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I go to the driver. She—there’s a mass of dark burnished gold hair, and that hand is feminine—coughs again, and I run a hand over her. She’s not at some weird angle, and her leg moves as I touch it.
“Can you move?” I ask.
Her head comes up, hair over it, even with the soot it’s pretty hair I vaguely think as I give her another shake. She turns her head enough to look in my direction.
“I need you to move, can you do that?”
“Can’t . . . can’t . . . breathe.” She wheezes as she says this, and my heart squeezes. She coughs again. “The smoke . . .”
My brother loves to call me reckless. Says it should be my middle name. But I’m not stupid and I don’t take undue risks when it’s not about me. Taking my time checking this woman out . . . not checking her out, out, but making sure she’s not horribly injured is more reckless than moving her. I think from the croak of her voice and the wheeze it might be more smoke than anything else.
“Okay, princess,” I say, unclipping her belt and sliding my hands under and around her. “I’m Mack. I’m here to help. Gonna move you now, so work with me here. Let me know if it hurts.”
“You smell like gasoline and oil.”
“Yeah, well, I forgot to put on my Old Spice before I took this Sunday drive.” I snort.
I have her out and her hands wrap around my neck. She coughs and buries her face in my shirt and that’s when I feel the heat of the wind on my back.
“We have to move.”
But she doesn’t speak, so I’m praying I didn’t just kill her. I bundle her into my truck, slam the door, check the chain, and at the last minute, before closing the driver’s door on her fucking Audi, I do something odd.
I nab the leather straps of what turns out to be a large, sleek, black leather bag. A heavy one, with the gold corner of a laptop. Slinging it on my shoulder like I’m ready to shop ‘til I drop, I race to my door, jump in, and like some kind of weird ass train, take off with her car in tow.
* * *
The drive is hot and visibility low but improving the farther away from the fire. With a storm coming, the wind keeps shifting and has turned back on itself. So, I let out a small sigh of relief.
In the passenger seat the woman coughs and curls, then doesn’t move, just the rasp of her breath. I’ve called in already, letting Philip know I’m safe and have a possibly injured rescue, but I’ve got it all under control.
Glancing at her as I wind up over bumpy, unpaved track, the thump and trundle of her car letting me know how unhappy it is with the treatment. Another princess I decide as exactly one fat drop of rain hits my windshield.
The sky rumbles and somewhere in the distance is the flare of lightning.
Visibility might be improving but not the light. This storm’s going to be fucking huge when it decides to hit.
“I told Philip I got it under control,” I say to myself as I reach over—gloves abandoned a couple of miles back—and slide my hand over the soft skin of her arm. A little flash of lightning flares inside as I do so, warm and electric, and I check her pulse.
“Strong. Steady. You’ll live.” I pause, and shift gears, taking the track that forks off to lead us to the cabin. “Of course, I’m not a doctor, that’ll be Rose, my sister; well, she’s almost a doctor, but we’ll call her one and call it a day. I work with cars. If you were a car, you wouldn’t be stripped down for parts. On account I don’t think you’re gonna drop.”
Thank fuck my phone rings. Before I can greet my caller, my mom’s voice screeches through the speakers. “Mack!”
“Mom.” I should have known Lawson would tell on me.
“Your brother said you were being reckless—hon—and—if—into next week.”
“Uh, the signal’s crap,” I say, trying to hide my smile like the woman can actually see me.
“What—”
The phone goes dead as the sky growls loud and low.
With a sigh, I call in on the two-way again, this time to my twin. “Tell our mother I’m not twelve.”
There’s a laugh. “We’ve got this under control. Callahan said to stay at the cabin unless your rescue is bad.”
“Smoke, I think.”
