At sixty, somewhere between liftoff and a broken axle, the truck found equilibrium. A kind of levitation over the muddy ruts and weedy humps that made Peter feel like Luke Skywalker in his landspeeder. The grassland flew past in a blur. He checked the mirror and a smile spread across his face. The big black truck was falling behind.

He raised his voice over the wind. “How are you feeling? Okay?”

She nodded. Her arms were supporting her belly, but her eyes were on her fingers, plucking at the hem of her skirt.

He said, “Tell me the best possible way this ends for you.”

“Best case?” She leaned to check her own mirror. “He rolls that truck back there, and you get me all the way to Valentine. I catch the first bus to Minnesota.” She took a hand off her belly to rake her hair from her face.

“What’s in Minnesota?”

“My aunt. At least, I think she’s there.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re running from?”

“My husband.” She looked away. “Soon to be ex-husband. Turns out he’s not a very nice man.”

“Why don’t we just go to the police?”

She snorted. “They never helped before. Besides, my husband used to be the police.”

“Then tell me the problem,” he said. “Let me help.”

She rolled her eyes. “Most of the men I ever met want to fuck me. The rest of them want to fuck me, too, but first they want to feel like they’re saving me from something. Just like you.”

Peter blew out his breath. “Lady, right now I am saving you from something. I might do a better job if knew what that something is.”

She gave him a look that was older than civilization, probably older than the discovery of fire. A look that every woman knew, that every man hoped to see.

“I’m not wrong about you wanting to fuck me, though. I’ll let you, if you get me out of this. I’ll even enjoy it.”

She closed her eyes lazily, then opened them again, a half-smile on her face, a blush on her cheeks. Nothing more than that, and Peter felt the blood abandon his brain and rush toward his groin.

“Jesus.” He turned away and stared out the windshield, more than a little ashamed of his body’s automatic response. “What’s the matter with you? You’re fifteen years younger than me and seriously pregnant.”

The half-smile grew wider. “Never stopped anyone else,” she said. “Might make it sweeter.” She angled her head, suddenly a shy schoolgirl, although he knew that, too, was a pose. “Why don’t you drive me to Minnesota? We could spend a few days at a hotel on the way.”

She was stunning, yes, but it was more than that. The way she looked right at him, the directness of her gaze. She was too young for that kind of knowledge. He wondered at the history that had given it to her.