Page 2 of Hidden
Deciding to follow the other car’s progress from the safety of his own, he eased his foot off the brake. The truck crawled forward, crossing over one set of tracks, then over the location of the spin. He expected the lines to straighten and head off the road, but while they did straighten, the driver experienced a second spin. Perhaps he, or she, had overcorrected and sent the car careening in the opposite direction. Not unheard of. And scary as hell.
Finally, forty feet after the damaged snow pole, his lights reflected off something red. A taillight. His heart hitched as he considered the fear the driver must have felt in those last seconds before impact. But even as he allowed himself to acknowledge the emotion, he was already making a plan. He’d check the occupant, or occupants, of the vehicle and assess any injuries. Only after that would he decide whether to call for help.
After guiding his truck off the road as far as was safe, he donned his coat, hat, and gloves, then exited the vehicle. Freezing air nipped at his nose and stiffened the denim of his jeans. As he stepped to the back door of his extended cab, the icy material brushed his legs with each step, sending chills through his body. Quickly grabbing the medical bag he always carried, he shut the door and started toward the damaged car. Wishing he had snowshoes, but grateful that the wind hadn’t kicked up, he slogged through the ten inches of snow to the other side of the road.
It took him longer than he would have liked to reach the car—or SUV, he noted as he came closer. A deep green Mercedes G-Class sat with its nose facing down the hill. Fortunately, the embankments weren’t steep in this section of the rural highway. But even so, all he could see from the shoulder was the taillight and bumper peering up at him.
With a car like that, he doubted the driver was from the area. Not many locals would drive a $150,000 SUV when a solid pickup or Jeep would do. Then again, most locals wouldn’t be out in this kind of storm. Not unless it was an emergency.
But he wasn’t there to judge, he was there to help. And besides, he’d taken it on himself to drive home, too. He could hardly cast stones at other folks on the road.
“Hello?” he called as he approached the SUV. He put a hand on the rear window as he paused to determine the best way to the driver’s door. He breathed a little easier when he noticed that the car had barely crumpled when it came to rest against a sturdy pine. He could see spider web cracks in the windshield, but it hadn’t shattered.
“Hello?” he called again, inching his way alongside the car toward the front. Snow soaked the calves of his jeans, and icy water dripped down his legs and into his boots. Not enough to make them soggy, but enough for the cold to curl around his ankles and snake its way down to his feet.
Concerned about the lack of response from the driver, he pushed the discomfort from his mind and closed the final distance to the front door. Three feet from his destination, his foot slid out from under him. His left arm shot out to help him balance, and the medical bag banged against his forearm, sending him even more helter-skelter. Frantically grasping for something to hold on to, his right hand smacked against the rear door. The cold intensified the sting, but somehow he got his fingers wrapped around the handle. His shoulder burned with the weight of keeping himself upright—and out of the snow—but he tightened his grip and held on.
His descent slowed then stopped. He remained still and took a moment to regain his equilibrium. When he was sure he could get his feet back under him, he righted himself, tested his balance, then let go of the door handle.
And realized that even in that ruckus, the driver hadn’t made a peep.
As a doctor, he knew that injuries caused by the collision weren’t the only possibility for the driver’s silence. Strokes, heart attacks, seizures, and other medical incidents caused their fair share of accidents. He had no idea what he’d find when he looked through the driver’s door, but there was only one way to find out.
Inching forward, he came abreast of the window. Already covered in a thin layer of snow, he could only make out a lump of a form leaning against the steering wheel. Clearing the window, he peered inside.
The lump was indeed a person. The only one in the car. And judging by the clothing and the fall of long dark hair, a woman. He knocked on the window and when again he got no response, his heart rate kicked up. The airbag had deployed and already deflated. Her hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two. And her forehead rested against its top.
From what he could see, there was no reason the accident should leave her unresponsive.
Reaching for the handle, he tried the door. Only to find it locked. He banged again on the window. And kept banging as he assessed what kind of aid he might need to provide.
He was considering grabbing the glass breaker from his bag when the woman finally stirred. She shifted back from the steering wheel but paused midway. She lingered in that position, no doubt confused by what had happened. Maybe even wondering where she was. He could sympathize. Even the most minor of accidents often took a moment to process.
He stepped back so his face wasn’t right in the window—no need to scare her to death—and knocked again. This time more gently. He still couldn’t see her face, but her hands were fine-boned and, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, her nails were painted a deep gray. Or maybe black. And she wore a hunter-green ribbed turtleneck sweater. Something that looked warmandelegant, rather than just the latter.
He watched her take a few breaths, then slowly, she turned toward him. Her hair caught on her shoulder as she moved, framing her face. And when she lifted her dark eyes to his, he couldn’t have stopped the quick inhalation of surprise even if he’d tried.
Because looking back at him was Ellie Cavanaugh. America’s Sweetheart, multiple Oscar and Golden Globe winner. Often called one of the most beautiful women in the world.
Yes,thatEllie Cavanaugh.
But in the next beat of his heart, he pushed that surprise aside. Right now, her job—her stardom—didn’t matter. She’d been in an accident, maybe injured, and she needed help.
He lifted his hand and pointed to the door—where, in an older-model car, the lock would have been. She blinked at him, frowned, then gave a little shake of her head before reaching to the dash and hitting a button.
As soon as the lock clicked open, he reached for the handle. Only to pause when she drew away and fear flashed in her eyes. He dropped his hand. Of course she was afraid—he might know who she was, but she had no idea who he was. He lifted his medical bag.
“I’m a doctor,” he said, hoping she could hear him through the window. “You’ve been in an accident. You need help.”
She studied him with familiar eyes then shifted her gaze to the cracked windshield before returning it to him. Her brow furrowed a hint, then she reached for the handle herself.
Grateful for her decision to trust him, he grabbed the edge of the door as she pushed it open.
He blocked it from opening too far, though. “It’s cold out here. Before we get the door open, do you have a coat or something you could wrap around you?”
When she reached to the seat beside her, he saw a small burn on her wrist—likely from the airbag. But otherwise, he cataloged no blood and no bruises. Overall, she appeared unharmed. At least from the spin and the impact.
When she had the coat tucked around the front of her, he eased the door open.
