his Lamborghini. Plus, Gus was from New York City, not Pennsylvania.

  Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he turned back to the bride. Maybe this woman had nothing to do with his brother after all. Deeply ingrained manners dictating his actions, he swept off his snow-dusted Stetson hat and held it against his chest. He met her eyes. Damned, if she didn’t have the most beautiful eyes and the softest lips he’d ever seen. “Ma’am.”

  She lifted her head and simultaneously jerked in a breath that told him she was every bit as electrifyingly aware of him as he was of her. “Hello,” she murmured in a cordial, throaty whisper.

  “Are you on your way to or from your wedding?” Sam inquired, with an easy grace meant to put her immediately at ease.

  She slanted him a wary glance as she sat down on a wooden bench in the lobby, hiked up her skirt a foot off the floor and dutifully exchanged a pair of wet white satin high heels for a pair of sturdy dark green rubber galoshes. “Neither, actually. The wedding’s been called off,” she said in a low tone.

  “On account of the weather,” Sam guessed, his heart pounding at the brief glimpse of her spectacular stocking-clad legs.

  She hesitated, for a moment seeming almost relieved, but said only, “It’s complicated.” She nodded at the bulletin board next to the floor-to-ceiling map of West Virginia that had been provided by the state to help tourists find their way. “What was that notice you were posting just now?” she asked.

  Sam noted that she suddenly looked a little nervous—as she should be, given the weather. Especially if she was, as he was beginning to sense, running away from something. Like maybe the groom she’d been supposed to marry today…?

  “It’s a travelers’ advisory, from the National Weather Service,” Sam told her, stepping a little closer. “We’re closing down the interstate, and asking everyone to take shelter as soon as possible.” He’d already been advised to be on the lookout for a schoolteacher and seven schoolchildren, last seen near the Virginia–West Virginia border. And there were reports of a young mother and a baby from Maryland being tracked down, too.

  The bride bit her lower lip and cast a wary look at the dark gray sky. “It’s going to be that bad?”

  Sam nodded gravely. “It already is, in the mountains one hundred miles south of here, next to the North Carolina border.”

  “When’s the storm likely to hit here?” she asked, her green eyes darkened with concern. “Full force, I mean.”

  Sam glanced back at the snow, which was coming down in steady but moderate fashion. “It’ll increase gradually during the next few hours, with maybe three to four inches on the ground at sunset. The forecasters expect it to snow steadily through out the night. By morning, we should be really socked in.”

  Her slender shoulders sagged at the news.

  Figuring this was not the first bit of bad news she’d had today, Sam felt his heart go out to her, and he hastened to reassure her. “The next exit is about five miles up the interstate from here. There are four hotels, two gas stations and several fast-food restaurants there. Last I heard, a few minutes ago, they still had rooms available. It’s not a bad place to seek shelter, and I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable.”

  “And it’s right off the interstate?” she asked in consternation.

  “Yes,” Sam retorted helpfully, though why that should bother her, he didn’t know.

  She bit her lip and gathered her skirts in her hand in order to rise. “I see.”

  For some reason Sam could not understand, the convenient location did not seem to please her. He stepped a little closer and offered her a hand. “Listen, I hate to rush you, but given the increasing slipperiness of the roads, you and your groom should really be on your way,” Sam said.

  “I don’t have a groom with me,” she announced, with equal parts truculence and relief, as she slid her slender hand in his.

  “You’re here alone?” Sam asked, stunned, as she rose gracefully to her feet.

  “Completely,” she admitted, with a beleaguered sigh and no small amount of chagrin, as she removed her hand from his.

  As the two of them stood facing each other, it was all Sam could do not to shake his head. If she was his woman, she wouldn’t be running around alone—in her wedding dress—in this weather! If she was his woman, he’d see she was protected, no matter what. Especially on what was supposed to have been her wedding day. And the same went for his sister, or daughter… Where the heck were this woman’s family and friends? Her maid of honor?

  Her eyes lifted to his. She seemed to intuit what he was thinking but not to want to dwell on it. “Look, for obvious reasons, I really need to get out of this dress,” she told him, fixing him in her sights with a pretty smile and an airy wave of her ringless left hand. “Normally, I wouldn’t ask a complete stranger for assistance, but since I’m here by myself and the weather is not really conducive to satin and you are an officer of the law…”

  Sam paused as his eyes locked with hers, his heart pounding against his ribs. “You want me to give you a hand?” he asked, a little hesitantly.

  “Just with the zipper,” she con firmed, her cheeks flushing self-consciously. “I can’t see it, but it seems to be stuck.” Her satin skirts rustling provocatively, she turned around in a drift of perfume, impatiently offering him her slender back. “If you could just get it started for me,” she urged him anxiously, “I’m sure I can handle the rest.”

  “No problem,” Sam murmured. Despite the easy disclaimer, his throat was as dry as the Sahara as he stepped forward to assist her. This was harder than she could imagine, but not for the reasons she’d think, Sam thought as he tried, ever so gently, to work the twisted bit of satin out of the teeth of the zipper without ripping the fine fabric. Normally, he could unkink a jammed zipper in record time. Suddenly, he was all thumbs, as he tried once again to get a better grip and wound up, instead, coming in brief, mesmerizing contact with her silky skin. And she seemed to be trembling, whether from the cold or from the inadvertent brush of his hands against her skin, he couldn’t tell.

  She moved from foot to foot impatiently, her breasts rising and falling beneath the beaded décolletage of her dress. Sam grimaced and forced himself to concentrate on his task, aware that his hands were tingling like crazy where they’d come in contact with her. And that she was wearing the most incredible perfume—delicate, light, floral. Like a bouquet of West Virginia wildflowers, on the first brisk day of spring…

  “Can you get it?” she asked impatiently after a moment, in a low, quivering voice that did even more to his ravaged senses.

  “No,” Sam replied gruffly, making a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he struggled
with both his rising awareness of her and his blithely assigned task. “Not like this, not without ripping your dress.” He dropped his hands regretfully and stepped back, aware that his pulse was pounding. And that his thoughts were not nearly as chaste or as gallant as they should be under the circumstances.

  “Sorry,” he growled. He paused and slanted her a sympathetic look, able to imagine how aggravating it would be to be stuck in a wedding gown in a snowstorm. “Maybe when you get to a hotel…” he offered.

  Their eyes met, and the color in her delicately sculpted cheeks deepened from a pale pink to a delicate rose. “Right.” She swallowed hard. “Of course. I’ll find someone—a woman—to help me there. Thanks just the same,” she said hurriedly. Frowning, she reached for the bundle of clothes on the bench, then stopped and, almost as an afterthought, paused to tug a pale gray bulky-knit fisherman’s sweater over her head.

  Looking infinitely warmer, if a bit hilarious, with the full skirt of her wedding dress and long flowing train hanging from beneath the hem of her casual sweater, she gathered her belongings in one hand and swept up her skirt and train in the other.

  Sam moved to hold the doors open for her as she swept regally toward the exit in another whisper-soft swish of satin, yards of fabric crumpled in one hand so that they wouldn’t drag along the snow covering the ground.

  And suddenly Sam knew he couldn’t let it end there. “Let me help you to your car.” Aware that he hadn’t felt this gallant in a long time, Sam waited for her to pass, then strode with her out into the snow.

  “Thanks, but it really isn’t necessary.” She tossed the words back over her shoulder, stomping determinedly past his black-and-white truck to her Volvo station wagon.

  Sam saw that she was already shivering in the cold. “I insist,” he said. He followed her to the driver’s-side door of the car and waited for her to press the electronic door unlock button on her key chain. When it clicked, he stepped forward to open the car door for her.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, bristling somewhat can-tankerously, still looking as if she would much rather have done it all herself.

  “You’re welcome,” Sam replied.

  Still a little mesmerized, he watched as she tossed her bundle of belongings into the backseat, then, hitching her skirts even higher, climbed in the driver’s seat. It took some doing, but finally she had pulled the gown above her knees and scrunched the fabric down enough to enable her to drive.

  Sam tipped back the brim of his hat and regarded her cautiously. Though she had to be warmer with the sweater on, she couldn’t possibly be comfortable behind the wheel in that dress, no matter how she squished it down or spread it out. “You sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked, more sure than ever now that she was a runaway of some sort.

  “I’ll be just fine, Officer. Thanks for the assistance.” The bride sent him a brisk, efficient smile that Sam decided was more dutiful than sincere, then shut her car door, put her key in the ignition and turned it, revving the engine.

  Sam stepped back onto the curb as the motor rumbled to life with a powerful purr and the wipers moved steadily across the windshield. Out of habit, his glance lowered to the tags on the car.

  A sticker on the trunk said the car had been purchased at a dealership in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The vanity license plate read NO1-DATR. Sam swiftly sounded it out and decided it was meant to read Number One Daughter. He wondered whether she had chosen the slogan herself or it was a gift from a parent or parents who found it impossible to let go.

  Somehow, he found himself betting it was the latter. He felt a little sorry for the parents. Because, in his estimation, this was one runaway bride who was just aching to bust free. And maybe, he thought with a grin, recalling her statement about the wedding being called off, she already had broken out and started her run for freedom.

  NORA HAD NEVER BEEN ONE to swoon over a man in a uniform, but there was no denying that the handsome stranger in the snow-dusted Stetson, starched khaki uniform and thick shearling coat had made an impression on her she wasn’t likely to forget. From the moment she laid eyes on his ruggedly handsome face, with its unutterably masculine features, she’d felt a peculiar electricity zigzagging through her. And that giddy awareness had only intensified when he blasted her with his boy-next-door smile.

  She guessed him to be a couple years older than her own twenty-nine years. Like herself, she mused as she guided her car onto the freeway, he seemed to have a mind of his own. Plus, an easygoing nature, and the most compelling and understanding golden brown eyes she’d ever seen.

  His chestnut-colored hair had been clean and soft and cut in short layers. It had also been rumpled by either his hands or the wind and creased by his hat.

  His sturdy six-foot-three-inch—if her guess was right—frame had looked athletically fit, his shoulders broad enough for a woman to lean on, more than strong enough to serve and protect.

  It was too bad he was a lawman, Nora thought. Had she spent any more time with him, he’d have been bound to ask her questions she did not want to answer.

  Unfortunately, right now she had worse things to worry about as she upped the speed on her windshield wipers another notch. Like how and where she was going to weather the brunt of this storm.

  All she had with her, she realized, as she spotted a tow-truck driver helping a motorist whose car had slid off the road, was a suitcase full of clothes meant for a ski vacation in Vermont in the trunk, her wedding gown, and the sweater, jeans and shirt she’d worn to the salon that morning to get her hair done. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her scarf and gloves—maybe back at the church—but she figured those could be easily replaced.

  Thank goodness she had the traveler’s checks and cash she’d brought along for her honeymoon, Nora thought with relief, slowing down when she saw the Road Closed Ahead signs that prevented her from going any farther on the interstate. She didn’t want to use her credit cards; it would be too easy for her father to track her that way.

  What she needed was to find a safe place to stay before the already slick roads became impassable. With that in mind, Nora headed down the exit ramp at a sedate speed. Knowing it would not be wise to stay somewhere directly off the interstate freeway, as those were the very first places her father would look for her, Nora bypassed two medium-size inns, four fast-food restaurants and a gas station, all congregated together, and headed for the major intersection up ahead. Once there, she paused at the directional signs marking the two-lane county road.

  Clover Creek 30.

  Pleasantville 15.

  Nora had never vacationed in West Virginia and knew nothing about either town. Although, for some odd reason, the name Clover Creek did seem vaguely familiar. She searched her mind for what she knew, but could only recall someone—to her frustration, she had no idea who—once saying something about it at a party.

  Look, it’s a nice place to visit, a very nice place, but as far as I’m concerned, being in Clover Creek is like being at the ends of the earth….

  Wasn’t that what she wanted? Nora thought as a huge orange snowplow rumbled past her, in the direction of Clover Creek. A nice place so far off the beaten path that no one would think to look for her there?

  Her decision made, Nora turned left and fell in behind the snowplow. She was now traveling west, not south, but she figured it was probably the best she could do under the circumstances. The main thing was to find a place to bed down, where no one would think to look for her, until the storm passed.

  And since Clover Creek was only thirty miles away, the snow coming down still allowed a fair amount of visibility and the snow tires on her station wagon were gripping the pavement well, she figured she could make it, particularly with the snowplow directly in front of her, clearing the way.

  TO NORA’S DELIGHT, Clover Creek was a perfect blend of old and new. A couple of inches of snow covered immaculately kept-up red brick buildings with white trim and glossy multicolored doors. From what she could tell, a
ll the businesses were located on Main Street. On one side were a grocery store, art gallery, fabric shop, pharmacy, unisex beauty salon, hardware store, two restaurants, movie theater, news paper and video store. On the other were a gas station, library, post office, clinic, antique shop, department store, law offices, real estate broker and police and fire stations. On streets perpendicular to Main were schools and churches. Beyond that, a number of sprawling Victorian homes on tree-lined streets.

  With an inch or two of snow already on the ground, Nora had half expected the main drag in town to be deserted.

  Instead, it was bustling with activity, with vehicles crowding the streets and overflowing the behind-the-building parking lots. People of all ages hurried out of the grocer’s, their faces red with excitement and their arms full of bags. Others hurried out of the hardware store carrying sacks of rock salt, snow shovels, camping lanterns and chains. Still others appeared to be stocking up on books and videos. Nora did not see a hotel anywhere, but she figured a small town this busy probably had a bed-and-breakfast somewhere. Nora figured she’d get directions on where to go just as soon as she purchased a scarf and mittens for herself and found someone to help free her from her wedding dress!

  As she’d expected, her presence in the gown, sweater and galoshes caused a stir. No sooner had Nora swept into the homey, shopper-laden chic of Whittakers Clothing and Department Store than she was immediately approached by three salespeople. A pretty sixty-something woman with a petite, matronly figure and a halo of fluffy pale gold curls. An equally pretty and vivacious-looking teenage girl with long golden-brown hair that fell nearly to her waist. And an older gentleman with neat salt-and-pepper hair and a matching, well-trimmed beard.

  Wasting no time, the woman greeted Nora with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eyes. “I’m Clara Whittaker.” She extended a hand, then made introductions briefly. “This is my husband, Harold, and my grand-daughter Kimberlee.”

  “Hello. It’s nice to meet you all. You can call me Nora.” She’d prefer not to use last names, but clearly, Nora thought, they were so friendly and so informal, something in the way of a greeting was required.