by Emily March
At the time, she had been thankful she’d had the means to leave the B&B. She needed to be in Dallas for a meeting early Monday morning, so in order to save her some travel time, she and Jeremy had driven to Bastrop in separate cars. On Sunday afternoon when he headed west to return to Redemption, she’d planned to go north.
Now, she wasn’t so glad she’d had a getaway car.
She glanced up at the sky. Still heavy clouds. Was it supposed to rain today? She hoped it wouldn’t rain today. That was all she needed.
“It’ll be okay,” she told herself. Everything would be okay. The sun would come out, and then she would at least be able to determine in which direction she walked.
She was lost. Completely, thoroughly, totally lost.
She couldn’t believe she’d acted so foolishly. It wasn’t like her. Not at all. She was organized and attentive and intelligent—but not too friendly. She didn’t do things like run away from an argument, jump into her car, and drive blindly away. She was a careful driver. She didn’t speed, and she paid attention to the road. She hadn’t received a traffic ticket since college, and that hadn’t been for speeding or reckless driving. She’d forgotten to renew her registration!
But this afternoon, she’d left her mind behind in the Katherine Suite at Lost Pines Inn. By the time she’d pulled over and plugged her destination into her car’s GPS system—something she seldom used so wasn’t all that familiar with—the route it had plotted took her on a series of farm roads. Rather than go the fifteen miles to the interstate highway, she’d followed the GPS woman’s voice like an automaton. She’d driven east and west and north and even south, through tiny towns she’d never heard of before. And she’d grown up in Texas, little more than one hundred miles from where she’d started in Bastrop!
She hadn’t seen another vehicle in well over an hour. Two hours, probably. She couldn’t know for sure because her phone had died, and she couldn’t recharge it because she’d loaned Jeremy the charging cord she kept in her car. She didn’t wear a watch. The only jewelry she regularly wore were earrings and the diamond solitaire that Jeremy had given to her last New Year’s Eve.
She glanced down at her ringless left hand. Had she really taken it off and flung it at Jeremy while shouting they were done, before storming out of the B&B? She wasn’t a drama queen. She didn’t do scenes like that.
She had today.
She hadn’t meant it. Well, maybe she’d meant it at the time, but that was in the heat of the moment. Her feet were killing her. Tears stung her eyes. Again. She wasn’t ordinarily a crier. She’d cried more today than in the past ten years put together.
She needed to get a grip. Every couple fought. This was not a big deal. So what that Jeremy had hurt her feelings? She’d surely hurt his too. She should have stayed and talked it out, not let herself get angry and scared, and leave. Leaving never solved problems.
Although, she’d had a right to be angry. Jeremy had been in a mood, himself. Words were weapons, and he had certainly wielded his words like a sword. He could be an actor on Game of Thrones or Outlander. Sir Jeremy of Lost Pines Inn. He’d wounded her, left her bleeding from a thousand cuts, so she’d probably been right to walk away. Not that she’d walked. She’d run down the stairs and dashed to her car and spun her tires upon pulling away from the inn.
Gillian never spun her tires.
“If only—” She broke off, halting her steps to work another pebble from her shoe. Maybe she should try going barefoot for a bit. At least the farm road was clean. She probably wouldn’t step on broken glass. Or a rusty nail. When had she last had a tetanus shot? How soon did one die from tetanus, anyway? Did tetanus kill people? She wasn’t sure. If only she’d grabbed her bag before leaving the B&B, she’d have had a change of shoes, the cute sandals with the rhinestones. If only—
Stop it!
If and only were the two most useless words to use together in a sentence. If only Gillian had paid attention to where she was going. If only that stupid feral hog hadn’t run across the road right in front of her. If only she hadn’t swerved to miss it and hit a pecan tree instead.
It was a beautiful tree. Probably a hundred years old. Gillian hoped her little crossover SUV hadn’t hurt it.
She sniffled. Whimpered. Whined aloud. She was lost. She couldn’t believe she was lost!
Then, she heard something. She straightened and turned an ear toward the sound, listening intently. Help? Finally?
An engine. Not a car engine. Not a pickup driven by a kind, gentle, friendly cotton farmer.
Gillian heard a motorcycle headed her way. Coming fast.
A motorcycle. Roaring down a two-lane road.
She pictured the driver. He’d be a big man covered in tats, wearing a black leather vest over a wife-beater shirt, with a chaw of tobacco stuck in his cheek. Huntsville prison wasn’t too far from here. He probably just got out of the pen where he’d done twenty years. For murder. And he hadn’t had a woman in twenty years.
She really needed to stop listening to those true-crime podcasts.
What to do? What to do?
She couldn’t very well hide. She was wearing red and surrounded by cotton fields. If she tried to hide, she’d look like a dead body lying in a field, and she didn’t want to give him any ideas.
She needed help. She was lost, had no water, no shelter, and she really needed to pee.
He was coming fast. He’d be here in moments. Should she attempt to wave him down? He didn’t have to be a convict fresh out of Huntsville. He could be a doctor or a lawyer from Austin who rode Harleys as a hobby.
She hated this. She couldn’t believe she’d put herself in this position. How could I have been so stupid? It was embarrassing. She hated being embarrassed. And, she was frightened too. Scared down to the Big Apple Red polish on her toes. This was definitely the second most horrid day in her life, headed toward first.
What to do? What to do?
In the end, she did nothing but wear her best deer-in-headlights look. The man was dressed all in black, a full-face helmet obscuring his features. Darth Vader on a Harley. He blew past her like a proton torpedo.
Gillian released the breath she’d been holding. “Okay. Okay. I’m lost, but at least I’m alive.”
For now.
Up ahead, the motorcycle had slowed. The driver started turning around.
Chapter Two
Tucker was a sixth-generation Texan, small-town born and bred. Certain behaviors were stamped into his DNA. A real man tipped his hat to the ladies, opened doors for females of any age, and never, ever failed to stop and assist a woman in distress.
So, of course, he had to turn around.
That this particular woman in distress was a total smoke show dressed in fire-engine red only made playing the role of Texas gentleman that much sweeter.
He wondered how she’d managed to find herself out here in the middle of nowhere, no car in sight, not a house anywhere around, and the closest town a good ten miles away. Unfortunately, hot looks and a bright mind didn’t always go together.
He pulled to a stop beside her and flipped up the visor of his helmet. His assessing stare met a wary gaze shining from big, periwinkle-blue eyes that were swollen and red-rimmed with tears. She had an abrasion on her cheek just above her chin. Had someone hit her? When his quick visual sweep of her body revealed additional redness on both of her arms, he reconsidered. Airbag deployment, most likely. “Do you need some help, ma’am?”
He watched her intently and saw her quietly repeat the word ma’am. After a moment’s hesitation, she licked her lips, swallowed hard, and said, “Well, um, I, um. May I borrow your phone?”
Her voice was smooth as Tennessee whiskey with just enough Texas in her drawl to sound like home to ears too far away for too long. “Yes, ma’am.”
She took a small step backward as he set his kickstand and climbed off his bike. She’s scared of me.
It was a perfectly natural reaction and showed some sense, but
Tucker didn’t like scaring women, so when he pulled off his helmet, he was scowling. Her eyes widened, she took another step back, and he realized he’d made the situation worse. Well, hell.
He reached deep inside him for the charm that had grown rusty with disuse, made a stab at a reassuring smile, and addressed the elephant in the cotton field. “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. I came back to see if I could help. That’s all. I give you my word, and a McBride’s word is his bond.”
“That’s so old-fashioned,” she said.
“Yes, well, that’s how we roll. Now, I’m going to reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand, and she gave a nervous little laugh. “No gun?”
“No gun.” That was in a different pocket.
Tucker unzipped his jacket and reached into an inner pouch for his phone while trying his best to look unthreatening. Their fingers brushed as he handed it over. Her fingernail color matched her dress.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. My name is Tucker.”
“I’m Gillian.” Her teeth tugged on her bottom lip as she stared at the phone. “Do you have Google maps? I need to send a pin of my location to my—”
She broke off abruptly, and her head came up. Those glittering blue eyes—puffy and swollen from tears and framed by long, thick lashes—went round and big. Distracted, he fell into them. “Tucker McBride? Your name is Tucker McBride?”
He blinked and pulled slightly away. Now it was his turn to be wary. “Yes.”
She gave him a once-over, and some of the stiffness melted from her spine. “I know Jackson. Boone too. You’re the third cousin, aren’t you?”
Well, this was unexpected. “Yes, Boone and Jackson are cousins of mine. Have we met?” He didn’t think so. He’d damned sure remember her.
“No.”
“I’m surprised you’d connect me to them. We’re a long way from Redemption.”
“Are we?” She gave a short, strained laugh. “I wouldn’t know. I’m lost. But you look just like them, and Tucker McBride is an unusual name. Plus, I remember when the three of you arrived in Redemption the first time. You all rode motorcycles. My friend Maisy laughed that you had your own little McBride gang, so you were perfect for Ruin.”
Tucker grinned. “If you only knew.” He extended his hand toward her for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Gillian…?”
“Thacker. Gillian Thacker.” Her grip was firm, her smile filled with relief. “I’m a friend of Caroline Carruthers. Are you on your way to visit Redemption?”
Caroline was the woman Jackson was seeing, Tucker knew. He nodded. “Yes, I am. So now that you know I’m not a serial killer, want to tell me what you’re doing standing in a cotton field in a sundress and stilettos? Not exactly apparel for farming.”
She glanced down at her feet. “Technically, I’m not in the field but on the shoulder of a road. A narrow, two-lane, never-ending road. And no, cotton is not my thing. I’m all about satin and lace.”
Satin and lace? A vision of Gillian in lingerie the same shade of red as her dress flashed in Tucker’s mind as she continued, “I sell wedding gowns at a bridal shop in Redemption. Bliss Bridal Salon on Main Street.”
He tore his thoughts from the fantasy and listened when she began babbling about a pig and a pecan and a purse without a phone charger. When she finally wound down, she left Tucker shaking his head at her foolishness. He held up his hand. “Let me get this straight. You weren’t joking about being lost? You literally don’t know where you are?”
“No. Not exactly.” She lifted her chin, and her voice sharpened defensively. “I know I’m still in Central Texas. I’m somewhere between I-35 and I-45. I’m north of Austin. I think.”
He slowly shook his head. “Where is your car? How far have you walked?”
“That way.” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “Maybe two or three miles. I’ve been walking a while.”
“In those shoes?”
She gave a rueful smile. “They’re all I have with me. I left in a rush. I waited for quite some time at the scene of the accident, but nobody ever came along. I went looking for a farmhouse or a town. I never guessed I’d have to walk this far. This isn’t West Texas. It’s not even the Hill Country. I thought for sure I would have found help before now.” She paused a moment, then added, “Do you by chance have any water with you that you wouldn’t mind sharing?”
“I do.” Not by chance, but because he was prepared. Tucker was always prepared. He retrieved his stainless steel water bottle and offered it to her.
“Thank you. I was starting to get really thirsty. I usually carry some in my car, but today…” Her eyes filled with fresh tears, and she rapidly blinked them back. “Today hasn’t been a good day. I’ve done a bunch of stupid things today.”
Tucker could have agreed with her, but he didn’t like to pile on. While she quenched her thirst, he said, “I have a first aid kit. Why don’t you let me tend to your scrapes and take you back to your car? We can note its exact location for the tow truck, and then I’ll take you someplace where it’s comfortable to wait while you make arrangements to get to wherever you need to be.”
“That would be great.” She handed him his phone. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. Glad I can help.”
He retrieved his kit and cleansed the abrasions. The wounds were minor, but marred a tanned, flawless complexion.
“Am I going to get a black eye?” she asked as he smoothed an antibiotic cream over a scrape below her right eye.
“Hmm?” Tucker murmured, distracted by the soft, silky texture of her skin.
“It’s tender. Is it bruising?”
“Oh. Not sure. Fifty-fifty, I’d guess. Your cheekbones did their work.” Great cheekbones. Really great cheekbones. Bet she had a bit of Slavic blood in her DNA. Or maybe Comanche or Apache, if her people were from this part of the world.
Tucker finished his ministrations, stifled the urge to kiss her boo-boo, and stepped away. Five minutes later, when she sat behind him on his bike, her arms wrapped around his waist, he decided it really was his pleasure. When was the last time he’d been held in any manner by a woman? Too long ago to easily recall. How depressing was that?
Gillian directed him to the site of the accident, a wooded section of land divided by a creek. Upon seeing the crushed front end of the silver crossover SUV smashed into the trunk of a huge pecan tree, Tucker grimaced. The vehicle was definitely not drivable. She was lucky to have walked away with only minor injuries.
He glanced at her and advised, “Next time, hit the hog.”
Having pinpointed her vehicle’s location, Gillian called first her auto club to arrange for a tow and then a brother named Mike to come pick her up. When it turned out that her brother was on a bird hunt with her father in South Texas, Tucker offered to drive her all the way home to Redemption.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly put you out that way.”
“I was headed that general direction anyway. No bother.”
“That’s terribly kind of you, Tucker, but there’s someone else who will help me.” Then, with obvious reluctance, she placed a call to someone named Jeremy.
The gentleman in Tucker told him not to eavesdrop. The scoundrel listened avidly. It quickly became apparent that Jeremy was her boyfriend, and the pair had argued, which probably accounted for her tears and inattention to her driving. Tucker had to give the guy credit, though. As soon as she mentioned wrecking her car, the tone of the conversation changed. Jeremy was obviously concerned about her.
The brittle mood that had clung to Gillian since he first spotted her eased somewhat. She shifted the phone away from her mouth, looked at Tucker, and said, “My friend says we’re about twenty minutes east of Temple. He’s at a golf resort about half an hour south. Would you mind taking me to the Buc-ee’s on I-35? Or if it’s too much out of your way, he’ll meet me here.”
Buc-
ee’s was a quirky convenience store chain with a cartoon beaver as its logo, whose stores boasted hundreds of parking spaces, dozens of gas pumps, and the cleanest bathrooms in America. With less than fifty stores, Buc-ee’s had developed a cultlike following in Texas and beyond. “I’ll be glad to take you to visit the big beaver. I try never to pass up the roasted nuts.”
“The banana pudding is spectacular,” she advised before returning to her call to establish a meeting place inside the large store with her friend. “Thank you, Jeremy,” she said. “I appreciate the help.”
Whatever Jeremy said in reply caused her to stiffen. Her tone held some bite when she responded. “With any luck, you’ll still be able to get in nine holes before dark. I’ll see you at Buc-ee’s.”
She ended the call and handed Tucker’s phone back to him while wearing a false smile. Her eyes glittered with pique.
Trouble in paradise, Tucker concluded as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Had her boyfriend complained about leaving the golf course to aid the damsel in distress? Ol’ Jeremy must not be very bright.
Gillian used her key fob to open her vehicle’s rear door. She removed a purple nylon backpack. Curious, Tucker observed, “Something tells me that isn’t a well-stocked go bag.”
“It’s my gym bag. I carry all my essentials with me.”
Tucker snorted. “Like a compass? Fire starter? Water purifier? Maps?”
Her chin came up. She held her bag open to display its contents. “Moisturizer. Shampoo. Sunscreen. No sneakers, unfortunately, but I do have a pair of shorts, which will make riding a motorcycle while wearing a dress less, um, awkward.”
Tucker gallantly resisted the urge to drop his gaze to the short hem of her skirt. “The sunscreen is defensible. The rest, not so much.” He reached into the bag and checked the SPF number on the label. Fifty. Then his tone grew serious as he added, “Seriously, though, Gillian. I hope this incident has shown you the importance of keeping basic supplies with you when you travel. Have you realized that we haven’t seen another vehicle since I stopped to help you? You have no water, you walked away from the shelter of your car, and there’s a cold front on its way. You very easily could have been stranded overnight, and feral hogs aren’t the only wild animals around. At the very least, you should have water and a decent pair of shoes with you.”
