A Knight In Rusty Armor. Dixie Browning
twenty years in the Coast Guard taught a man, it was the importance of discipline. Even when some cheese-for-brains idiot parked on the centerline, completely blocking the narrow highway.
He watched for a full minute while a crazy woman launched an all-out attack on the car, a yellow, vinyl-topped clunker. It wasn’t the first time Travis Holiday had seen a tire being kicked. It was, however, the first time he’d seen a car being flogged to death with a ladies’ shoulder bag.
Not that he could blame her, if the thing had conked out on her with no warning in the middle of a storm with night coming on fast.
Pulling his own vehicle as far off the highway as possible, Trav switched off the engine, zipped up his sheepskin-lined leather jacket, battled the wind for possession of the door and climbed out of the high cab. Crazy or not, this was no place for a woman alone Hatteras Island was safer than most places, especially this time of year when there were few strangers around, but even so...
“Ma’am?” Either she didn’t hear him or she chose to ignore him. Squinting against the wet, gale-force winds that screamed in off the Atlantic, he gave it another try.
He was no more than a few yards away when she turned to confront him. He’d seen the look before, having done his share of search-and-rescue missions. Shock, stress, stark terror—he’d seen it all.
What he saw this time was wild, wet hair blowing in the wind, a thin face that was ghost pale except for a pair of big, red-rimmed eyes and a red-tipped nose. She didn’t look too thrilled at being rescued.
“Listen, lady, you can‘t—” She took a tighter grip on her purse. Good God, did she think he was after her money? “Ma’am, nobody’s going to hurt you.” He held up his hands, palms out, to let her knew he wasn’t armed. Hell, she was more dangerous than he was, the way she was swinging that leather sack of hers. “Ma’am, you don’t need to be out here in this mess. You’re getting soaked.”
She was not only soaking wet, she was crying. Either that or she’d got sand in her eyes. She sucked in air and swallowed hard. Trav could actually see her throat working. There was an emergency blanket under the seat of his truck, but he wasn’t too eager to turn his back on her. She might even take a notion to walk off into the ocean. He’d seen crazier reactions from people in a severe state of shock.
She continued to stare at him. He stared right back, trying to infuse the look with reassurance. Trying to look benign, harmless, helpful.
It obviously wasn’t working. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”
Stupid question. Her bottom lip trembled, and he swore under his breath. Lady, don’t do this to me. He retreated a step, then stood his ground, braced in case she hurled herself into his arms. It was a dumb idea, one that came and went in a split second—something about the way she was looking at him.
But she didn’t budge, and neither did he. What with all the crap blowing in the air, he told himself he must have misinterpreted the fleeting look on her face. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d misread a woman’s intentions.
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t stop in the middle of the highway. With dark coming on, you could get rammed.”
She went right on staring at him. Didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink.
“One way or another,” he said, feigning patience, “we’re going to have to get your car off the road. Do you think you can steer if I push?”
Finally, something got through. He let out a gust of relief as she cautiously lowered the purse she’d been holding as if it were part shield, part weapon. “Of course I can steer. Will you use your truck?”
“Probably be the best way,” he said, careful not to sound sarcastic. What did she think he was going to do, break his back trying to shove a ton and a half of junk metal off the road manually? “We’re going to have a problem with the bumpers. I’ll try to go easy, but you might end up with a dent on your rear end.”
As if one more scar on that battered old carcass would make any difference in her blue-book value, which would be about a buck ninety-nine, tops.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get in, take her out of gear, and once you feel me engage your backside, steer as far over to the right as you can without going off onto the shoulder. You can’t see it now, but there’s about three feet of paved bicycle path underneath the sand. Try your best to stay on it, okay?”
She nodded, but didn’t make a move. Trav shrugged, stepped past her to open the door. Once she got in, he scooped the long, flapping tail of her wet coat out of the way and slammed the door shut.
Cashmere, he thought. He was no expert, but he’d lay odds the coat she was wearing was cashmere. He hoped to hell it was warmer than it looked. The temperature was in the high thirties, but with the rain and the wind-chill factor, it must be somewhere near zilch.
His bumper made contact about halfway up her trunk. It was going to do some damage, but a car coming over the dune at high speed would do considerably more. Even if he got her off the road, there was no guarantee her car would be here by the time a tow truck could get up the beach, what with the wind, the tide and the drifting sand.
Gently he pushed the elderly, banana-colored four-door far enough over to the edge that another vehicle could pass. He waited, and when the woman didn’t climb out again he went and opened her door. “Ma’am, you can’t stay here. Tide’s on the way in. With the wind out of the northeast, I can’t let you risk it. I’ll drive you wherever you’re headed and call the garage for your car.”
Not that he held out much hope of getting a tow truck out before morning, but if he was any judge, the sooner she reached her destination, got out of those wet clothes and into something warm and dry, the better off she’d be, he thought as he helped her into his passenger seat.
Unless he was very much mistaken, she was one sick puppy. She kept swallowing. From the way she winced, Trav figured it was a pretty painful process.
Tooling south along the narrow stretch of beach, he shot her a worried glance from time to time. There wasn’t enough light to take in many details, but he didn’t need to. Having recently retired after a twenty-year career, he had filed his last report. Still, some habits were hard to break, so he mentally filed away a few particulars.
Age? Probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five. Eyes, gray. Or possibly a dull shade of blue or green—it was hard to tell in this light. Definitely redrimmed, though. As for her nose, it was short, straight, narrow, red and shiny. Prominent cheekbones, but that might be just the shadowy hollows underneath.
She was thin. Skinny, in fact. He was no expert on the female form, but she reminded him of the way a high-fashion model might look after a weeklong binge of dieting.
He had a feeling there was more to her story than that.
He also had a feeling he didn’t want to hear it.
Trav was Coast Guard. Retirement couldn’t change a lifetime of tradition, not to mention conditioning. If he came across someone who needed rescuing, he did the job. But that didn’t mean he had to take on their personal problems. He had enough of those himself.
“Where’re you headed?” She must be a local. This time of year, tourists were a rare species. Or in this case, an endangered species.
She named a restaurant in Hatteras village on the far end of the island. He’d never eaten there, but he’d heard it was pretty good.
“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously, “but I think it might be shut down for the winter.”
“I’ve been offered a job there.”
A job. Right. He didn’t know who she was, much less what she was doing here, but he did know that waitresses didn’t usually turn up out of season wearing cashmere coats, looking feverish and hungry and lost. “You’re sure about that? Not much business down here this time of year.”
“Just