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certain—despite the fact that he was prone, he seemed awfully long. Also, it looked as if he was composed of pure muscle. That meant he’d be heavy. She’d never been that thrilled with her own figure, because, basically, there wasn’t enough of it. She wasn’t exactly a weakling, but she was a probably-too-slim hundred and ten pounds stretched out on a five-seven frame.
    â€œAll right, if I’m hurting you, I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to try to get you into the car.”
    She stood, trying to figure it out. She’d have to grab him by the feet.
    As she did so, she noted his boots were like nothing she had ever seen before. They were reproductions, she was sure, but they must have cost a mint—they had been singularly crafted and were sewn, sole to body, with leather strips meticulously threaded by hand.
    Quit with worrying about his state of dress! she warned herself in a puffing silence. He was heavy. She was barely managing to drag him a quarter incha second. She could hear herself grunting and puffing in the cold air, and yet she was straining so hard that it seemed her muscles and lungs were on fire.
    Then, suddenly, words in a deep, masculine and explosive tone sounded loudly against the stark landscape.
    â€œGood woman! What on God’s own earth are you doing to me?”
    She dropped his ankles and stared at him, speechless. He was still stretched out, but sitting up, legs out in the snow, staring at her as if she had lost her mind.
    â€œOh, you’re alive!” she gasped.
    To her dismay, he appeared both surprised and puzzled. “Yes, yes, I am. I believe. It is cold, so I must assume this feeling means alive.” He offered her a rueful and very puzzled grimace. “Excuse me, but…who are you, and where are we?”
    She frowned. She didn’t much mind the who are you part of the question, but the where are we was more than a bit disturbing.
    â€œMy name is Melody Tarleton. We’re in the middle of the road, heading toward Gloucester. You ran out in front of me. I struck you with my car.”
    â€œYour car?” he said, truly puzzled.
    She pointed. He tried to rise, staring at the car— gaping at the car, actually. Inwardly, she groaned. What? Was he taking this reenactor thing far too seriously?
    â€œYeah, yeah, my car. I hit you. I’m responsible, I’m so sorry, except you did run right out into the road. And that’s insane, you know. Totally insane. What, are you crazy? There’s black ice all over, with the temperature going up and down all the time.”
    He stared at her, still frowning, blinking furiously.He looked her up and down, noting her sleek wool coat with its fur-lined hood—now completely soaked and covered in melting flurries. He looked at her face, and then around him. Of course, other than her car against the snowbank, there was nothing to see but snow-covered trees.
    â€œPlease,” he said with quiet dignity, “I don’t understand. I swear to you that I have never seen such a conveyance. Or anyone that looks quite like you.”
    Anyone that looks like me? He had to be kidding. She studied him in return. His face was lean, well sculpted, and yet, in a way, he actually resembled Mark.
    But he wasn’t Mark, and she knew Mark had no family. He was just a very strange stranger she had just hit on the road.
    â€œLook, did I break any of your bones?” she demanded.
    â€œI don’t think so,” he said.
    So what the hell was she supposed to do now? He had to be bruised and in pain. She couldn’t leave him on the snow-laden, icy road.
    Mark would have told her to get in the car as quickly as possible. He might have picked the guy up, but only to drop him at the nearest police station. If he’d been with her, he’d never let her try to help the man. He’d be instantly convinced the guy was a serial killer.
    Mark wasn’t with her.
    And she made