“Keep talking! I—” he hesitated. Suddenly, his voice seemed closer. “Wait! I see the sweater now! Hold on!”
Moira found the shard of plastic and snatched it up. She couldn’t take any chances. She took a deep breath and looked up at the edge of the pit. She half expected to see a rifle barrel pointed down at her—instead of a friendly face.
She heard bushes rustling, and the ground vibrated slightly as he zeroed in on her. A bit of soot shook loose from between the old, rotting boards at the top of the pit. Moira put her hand up to cover her eyes.
When she took her hand away, she could see a handsome man gazing down at her. “Oh, my God,” he murmured. “Here I was thinking somebody was playing a prank on me. Are you hurt?”
Shivering, Moira smiled. He seemed nice. “I might have sprained my ankle when I fell in here,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone was ever going to come by. I’ve been stuck down here for two hours.”
He cleared some branches away and then took off his navy corduroy jacket. Bending over the pit, he lowered the jacket down to her. “Grab on to the sleeve,” he said. “I’ll try to pull you up.”
“Thank you, thank you so much,” Moira said in a raspy voice. She dropped the plastic shard and then reached for the sleeve.
He let out a grunt as he tried to pull her up. More dirt came loose at the edge of the trench and fell onto her face. She kept her head turned away and held on. Her feet had just left the ground when she heard a tearing noise. “The sleeve!” she cried. “It’s ripping!”
“Okay, okay,” he said, gently lowering her back down.
Moira let go of the jacket, and he hoisted it back up. He examined the torn seam at the shoulder. “Goddamn cheap J. Crew!” he muttered. He glanced down at her again. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Moira,” she said.
“I’m Jake. Listen, I’m going to get you out of there, Moira. I have some rope in the car. I’ll be right back. Stay there, okay?”
“Stay here?” she repeated. “Yeah, I’ll try not to wander off.”
He laughed. “Hey, cut me a break. I’ve never rescued a damsel in distress before. Sorry if I suck at it.” He lowered the jacket back down to her. “Here, you look cold. The sleeve’s torn, but at least it’s warm. I’m keeping your sweater out here for a marker.” He let go of his end of the jacket, and it fell on top of her. “If you’re hungry, there’s a Twix bar in one of the pockets. I’ll be right back, okay?”
Moira put on the oversized jacket. She glanced up—just as he started to move away. “Jake?” she called.
He peered down at her again. “Yeah?”
She smiled up at him. “I think you’re a very good rescuer.”
He smiled back at her and then ducked away. She could feel the ground shaking a bit as he ran off.
He was right. The corduroy jacket was warm—and it smelled of a musky, spicy men’s cologne. And yes, there was a Twix bar in the pocket. She ate it slowly, savoring every bite. The smooth chocolate seemed to help coat her sore throat.
Moira glanced over at what was left of the SPY-TELL 300 Motion Sensor—the shattered plastic pieces and metal parts in the corner of the pit. She felt the lump in the pocket of her jeans, where she’d stashed the tortoiseshell barrette. If her theory was right about whoever had set up this trap, the son of a bitch wouldn’t be hunting after today.
Once Jake got her to a hospital, she’d call the police. And while she was at it, she’d get word to Leo and Jordan that she was okay—if they even cared.
Moira glanced at her wristwatch. He’d been gone at least ten minutes. Every second dragged—now that she was so close to getting out of there. “Jake?” she called anxiously.
But there was no answer. Had he driven off? No, she would have heard his car. Maybe he’d run into the demented person who had set this trap. Or maybe there were other concealed pits around here, and he’d fallen in one and broken his neck.
“JAKE, ARE YOU THERE?” she cried out.
“Moira?” she heard him respond in the distance. “You didn’t wander off, did you? Took me a while to—” He let out an abbreviated yell.
Moira heard a thud. She held a hand to her throat and listened to the silence.
“Jake, are you okay?” she nervously asked.
There was no answer, but she could hear a rustling noise, and the ground shook as someone approached the trench. Moira shrank against the dirt wall and gazed up.
“Jake, is that you?”
“I tripped over the stupid rope,” she heard him say.
She let out a sigh and laughed.
He peeked down at her. “I figured you were thirsty—if you don’t mind my germs. Here, catch….” He tossed her a bottle of Evian.
She gratefully guzzled half of it while he lowered the rope down to her.
He told her to tie it around her waist and hold on. It was a struggle, but with her one good foot she got some leverage and pushed up while he tugged at the rope. Even with the cool breeze, she felt warmer as she got closer to the surface. The air was fresh. She could take a deep breath and not taste dirt.
Once he’d hoisted her up past the edge of the pit, they both collapsed on the ground. Moira lay there for a minute, half laughing, half crying. “Thank you,” she gasped. “Thank you so much….”
He helped her to her feet, but her ankle gave out. So she held on to her sweater and the rope while he carried her piggyback-style down the trail along the hill. Moira realized how horrible she must look—and smell. She was so embarrassed, yet she fiercely clung to him. “I’m not too heavy, am I?” she asked.
“I’ve gone hiking with backpacks that are a lot heavier than you—and not nearly as pretty,” he replied.
He told her he was from Everett. He’d come up to Cullen to tour the winery and camp out for the night. He was supposed to meet some friends up here. “I think they’re waiting for me,” he said, out of breath, as they neared his car. His black Jetta was parked on the shoulder of a two-lane road. “My pals can wait a little longer. Let’s get you to a hospital first—or at least the local country doctor.”
He opened the back door and then gently set her down.
“I can ride up front with you,” Moira said.
“With that bum ankle, you’re better off stretching out in the back here,” he advised. He took the rope from her and tossed it on the floor of the backseat. Then he put his arm around her.
Moira leaned on him as she hobbled the few steps to the backseat. It smelled like stale McDonald’s French fries in his car.
“Let’s take a look at that ankle,” he said, crouching down beside her. He untied her tennis shoe and then carefully pulled it off. He rolled down her sock. “Does this hurt?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Sorry.” He pulled off her sock and then handed it to her—along with the shoe.
Moira was more concerned—and embarrassed—about her foot odor. This guy really was getting her at her worst.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Can you wiggle your foot a little?”
She tried, but it hurt. “Ouch,” she said, forcing a laugh.
He rubbed her shoulder. “Feels like you’re wearing a bra. Are you wearing a bra?”
Baffled, Moira gazed at him. “What?”
He glanced down at her foot again. “God, that looks really horrible….”
Moira wondered what the hell her bra had to do with anything. Was he planning to make some kind of sling device for her leg or something? She let out a puzzled laugh.
He straightened up and pointed to her foot. “Take a look at it,” he sighed. “That ankle is bad news.”
Leaning forward, she gazed down at her ankle. It appeared slightly swollen, but not nearly as awful as he’d made out.
“I can’t believe it,” she heard him say. “You smashed up my motion detector, you bitch.”
Moira looked up in time to see him raising a blackjack in the air.
