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started thinking of him as her stranger—suddenly stood.
    “I’ll just go in to the men’s room there and wash up,” he said, indicating the store. He started away, rounding the Trans Am and fuel island with a stiff but steady enough stride.
    She snatched her purse from the truck and hurried after him, asking, “Are you sure you should move a lot?” She tried to get close enough to be ready should something happen, like his keeling over, and when he stopped to open the door, she was so close that she bumped up against him.
    “I’ll be fine, if you don’t manage to knock me down,” he said and went on into the men’s room.
    She took the opportunity to go into the ladies’ room, where she combed her wind-blown hair. If she had one vanity, it was her hair, her best feature in her own and everyone else’s estimation; auburn, verging on true red in the sunlight, it waved and swirled to her shoulders. It always seemed to draw a man’s eye. She checked her makeup to make certain she didn’t have any mascara smudges, and she freshened her lipstick, a natural dusky peach. With relief, she noted that the finish on her fingernails still looked respectable. There were few things she disliked more than tacky chipped nails.
    When she emerged from the ladies’ room, she saw her passenger walking down one of the aisles. Going directly to him, she noted that he appeared to have regained his full strength. His hair was damp, freshly combed back and shiny.
    “Do you feel better?” she asked. In that split second she realized she was as disappointed as she was relieved—her ministrations would not be needed.
    When he turned to her, she saw that his eyes were a soft brown, like a buckeye seed, with very long lashes for a man. They had cleared completely, but she was somewhat jolted by a shadow of sadness within them.
    “I’m okay,” he said, averting his eyes. “Except for a headache.” He took a box of ibuprofen from the shelf.
    “Maybe you shouldn’t take any before you see a doctor—in case you have a concussion.”
    “I’m awake and responsive, and I have a headache,” he said, then walked to the counter to pay.
    She went slowly after him, feeling a disquieting sensation—a sense of being dragged along by circumstances that wanted to get out of hand. She watched him shake three ibuprofen tabletsinto his wide palm and pop them into his mouth before she could point out that the directions on the bottle said one, two maximum, unless instructed by a physician.
    She halfway expected him to start coughing, the pills lodging in his dry throat. Then she realized that he was very tall. She herself was just over five foot six, and she was looking up at him. A thick strand of his dark hair had fallen down over his forehead. He rubbed his hand over the back of his hair in an absentminded manner.
    Still a little concerned about the ibuprofen, she suggested a snack. He tersely declined food of any sort but said he would have some coffee. He stepped to the coffeemaker, but she was closer and got it for him, while he stood beside her. She got herself a Coke. He dug into his pocket for money to pay, but she came up with bills first. After she paid, she turned to see him frowning at her. He said a brusque, “Thank you,” and she said equally tersely, “No problem.”
    Without further comment, they took their drinks back out to her rig. Okay, Lord, now what? Rainey thought. How did she manage to get herself into such situations? It occurred to her that she didn’t know his name.
    When the puppy yipped at them as they approached, she recalled him with some surprise. He had shown amazing restraint in not getting out of the truck. She thought that if he got out, she could just drive off and leave him. He probably had that all figured out.
    Turning, she went to check Lulu, feeling a little guilty for not looking in on the mare first thing upon stopping. Lulu was dozing and disinclined to stir enough to look out the open window,