When Hearts Collide - By James, Kendra Page 0,4

control the migration as his body twisted away from the pain. She tried to block out the sharp cry of pain when his feet made contact with the ground. Closing her eyes, Molly waited until the moans ceased and he was still again.

“I need to get you away from the car. I’m so sorry, Pearce. I don’t mean to hurt you.” His name slid off her lips without a second thought.

The blanket formed a hammock, and she used it to drag him a safe distance from the Jaguar. His feet extended four inches beyond the border of blanket and the heels of his polished leather shoes left a twin snake’s trail in the gravel.

He lay on his back, his head and neck safely aligned. He was breathing, and his pulse, though rapid, was regular. Molly did a visual exam. Other than the odd angle of his left leg, and the bump and cut on the back of his head, she saw no other injury. She ran her hands over his upper limbs. They seemed intact.

“I need to check your chest,” Molly informed him. He remained silent.

Unbuttoning his cotton shirt, Molly surveyed the broad chest. She wished she had a stethoscope to listen to his heart, to hear the whoosh of air into his lungs. Relying on the moonlight to see the rise and fall of his ribcage was like using fireflies to follow a forest trail at midnight.

Molly laid her palm on the dark thatch of chest hair. The movement of his ribcage, though shallow, was even. Her sudden urge to run her fingers through the soft hairs and trace the line of his abdomen had nothing to do with checking for injuries. Shocked at her response, Molly concentrated on determining his injuries. She slid her hand across his abdomen. It was taut, rigid, not totally due to his six-pack abs. Pearce moaned at her touch. Abdominal trauma? How bad? His spleen? His liver?

“Where does it hurt?”

He moaned and tried to move, then went still again.

Molly surveyed his left leg. There was no question it was broken. She skimmed her hands over the right leg. There was no blood, no obvious deformity, no moan of pain, hopefully, no injury.

The wind had picked up, and Molly listened to it howl through the forest. She concentrated, but there still was no wail of a siren. The break needed to be stabilized. What could she use? She ran through the contents of her car. The ice-scraper. She could use that.

Molly ran back to the Jaguar and collected the first-aid kit and the telescoping ice-scraper. Another idea came to her as she raced to her car. She glanced in the back. The child seemed to be sleeping.

Was she okay? Did she have concealed injuries? Was she unconscious?

A hard lump formed in her throat as Molly leaned into the car and reached out to touch her. The child’s skin felt warm, and by the car’s interior light, she could see her color remained pink. Sighing with relief, Molly picked up a plump arm and palpated her wrist for a pulse. She tapped her foot with the reassuring rhythmic romp of Gracie’s heart. The child let out a soft sigh, shifted, then stayed sheltered in the deep sleep of innocence. Molly eased the door shut.

She grabbed an umbrella from the trunk’s wheel well and hurried back to Pearce. With the umbrella on one side of his broken leg and the metal ice-scraper on the other, Molly used strips of rag and towel to form a crude splint. Pearce groaned, and Molly saw the momentary wince of pain cross his face as she secured the splint around his leg.

“It will settle soon,” she whispered.

She hovered over him, waiting for him to react again, or rouse, or become uncooperative. He did none of those things. As much to reassure herself as him, she whispered in his ear, “Don’t move. You were in a car accident. You need to stay still. The ambulance is coming.” She placed a second blanket over him.

Blood trickled down the left side of his head, matting his hair like crimson styling gel. The swelling had increased. Molly placed gauze over the laceration and secured it with a cloth encircling his head. The wrap, angled across his forehead and part of his left eye, made him look like a dashing pirate.

She examined the aristocratic face. The bones were all angles and harsh edges, conveying character—definitely a face to generate a second look. The salt