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Murphy’s Law
Rebecca Sinclair
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Rebecca Sinclair
Chapter 1
Murphy's Law #1: If anything can go wrong, it will.
Twice over, usually…three times over, if it can.
CAR CRASHES were a bitch.
Garrett Thayer knew; not thirty minutes ago he'd been in one.
With each lurching step he took, pain lashed down through his side, burned a path inside his knee and shin. Blood soaked into his jeans, plastering the coarse denim to his right leg.
His lacerated thigh was the only place he felt any warmth—the rest of him was chilled to the bone. While his brown leather bomber jacket did an adequate job of retaining the heat in his upper body, it didn't do squat to prevent the bitter cold wind from lashing at his hips and legs.
Had he ever been this cold in his life?
Not that he could remember.
Hoisting the heavy green duffel bag high on his shoulder, and wincing at the pain knifing through his leg, Garrett clutched the collar of his bomber jacket in an icy fist beneath his chin and staggered onward. He had no choice. If he stayed in one spot too long, he might loose the impetus to keep going. Stopping meant freezing to death.
His right foot, which he semi-dragged, snagged on a branch buried beneath three feet of deceptively fluffy-looking snow. Garrett grunted, a split second before his good leg buckled. There was no stopping momentum, and he was too tired and in too much pain to try.
While the snow may look fluffy, he found out quickly that it's look could be deceiving. It provided no cushion. His left knee made a bone-jarring collision with hard, frozen ground. Gritting his teeth wasn't enough to hold back a tortured groan. His head swam, as though the pain in his lower body had seeped upward and was now clawing around in his brain. Bright pin-points of light danced behind his tightly closed eyelids. Not stars, exactly, but close.
His fingers flexed around the handles of the duffel bag. The nylon straps bit into his numb, ungloved knuckles. The satchel wasn't heavy, yet in the condition he was in, the extra weight was enough to slow him down. If he left the bag behind, there was an excellent chance he could gain some distance and, with luck, find help.
There was only one problem.
Garrett couldn't, wouldn't, leave the duffel bag behind.
Not that he'd formed any personal attachment to this particular duffel bag. Hell no; you could buy similar ones in any department store and still get change back from your ten. It was the contents that were invaluable.
No, leaving the duffel bag behind was not an option.
Instead, he plunged his hand up to mid-forearm in snow, searching with his fingertips until he located the branch he'd tripped over. The tips of his fingers were no longer red, but tinged with blue; he barely felt the scratch of bark against his skin as, one by one, he forced his fingers to curl around it.
The branch wasn't as tall as he'd hoped, yet it was thick and sturdy. It would do. Stabbing one end in the snow until it hit frozen ground, Garrett used the branch as a brace to haul himself upright.
He stumbled forward one step at a time. That was all he could mange, all he could think about. He was afraid that if he let himself dwell on the agony in his leg, he'd pass out for sure.
How long did he trudge through the snow? He didn't know. Maybe it only seemed like forever? All Garrett knew for was that one minute he was hobbling through what looked like a wall of wind-tossed whiteness, the next he was staring at two iridescent specks of light.
Blinking hard, he shook his head. Was he seeing things? Or, worse, about to pass out again? God, he hoped not.
The wind howled in his ears, spitting in his face snowflakes that felt like frigid needle-pricks against his unprotected cheeks and brow. Squinting, he focused on what was materializing in front of him.
Two bright white spheres that could only be…
Headlights?
His first instinct was relief. It was quickly overridden by his second: a surge of blind panic.
Where was the road? Had he stumbled onto it? In what direction was the car coming?
Dammit, the snow was falling so hard he couldn't see that well, couldn't tell!
The headlights grew bigger. They were coming closer all too fast. His sore muscles screaming a protest, Garrett stiffened, ready to lunge out of the way if necessary.
A bolt of pain tore through his injured leg as he instinctively put weight on it. If it wasn't for the support of the branch, he would have toppled over. Again. This time, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to get up.
His panic grew when he realized that, if the car was coming at him, there was no way on earth he'd be able to move swiftly enough to get out of its way. The car was going too fast—only an idiot would travel at that speed in this weather!—and he was in too much pain to propel himself quickly enough to avoid being run over.
But, hell, he had to try!
Tossing the duffel bag into a nearby snow drift and wincing in pain, Garrett forced himself to dive in its wake. At the last second he pivoted so his shoulder took the brunt of the collision.
This time the lights that danced behind his eyelids exploded in a brilliant display. The top of his head grazed the trunk of a maple tree. A moan tore from his throat as his face slammed into the cold, wet pillow of snow. More snow filled his mouth and nostrils. He sputtered, coughing it out.
Over the howl of wind came the sharp screech of brakes.
Two minutes ago, Garrett Thayer could have sworn he was as cold as he could get. He was wrong. This new sound turned his blood to ice water as his mind flashed a too-vivid image of his body being mowed over by the still unseen car.
Levering himself up, he shifted until he was sitting on the body-flattened snowdrift. Breathing hard, he looked for the car's headlights, positive he would see them skidding toward him.
He did find the headlights, albeit not where he expected them to be. Nor were they skidding. They were less than six feet away…no longer white, but red, no longer round, but tall and rectangular.
The lights were also no longer moving.
With one hand Garrett fumbled for the duffel bag, with the other, for the branch. Using the latter, he staggered to his feet. That he'd been spotted by whoever was driving the car, he didn't doubt. Hell, he'd been standing directly in front of the damn thing. The driver would have to be blind not to have seen him.
Except for the roar of the wind and the clunky rumble of the car's engine—the motor didn't purr so much as cough and gag—the forest was silent.
A tense moment ticked past, marked by the howl of wind and scratch of winter-bare branches scraping together.
He waited breathlessly for the sound of a car door to open and close. When it didn't