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She said, “The forecast called for light flurries only.”
“These are considered light flurries in Montana. Now … do you need water? Are you warm enough? Are you hurt at all?”
“I’m fine. Just a cut on my palm, but I have some napkins covering it.”
“Good. Okay, then. Let’s—”
“You’re a professional?”
“Recreational,” he told her between clenched teeth. They were wasting time here. “I do what I can to help folks out.”
She let out a long breath. “Of course. I appreciate that. Uh, I tried to check out the damage to the front right tire; that’s how I cut myself. On the metal. It’s dented in.”
“I’ll take a look to see if you need stitches.” He pulled on the door handle, but it was locked.
She didn’t bother releasing it.
Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A woman from out of town—and particularly if she was from a big city—wouldn’t trust even an auxiliary tow truck driver without a business card and a sign slapped on the side panel. A half-dozen references on a fancy Web site.
So he said, “How about I check out the vehicle first?”
“That’d be good.”
He left her to inspect the front end with enough illumination from her headlights and the flashlight he retrieved from his truck to discern everything was okay, with the exception of the wheel well on the passenger’s side being severely bashed in.
He winced. That could prove difficult. But it was worth a try to attempt pulling her out.
He returned to the cracked window and said, “This could be a bigger problem, but let’s at least see about getting you out of the ditch.”
“Might as well. It’s not as though I’ll cause a traffic jam if I end up blocking the lane. I haven’t seen another car in over an hour.”
“You’d be safer in my truck while I hook up the winch and ease this sucker out.”
“Is that really necessary?” she quietly countered.
“I assure you, it’s standard operating procedure for professionals and nonprofessionals alike.”
She sighed. Unlocked the door. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Lucky for you I’m thick-skinned.” He pulled the door open and helped her to the ground.
When she had steady footing in the snow, she stared up at him and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know how far Reed Ranch is from here?”
His gaze narrowed on her, her question distracting him from silky flaming red curls and big green eyes. A beautifully sculpted face. Crimson lips.
Well, not entirely distracting him.
He shoved a hand through his hair, dampened by snowflakes. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d met a woman who stole his breath. This one did it easily. In a heartbeat.
Forcing himself to speak, he countered with, “What business do you have with Sam Reed?”
She smiled slyly, causing his groin to tighten. “That’s between myself and Mr. Reed.”
“Fine. What business do you have with me?”
Her emerald gaze turned quizzical.
“Sam Reed.” He held out his hand. “At your service.”
