Amy Renaud
Alexandria Bay, NY
January 6, 1998
The dark back road was disappearing beyond Lana’s windshield, her ice-covered wipers losing the fight.
Where was the border?
“Should have stayed on the I-81,” Lana muttered, glancing at her map as the wheels of her Jeep went rogue, skating on black ice.
She screamed a prayer and tossed the map.
An oncoming vehicle approached. She swerved. The other car fishtailed, then lurched out of sight.
She slammed her brakes, but didn’t slow, spinning a three-sixty into the snowy ditch.
The engine cut.
She tried starting it again.
Nothing.
She slipped her keys into her coat pocket, gripped the Jeep door, and heaved her shoulder into it, lifting the latch.
No budging. She tried rolling her window down—to find a snowbank on the other side.
Lana thumped her head into the steering wheel. Her very pregnant sister expected her in Toronto tonight.
A knock came at her back window, and her heart hammered in her chest. “God, please don’t let it be a psychopath.”
Mental note: Cease the cop shows.
“You okay in there?” The man’s silhouette made her mouth go dry. “Wave if you can.”
Options.
A) Die alone in her Jeep.
B) Trust him. He’d either kill her or save her life.
She squeezed her eyes shut as her trunk door creaked open.
Rule 101 to avoid psychopaths: Lock the doors.
Fail.
Over the roar of the storm, he yelled, “Wave if you aren’t a psycho.”
Interesting.
There was only one thing to do.
She waved.
He directed a flashlight toward her, his tone urgent. “You’ll freeze to death here. My grandma’s farm is close.”
A grandma changed everything.
Lana pulled her toque tighter on her chestnut curls, then climbed to the trunk in her red sneakers and red winter coat—she loved matching her Jeep.
But the sneakers wouldn’t work.
You can take a girl out of Canada . . . but she knew better than to trek in sneakers in a winter storm.
Why hadn’t she taken everyone’s caution seriously to fill her shifts at the hospital and travel sooner?
Sitting in the trunk, she exchanged her shoes for the faded purple boots she hadn’t used since she moved from Canada to Virginia four years earlier.
“Be quick, would ya?” He held the door open, ice pellets assaulting him. “Leave the luggage.”
She nodded.
He stretched a hand to her, which she ignored.
Until her feet met ice, and he caught her waist. “Careful.”
It was nearly impossible to see his face in the darkness, but the sound of his husky voice, the feel of his strength holding her up, made her stomach summersault.
From fear or attraction? Too soon to tell.
Once her feet stopped shifting beneath her, he placed her hand in the crook of his arm, shut the door to her Jeep, and said, “Name’s Mitchel.”
“Lana.”
They inched silently on the ice rink—er, driveway—to a white farmhouse, the porch’s light guiding them.
Until it didn’t.
Mitchel flicked on his flashlight. “No power and our cars are in ditches. I’m starving. You?”
“That was you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to swerve—”
“We didn’t stand a chance on that black ice. Thankfully, we’re both okay.”
So far, not a psychopath.
They were almost to the front walkway when the ground went out from both of them at once, and they landed side by side on their backs.
Mitchel groaned, and Lana couldn’t even muster that.
The front door flew open.
An elderly voice shouted, “Mitchel, that you?”
Mitchel rolled to his side, found his feet, then reached for Lana. “It’s me, Grandma. And a friend.”
Lana slipped her mitt into Mitchel’s and he pulled her up.
Once inside, Lana found herself next to Mitchel on a sofa in front of the fireplace.
Now that she could see his face, she had trouble looking away.
Tall, dark, and handsome to a T.
Mitchel’s grandma, Dorothy, brought them each a ham sandwich and glass of water. “I told you not to come in this storm.”
“Had to check on you, Grandma. And it’s a good thing I did, or Lana would still be stuck in that ditch.”
Between the fire and Mitchel’s wink, she’d be warm for days.
Dorothy patted Mitchel’s shoulder. “I fixed up two guest rooms, but they will be cold without the furnace running. My room has a fireplace, but you two might want to get comfy here in the living room. The storm will be worse tomorrow, you know.”
Once she left them, Lana said, “I should have bought a cell phone before starting this trip. My sister will worry.”
Mitchel reached to a side table where an ancient-looking rotary sat. His eyebrows arched. “There’s a dial tone.”
Lana reached for the receiver. She said Kristina’s number slowly as he turned the dial on the phone, the curly wire pulling Lana close to him.
Kristina answered instantly.
After quickly filling Kristina in, and providing Dorothy’s phone number, the line went dead.
Lana passed the receiver back. “Sorry, you probably have a girlfriend or someone to reassure.”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“You?”
“Nope.” Lana rolled her lips together.
A million minutes, or maybe just a moment, passed—the air charged with something that scorched Lana’s cheeks. She still hadn’t sat back, and did so now.
But for some reason she couldn’t glance away. “Game of cards?”
“If we play quietly. Grandma loves card—”
“Right, we don’t want to wake her.”
Something flirty flashed in his eyes and he looked about to speak.
He shook his head, clearly changing his mind.
She bit her lip. Oh, to know what he had been about to say.
“Hold on.” Mitchel headed toward the kitchen and quickly returned with a deck of cards, chocolate, and another log for the fire.
“I was scared you were a psychopath too,” Lana admitted.
“I could tell.” He smirked and tugged one of her curls. “You aren’t, though, right?”
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