“You want to go to a hospital?” he asked as she reached around and slipped Barb’s plus-sized jacket over her small frame. Then, probably because the Silverado’s insistent alarm system was dinging, she strapped on the seat belt. He did the same, keeping one hand on the wheel.

“No, not the hospital. The police. Or my mother’s. I . . . I don’t know. But we have to get the hell out of here.” She looked over at him, then at the console. “That yours?” she asked, pointing at the half-drunk bottle of Diet Coke that was still in one of the cup holders from the last time Barb had driven the truck.

“No, it’s my wife’s. Been there a couple o’—”

“Good enough.” She twisted off the cap and brought it to her parched lips. Then she swallowed, draining the whole dang bottle of what had to be flat, warm syrup. As she did, she kept her gaze in the side-view mirror, as if she really thought someone was following.

He checked his mirror. Nothing on the road behind. Not even a jackrabbit. What kind of a lulu was she?

“You’re going to New Orleans, right?”

“Close. I’m picking up some hay about five miles out.”

“Take me to the city.” Some of the bristle had left her, and she blinked against a sudden wash of tears. “Now, for God’s sake!”

Oh, Jesus. He hated it when a woman cried. Barb could just start to well up and it was all over for him.

She slapped at her eyes.

“Sure. Sure.” But he hadn’t engaged the gears yet, wasn’t certain if hauling her anywhere was the right thing to do.

“Then please hurry. He’s out there. I saw him.” She sniffed, some of the starch returning to her. “I think he has a rifle.”

The muscles in the back of Rand’s neck bunched. “A rifle?”

“Yeah, a rifle and a dog. Don’t you get it? He’s hunting me.” She was starting to freak out again. “You have to take me to the police or to my mom or . . .” She spied his cell on the dash, connected to the charger in his cigarette lighter. Without asking, she picked it up and dialed.

“Hey, wait a sec—”