MacKenzie Fire(3)

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he deadpans. Then he looks over at Andie waiting for her response.

“Oh.” My face is on fire. I guess it wasn’t a challenge. How did I read that so wrong? Men are usually my specialty. I am fluent in man-talk, man-expression, and man-think.

“Candice can help me, can’t you, Candice?” Andie waddles over to the passenger door. This truck actually has four doors, not just two. I have no idea how it’s even fitting into this parking space.

“Sure, no prob.” Opening the front passenger door, I gesture for her to go in before me. “Alley-oop, my little roley poley friend.”

She points her finger right up in my face. “Do not call me roley poley.” Then she turns around, grabs the door with one hand and the side of the seat with the other and tries to step up into the truck.

There’s a grunt.

A considerable amount of straining.

And possibly about an inch or two of actual liftoff.

Then Andie’s back on the ground on two feet, her face flushed and her expression annoyed. “Are you going to help me or what?” She glares at me over her shoulder.

I brace myself behind her with my hands on her waist, squatting down to lift this heavy load with my legs and not my back. “Okay, try again.”

As she starts to move up, I push.

Nothing happens. She’s like a ton of bricks. The song Brick House starts playing in my head. She’s a brick … berp berp beeerp berp … house … she’s mighty, mighty …

“Come on!” she yells, her one foot up on the running board and the other a frog’s hair off the ground.

I bend down farther and put my shoulder under her butt. “One, two, three, go!” I heave her up with all my might.

Her whole body lifts off the ground in a big surge of movement and her head bonks the top of the doorway.

“Ow! Not so high, Candice!”

I’m losing my grip on her butt and my foot is slipping. “Go in! Go in!” I’m grunting right along with her, and now I’m sweating too. Dammit! I hate sweating; it totally ruins my makeup.

Suddenly her weight is gone and I’m falling forward. I do a face-plant into the side of the passenger seat, my head bounces off from the impact, and then my feet slip out from under me. My hair whips sideways and gets caught in my lipgloss as gravity takes hold and drags me downward.

I land on my knees and then roll over onto my back to keep from breaking anything. I read that you have to go with the movement of a fall to keep the shock from being absorbed by the body. It’s Newton’s law or something. I’m all about the rolling, rolling, rolling now. Like a stunt girl but not one of those butch ones.

Grey skies.

A cowboy hat.

A barely concealed smile on Ian’s stupid face.

“Need some help?” he asks.

I start pinwheeling my hands above me, slapping at him. “No! Go away, John Wayne!”

He disappears from view, but I can hear his annoying chuckle as his snow-and-salt-crunching feet go around the back of the truck. It’s possible I hear him mutter, “High maintenance,” too.

I lie there for a few seconds contemplating my world. I haven’t even made it across the border into Oregon and my hair is already ruined and my underpants are wet through. This is not a good sign.

I struggle to sit up, wincing as more water seeps into my panties. The only way I can stand is to splay my feet out under me like a duck, and I’m not even pregnant.

I finally make it into the back seat of the truck and spend the next five minutes trying to get my hair back to amazing. It refuses to cooperate. There might not be any snow in the air, but that doesn’t stop the invisible humidity from making me look like a wet dog. I’m doomed to arrive in Baker City looking like a homeless woman Andie and Ian picked up off the street corner. Even my pom-poms are ruined, stained with street goop and soggy wet.

Andie’s gabbing on and on about cows and horses and all kinds of other nonsense, but all I can think about is the bad voodoo going on here. These are all terrible signs, right? Two falls to the ice within five minutes? Ruined hair? Dingey pom-poms?

What else could possibly go wrong?





Chapter Two





BY THE TIME WE ARRIVE in front of Ian’s family homestead, I am beyond recognition. My hair? Flat, wet, and just plain ruined. My makeup? Smudged and missing in spots, probably. My jeans? Soggy. My eyes? Bloodshot. I’m sure they’re bloodshot because they’re burning right now. My hand-mirror is in the back of the truck in my bag, and I didn’t want to be obvious and lean into the front seat to use the rearview mirror, so I’ve had to suffer for over two hours wondering what I look like. My imagination has turned me into Sasquatch with a bad dye job.

The MacKenzies have already met me once at Andie’s wedding, and I was absolutely fabulous then, thank goodness. It was summer and I had a great tan, my hair was highlighted blonde, and my tummy was as tight as it’s ever been. My appearance today is going to be a serious letdown for everyone involved. I always pack on a few pounds during winter, so there’s that … and apparently, my hair products were not made for cold, snowy conditions found in the Arctic Circle. It feels like I have glue in my hair.

“Come on, let’s get inside. Ian, will you grab Candice’s bag for me?” Andie’s sliding down off the front seat and onto the snow-covered ground below her. Now who’s the stuntwoman?