ONE
Ben Massey was drivingthe backroads to Lyons from setting up his stall at the Renaissance Faire when he spotted the broken-down Honda Civic. The little sedan sat canted on the shoulder, hazards blinking in the last light of a warm, late-summer Sunday evening. He eased his truck to a stop behind it, keeping enough distance that he wouldn’t box the driver in and turned on his own hazards. His military training kicked in automatically—scan the area, check for threats, assess the situation before committing.
The driver’s door opened and a woman stepped out and looked at him warily before giving him a nervous smile. She kept glancing past Ben down the road toward Sedalia like she expected someone to come roaring up behind her.
Ben killed the engine and took a breath. This part never got easier—the approach. He knew what he looked like climbing out of his truck. Six-seven, two-forty of solid muscle, shoulders that barely fit through most doorframes. He’d learned young that his size scared people, especially women who’d been hurt before. And this woman’s body language screamed hurt.
He opened his door slowly, making sure she could see him coming. When his boots hit the pavement, he deliberatelyhunched his shoulders, making himself smaller. Old habit. Didn’t always work, but it was worth trying.
“Hey there,” he called, keeping his voice soft and his hands visible. “Looks like you could use some help.”
Ben’s chest tightened as he drew closer. Her face was a mess—mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes red and swollen from crying. But it was the look in those eyes that got him. Not just worry. Terror.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said too quickly. Her hands twisted together in front of her, knuckles white. “Triple-A is on the way.”
Ben stopped a good fifteen feet back, giving her space. “That’s good. How long did they say they’d be?”
“Um...” She glanced at her phone, then her gaze went back to Ben. “Twenty minutes.”
He glanced at his watch, then at the empty road stretching in both directions. “I can wait with you, in case they’re late. It’s getting dark.”
She hesitated, and Ben could see her weighing it—stranger danger versus the very real problem of being stranded on a lonely stretch of road. He knew she was contemplating which scenario was the bigger risk and he couldn’t blame her.
Some women would rather face a bear than a strange man my size. Or any size for that matter.
He slouched a little more. “I’m Ben Massey,” he added, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops so his hands were visible but not threatening. “I’m heading back up to Lyons. Coming back from the Ren Faire.”
That got a flicker of interest. Her gaze dropped to his shirt—a plain black tee—but his leather apron was visible through the truck’s windshield, draped over the back of the passenger seat. He wished he’d kept his kilt on instead of changing back into his cargos. It always seemed to be less threatening to women.
“The Renaissance Faire?” she asked, her voice a little steadier.
“Yeah.” He grinned as he nodded. “I’m a blacksmith.” Then he gave her a full smile, going for as friendly and non-threatening as he could. “I spend my summers making chainmail, forging swords, shoeing horses, and selling jewelry to tourists. Very normal guy stuff—well, if you’re a guy in the fifteenth century, I suppose.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
“I’m good with more modern machines, too. I could take a quick look at your Civic, if you wanted me to. Might be something simple.”
The woman glanced at her car, then back to Ben, a contemplating expression on her face. “I’m Shelly,” she said finally. “And... okay. If you could just look, that would be great.”
Ben approached Shelly and the Honda like he was gentling a spooked horse—slow movements, lots of space, no sudden gestures. He rounded the car on the passenger side opposite of her and stooped when he got to the hood, making himself smaller again. She relaxed a fraction.
“Would you pop the hood for me, please?”
“Sure.” Shelly leaned inside and pulled the release. Ben lifted the hood and immediately spotted the problem. The serpentine belt was broken. He looked closer.
His jaw clenched.
Shelly came around and stood next to him, looking at the engine. Ben took in a deep breath and kept his expression neutral. Now was definitely not the time to scare her.
“Did your battery die while you were driving? Is that why you pulled over?” he asked.
She looked surprised. “No, that’s not why, but the car wouldn’t start after I pulled over, so I think it is dead. Would that make the car start vibrating?”
Ben tried to keep the alarm out of his eyes. “Vibrating as you drove?”
“Yeah. And it got really hard to steer. I had to really wrench the wheel. I thought maybe I was getting a flat, but the tires all look full. Is it just a dead battery?” She looked hopeful. It broke his heart.
“It wouldn’t cause the car to vibrate.” Ben went around the Civic, checking each tire. Like Shelly said, they were full with no signs of punctures or slow leaks. Then he tested the lug nuts. All were loose, enough that the tires probably started wobbling as she drove. Ben straightened slowly, his mind already cataloging the damage and what it meant. Combine the loose lug nuts with what he found under the hood, he could come to only one conclusion.
