LITMIR.BIZ

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tire?—came barreling toward her in the opposite lane, while a red pickup screeched past, throwing sparks.

      She screamed and slammed on her brakes. Her trailer tugged right, then left as the oncoming tire rammed into her front end. It bounced off, flying ten feet into the adjacent field.

      Smoke seeped from beneath her hood as she veered onto the shoulder, and the acrid stench of burning rubber pricked her nose.

      “Faith, you okay?”

      “I...” Her throat felt scratchy. What had happened? “Can I call you back? I was just hit by a...a flying tire. The front of my car is smoking.”

      Her supplies! She shot a glance to her trailer—lying on its side—behind her. She groaned and closed her eyes.

      Faith pressed trembling fingers to her temples. Now what? All her sheets of specially ordered glass, potentially shattered. She didn’t have time to order new. And what about the damage done to her car? Fighting the urge to hyperventilate, she focused on her breathing—in through her nose, out through her mouth. In, out...

      Did Sage Creek even have a mechanic? Probably one that charged outsiders ten times what they should. Through her rearview window, she watched a tall, broad-shouldered cowboy step out of his now lopsided truck. Dressed in faded jeans and a Stetson, the man had to be at least six foot five and was built like a linebacker.

      She swallowed, checking the road in either direction. There wasn’t another vehicle, tractor or farmhouse in sight. No one but Mr. Tall Muscular Stranger who, at this moment, was heading her way.

      She caught a glimpse of herself in her side-view mirror. Olive complexion washed out, eyes more pupil than gray, chestnut hair tumbling out of her messy ponytail in a frazzled mess—like she felt. All giving her the appearance of a defenseless city girl who knew more about complementary colors than how to manage nearly totaled cars.

      Suddenly the cowboy stood beside her door, blocking the sun. Making her acutely aware of her tiny five-foot, one-hundred-pound frame in comparison.

      A faint dusting of scruff covered his square jaw. His green eyes, framed by thick, caramel-colored lashes, latched on to hers. “You okay?” The man bore a striking resemblance to Chris Hemsworth.

      “I’m fine.” She got out and marched toward her overturned trailer. “And hopefully, all my supplies are, too.” Insurance would pay for the damage, right? But that could take a while, and her credit cards were maxed. What would she tell the restoration committee?

      The truth—that some reckless, broad-shouldered cowboy’s tire had smashed into her car.

      He made a visual sweep of her vehicle, then the overturned trailer behind her. “Sorry about this.” He swept a muscled arm toward her caved-in front end. “Seems my mechanic friend forgot to tighten my lug nuts. I felt that right wheel wobbling. Was about to pull off.”

      He should’ve done that a couple miles back. At least her overturned trailer wasn’t dented. That was a good sign, right? Hopefully her careful packing had kept the glass from breaking. She was afraid to open the doors for fear of everything falling out.

      “Let me give you my insurance information.” He pulled out a faded leather wallet and flipped it open. “I’ll call a buddy tow truck driver, see if I can get him out here. Except his phone might be off, being Sunday and all. Got something I can write with?”

      She nodded and returned to her car for a pen and slip of paper. She handed both over.

      The brim of his hat shadowed most of his face. “Where you headed?”

      “Not much farther. A town called Sage Creek.”

      “You got family here?”

      She shook her head. “Going for a job.”

      “Who you working for?”

      Strange question, and not one she felt comfortable answering. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s your business how?”

      He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Figured I might know the fella.” He adjusted his hat, revealing brown hair, cut short and neat, streaked with blond. “Or gal, whatever. I could give you a lift to the place, if you want. If I can’t get ahold of my buddy with the tow truck, I mean.”

      “If you must know, I’m here to restore some stained glass windows.”

      He scratched his jaw, head angled. “You wouldn’t be from Leaded Pane Restoration, would you? To work on Trinity Faith? ’Cept...” He gazed down the road. “...you’re coming from the wrong way.”

      So he knew about the church, then? And about the company she’d bidden against. “No. I’m a private contractor and artist. From Austin.” She straightened, donned her most professional smile. “Faith Nichols.”

      “Drake Owens.”

      His stiff expression didn’t sit right with her. “You got a problem with that?”

      “You’re sure you’re supposed to be here? On the job, I mean?”

      She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

      “I don’t remember the team hiring on extra folks. Seeing as I’m the contractor overseeing the job, seems someone would’ve said something to me about you coming.”

      “Yeah, well, you weren’t the one to hire me.”

      “We’ve been working with Leaded Pane Restoration for going on three generations. Don’t see why the committee would be looking to change that now.”

      Great. So not only was she starting this project with broken supplies, but she’d be working for a man who clearly didn’t want her here.

      Fingers pressed to her temples, Faith focused on taking slow, even breaths. Her hands, still slick with sweat from her death grip on her steering wheel, trembled. That tire could’ve shattered her windshield, maybe even caused her to lose control of her vehicle.

      “I’ll get some buddies out here to help lift your trailer.” Drake pulled a phone from his back pocket. “Let me make a few calls.”

      “Me, too.” She held up the slip of paper on which he’d written his insurance information, and returned to her car. Fifteen minutes later, two trucks, both driven by cowboys, one wearing a straw hat, the other a tattered gray one, arrived.

      The sheriff was coming, right? Maybe she should phone again? She’d give him ten more minutes.

      Drake faced his “buddies,” as he called them. He tipped his hat as they sauntered over. “Hey. Thanks for coming. And for bringing my dad’s truck.”

      The taller of the two, a guy with dark hair and dark eyes, offered her a brisk nod. “No problem. So long’s I’m back by the time they start cutting into the pies.” He chuckled and addressed Faith. “I hear you’re the gal hired on by the cultural committee.”

      She looked at Drake, who appeared to be scrutinizing her, then back to his friends. “That’s me.”

      “Well, now.” The guy clamped a hand on Drake’s shoulder. “This isn’t the best way to treat one of Sage Creek’s honored guests. It’s hotter than a midsummer fire pit today.”

      Drake crouched beside the trailer. “You fellas ready?” His friends joined him, and after a few grunts and groans, they’d righted the thing.

      “Thank you.” Holding her breath, she unlocked the dead bolt and slowly opened the double doors. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. At least three sheets of glass were fractured—three of her most expensive pieces.

      “Oh, man.” Drake swiped a hand over his face. “I’ll take care of this. I’m so sorry.”

      She needed to be at the job site first thing tomorrow morning, with less than a month to complete the project. With absolutely no wiggle room. Did Artisan’s Glass have any extra sheets on hand? If not, how soon would

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