Judy Christenberry - Snowbound Sweetheart

“Nice ring. A gift?”

“Yes.”

Aha. So she had some man on a string, willing to buy her expensive things. He remembered when he’d first fallen for Amanda. He’d prided himself on buying her what she wanted. Until he realized that was all she wanted. Real emotions—even love—meant nothing to her.

When Lindsay gasped again, he brought his attention back to the road. A car that had just passed by them went into a spin. It narrowly missed going over the side as it came to rest against the railing.

“You okay?” he asked, studying her to determine whether she would be able to continue driving.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “Should we stop to help them?”

“There’s not a lot we could do. Unless you want to call 911 for them.”

“My cell phone is in my purse. Could you call for me? I want to concentrate on my driving.”

He found the phone and called in the near accident. After hanging up, he said, “They promised to send a cop to check on them.”

“Thank you.”

“They were going too fast,” he added.

She sent him a look that told him she got his less than subtle message. But, in truth, she was keeping her speed down. In fact, she was doing a good job with her driving, though he hated to admit it.

He checked his watch. It was already after three. They’d been driving almost two hours and hadn’t gotten out of Chicago yet.

She must’ve caught his movement out of the corner of her eye because she asked, “What time is it?”

“Almost three-thirty.”

Though she frowned, she didn’t say anything.

He settled more comfortably in his seat. “If you get tired of driving, I can spell you.”

She didn’t answer for a minute. Then she said, “They don’t get much snow in Oklahoma.”

So she doubted his skills? “I lived in New York for almost ten years.”

“In New York City? I didn’t think many people drove in the city.”

“We had a house in upstate New York, spent weekends there, particularly in the winter because of the skiing.” He’d enjoyed the skiing. But he hadn’t enjoyed the collection of people his wife invited to join them. They’d been her friends, not his.

“I guess you don’t get much skiing in Apache.”

“Nope. But I’ve made several trips to Colorado since I moved back.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Ranching.”

“In New York City?” she asked, her voice rising in surprise.

“No, not in New York City. I was a stockbroker there.” And he’d been one of the best. Which had made it possible for him to come back to Oklahoma and buy his ranch, even after the divorce.

“Do you miss being a stockbroker?”

“Nope.” Which was the truth, but he didn’t mention that he still bought and sold stocks, managing his personal fortune. He was also doing some investing for Rafe, his ranch manager, who had become a good friend and a mentor. Gil wanted to make it possible for Rafe to achieve his own dream.

Staring out the window, he realized the snow was getting thicker. “Can you still see well enough to keep going? Maybe we should stop while we can still find a hotel and wait until morning.” He didn’t want to do that, but he also didn’t want to become a frozen Popsicle on the side of the road.

“No, I want to keep going. I have snow tires on my car.” She leaned forward to concentrate on her driving, and Gil figured she’d be sore before too long. The tension would make her ache.

He said nothing. She’d probably offer to dump him out on the closest sidewalk if he protested. And he had to admit they could still maneuver fairly well. But he wasn’t sure how long that would be true.

An hour later, they were still struggling along, the snow several inches deep. He’d pulled his sheepskin-lined jacket into the front seat and draped it over himself. Lindsay, though occasionally shivering, said nothing.

He felt like a cur, sitting back and warm while she shivered and drove through the storm, but he’d offered to drive. And he’d asked her about her coat. And she’d responded to both those questions with a snarl.

So he kept quiet.

“I’m sure we’ll be clear of the snow if we can just get to St. Louis,” she said suddenly.

“I won’t argue with that,” he agreed, but he had his doubts about making it that far.

“Or even Springfield,” she added, sending him a hopeful look.

He stared straight ahead. Then they passed a sign showing an exit for a town named Pontiac. “How far is Pontiac from Springfield?”

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

He opened the glove compartment and took out the larger map covering the Midwest. After a brief calculation, he looked at her. “I believe it’s over eighty miles.”

She pressed her lips tightly together and said nothing.

Neither did he, but he didn’t think they’d make it eighty miles before midnight. Not when they were only going about fifteen miles an hour.

Finally, he said, “I’m willing to pull over and find a place to stay to wait this out, whenever you’re ready. You know we’re not going to be able to drive straight through at this rate.”

She shook her head. “We’ll be able to go a lot faster as soon as we outrun the snowstorm.”

Stubborn woman. He couldn’t argue with her statement. In fact, he totally agreed with her. The disagreement came in exactly when they’d outrun the snowstorm.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked. “We might get some weather news.”

“No, of course not. That’s a good idea.” She reached for the radio herself.

“I’ll handle the radio, since you’re driving.” He thought he’d put that tactfully, and her hand returned to the steering wheel, leaving it to him to find a station.

“This is a weather bulletin,” the announcer said. “Forecasters say the storm will still intensify for the next few hours. However, the snow should taper off by morning.”

“By morning!” Lindsay exclaimed.

Gil said nothing. He didn’t think urging Lindsay to give up would be effective. The hardheaded woman would probably refuse to do so because she didn’t want to give in to a man’s advice. He understood a woman’s resistance to male domination, but not in the face of common sense.

“Lindsay, the snow’s almost half a foot deep now. We’re not going to be able to go much farther. Don’t you want to look for shelter while we can?” he finally asked.

She said nothing, leaning farther over the steering wheel, her gaze glued to the road in front of them.

Gil sighed.

Abruptly, she put on her blinker light, taking him by surprise. “You’re stopping?” he asked.

Though her face remained grim, she nodded. “There’s a small town here, according to that sign. I guess we’d better stop while we can.”

“Good thinking,” he agreed, as if it had been her idea. He didn’t care who got credit for stopping, as long as they did so.

The exit road was downhill and they skidded several times negotiating it. When they reached the bottom, they discovered another sign, pointing out that the small town they’d sought was another four miles down the road.

“Rats!” Lindsay exclaimed, frowning fiercely.

“We can make it,” Gil assured her. Four miles on level road would be a hell of a lot better than trying to go uphill to get back on the freeway.

“We don’t have much choice,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“Want me to drive?”

She glared at him. “No.”

He drew a deep breath and leaned back, trying to give the impression of complete relaxation.

Half an hour later, they reached the city limits of Witherspoon.

“Where is it?” Lindsay demanded in frustration.

“I think I see a few buildings. Keep going.”