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But he obviously did. With a groan, Garrett slipped his hand from her jeans, then quickly snapped and zipped them shut. Murphy was grateful he did that; her trembling fingers could never had completed the job.
Swallowing back her disappointment, she sat forward, looking at him curiously.
He angled his head, his expression pinched and intent. A frown creased his brow, deepening the weathered lines shooting out from the corner of his eyes.
“Did you hear that?”
“No,” she said, still wondering exactly what it was she was supposed to hear. Shifting on his lap, she looked at the windshield, but couldn't see because of the snow that had piled up on top of it. She focused all her concentration into her auditory sense.
“Listen,” he urged.
“I am, but I don't hear—Wait a sec.” Her chin came up, and she also angled her head, as though in so doing her ears would be better able to draw in what was no more than a low, rumbling whisper of sound. “That sounds like a…plane?”
“In this storm?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. Sounds more like a truck of some sort.”
It didn't sound like a truck to her. In fact, it didn't sound like much of anything but a deep rumble. At first. As it drew closer, the rumble became louder, more pronounced, overriding the howl of wind for prominence.
Her eyes widened. “It is,” she exclaimed excitedly. “It's a truck. Garrett, we've been found!”
Her limbs still feeling leaden from their oh, so recent intimacy, she wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth down to hers for a short but very sound kiss.
Chapter 8
Murphy's Law #8: Disorder expands proportionately
to one's tolerance for it…
THE MAN WHO drove the truck was named Stephen. “With a P-H, not a V,” he'd been quick to tell Murphy and Garrett. “A-yuh. Just like that famous author down the south road a peck.”
If Murphy hoped their problems would be solved once they reached the small town of Greenville, she was mistaken. Doc Kerns, the town's only doctor, examined Garrett's leg and said that, while he could easily remove the chunk of metal, his office simply wasn't equipped to perform the intricate surgery on muscle and tendon that would be required afterward.
That meant Garrett would have to be transferred to Bangor.
Bangor was a three hour drive south in good weather.
It was decided Stephen would drive Murphy back to her brother's house, while an ambulance took Garrett to Bangor.
There was only one problem.
Leaving Garrett Thayer turned out to be one of the most difficult things Murphy had ever done. It shouldn't be, she knew. She'd known him less than twenty-four hours; leaving him should be easy. So why wasn't it?
They had a few minutes alone while Doc Kerns called for the ambulance, and Stephen helped himself to a cup of freshly brewed coffee in the pantry-sized kitchen wedged between the vacant receptionist's desk and the solitary examining room.
“Well,” Murphy said, her tone forcefully light, as she seated herself on the bench beside Garrett, “I guess this is it.”
“Guess so,” he mumbled noncommittally.
The narrow deacon's bench flanked the door of the waiting room. Glancing down, she noticed that Garrett's right thigh was now wrapped in fresh gauze; the color was a sharp contrast to his hair-dusted skin. The heat of his body warmed her; his temperature had leveled out, yet it was still high from the start of an infection. She remembered how it felt to be curled up on the hard shelf of his lap, her head braced against his chest, his heart drumming in her ear as his hand did wonderfully erotic things to her body.
Would she ever forget the time they'd spent alone in her car?
A flush stained her cheeks, and her gaze slid lower. On the floor next to Garrett's feet was the green duffel bag.
With a wince, he leaned down and picked the bag up, holding it out to her. “Do me a favor?”
She glanced up.
He glanced down.
