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She gave an exaggerated sigh and resumed pedaling. “‘Fun’ is a little generous, Dan.”
“Just keep thinking how good the ice cream will taste when we get there.”
“Can’t wait.” Ice-cream incentive sure worked in this direction, although some of these long hills would definitely be a challenge on the way back. At least she’d be freshly fattened up.
He flashed his dimples. “See you at the finish line.”
“I didn’t realize this was a race!”
He laughed, stretching his lead as they rounded the corner before the highway. Bitumen made the ride smoother, but the traffic was a little scary. She took a shaky breath, glancing up to see Dan way ahead of her, like he was competing in the Tour de France. He wasn’t worried. Why should she be?
She pedaled on, wiping sweat onto her shorts, and chanced a look at her thighs. It probably wouldn’t hurt to get a little more exercise now and again. Must be the effect of hanging out with someone who looked like he could be on the cover of a sports magazine. He probably had been, she mused, or maybe fronted an advertising campaign. Mr. Rugged Sports Star Celebrity…
But in addition to his looks, Dan was good company, easy to be with, with no pretense. These past few days they’d talked for hours about all kinds of things: their churches, sponsor kids, theology, teaching, music, mission trips, Toronto, Sydney. He’d shared about hockey. She’d talked about her two years writing and singing for Heartsong. They’d discussed favorite movies, food, songs, Bible verses—the last driving her to wrestle with what she thought she knew, to dig deeper, just as their argument about thankfulness had done. The past eighteen months of social distance had obviously created a backlog of conversation—she hadn’t talked this much in years. Something about this place made it so easy to be open. Or maybe it was just being with Dan. Ange and John were right—he was a genuinely good guy.
She glanced up to realize they’d pulled into town. She’d happily tootled along behind him, but the sudden near whiz of the cars set her heart racing.
“Sarah, over here!” Dan waved from the other side of the road, having somehow made it across the busy highway without her noticing.
Oh no. Her confidence drained away. Cars kept flying by as Dan waited, wearing that same patient look she’d seen him sport a dozen times before. Traffic drove on the opposite side of the road here. Which way was she supposed to look again? Was it right, then left, then right, or the other way around?
Be brave.
She sucked in a breath, steadied her wobbly bike. She could do this. Time to just screw up her courage and go—
“Sarah! Look out!”
BANG!
* * *
“Sarah!”
Terror clawed up Dan’s throat as he raced past the line of honking cars to where she lay crumpled on the side of the road. She’d pulled straight into the path of a car turning left, then in a crazy, miraculous maneuver, had somehow swerved, missing the car but skidding into a roadside barrier where she lay prone now. Why on earth had he thought this was such a great idea?God, let her be okay!
He reached her side, dropped to his knees, and touched her face. “Sarah?”
Her eyelids fluttered open.
Warmth rushed through his chest.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see her! Is she alive?” The elderly female driver climbed from her sedan, gasping, shaking, looking like she was verging on hysteria.
“Yes.” Dan exhaled. Thank God Sarah hadn’t been hit. Thank God for people helping calm the driver and move traffic away. And thank God for bike helmets. Otherwise, Sarah might be—
She groaned.
Dan smoothed some hair from her eyes. “Hey, Princess. You’re gonna be okay.” He glanced at her legs. Winced. It looked like she’d trailed her skin halfway across the road. Blood was smeared down her legs, oozing from a hash of grazes. Her elbows hadn’t fared much better. His stomach turned. Blood always made him queasy. “But, Sar, I think you need a hospital.”
Her slightly unfocused green eyes suddenly cleared, and she shook her head, groaning again as she tried sitting up. “No, no hospital.”
“You might have a concussion. You need to get checked over and have those scrapes dealt with.”
“No.” She shoved his arm away, pitching forward with a gasp. “I’m fine. I might need some Band-Aids maybe, but no doctor—and definitelynohospital.”
Her fierce look pushed further argument down. He’d just call a doctor later. Hockey had shown him potential concussion couldn’t be dismissed lightly.
“Help me up?”
