When Hearts Collide - By James, Kendra Page 0,1

heart skipped several beats as she battered the brakes. Too late. She was heading straight for the car. She hunched forward, bracing for the inevitable crash.

Unable to breathe, Molly watched as the sports car lurched to the left and hurtled away from her.

Hands trembling, Molly relaxed her foot and eased the Elantra to the side of the road. One car out of control was enough. She watched in horror as the Jaguar’s wheels caught the ridge where pavement met gravel. It freewheeled sideways. There was a thunderous crash. A mushroom cloud of sand and gravel littered the darkness, obliterating the car.

Where was her cell phone? She fumbled through her purse. When would she learn to keep it on? The phone had migrated to the bottom corner of her canvas bag. Her fingers grasped the oblong object, and she flipped it open. Molly pressed the ‘on’ button. Only three numbers, why was she having trouble finding them? Seconds crawled as she waited for the screen to illuminate.

She twisted in the seat. Like a theatre curtain drawn in reverse mode, gravel and dust sifted back to the ground. In horizontal slices, the car inched into view. The hood and driver’s side were crunched into the base of a large pine tree. Her thumbs finally managed the number.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“There’s been a car accident...on Highway 57...about 15 minutes north of Arva. There’s someone in the car...he swerved to miss a deer...the car slid into a tree. Get an ambulance!”

“How many are injured?’

Still clutching the phone, Molly raced to the car and peered inside. “A driver. He doesn’t seem to be moving.”

“Is there anyone else?”

Molly squinted through the tinted windows. “I don’t see a passenger.”

“I’ve dispatched an ambulance. Keep your phone on in case they need directions.”

Molly snapped the phone shut and shoved it into her jeans pocket. She looked into the car again. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. The tinted glass obstructed her view, and she couldn’t detect any movement. She heard her heart, each slow, thudding beat. Was the man alive?

She jerked the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. The Jaguar’s gleaming hunter green front end was crumpled like a recycled pop can, and the driver’s door wedged into the frame. She wiped her sweat-coated palms on her jeans and tried again.

Nothing.

Would the passenger door be the same? Using the car to support her jellied knees, Molly stumbled to the other side. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint odor of gas?

She let out a sigh. This side was less damaged—barely dented, barely dimpled. She pulled on the handle. The door screeched open, and the interior lights flashed on. Molly leaned inside.

The driver hadn’t moved. His head, tipped forward, rested on the leather-wrapped steering wheel and the remnants of the deployed airbag lay beneath him like a white plastic morgue sheet. Wavy black hair curled over the nape of his pale, immobile neck. His craggy silhouette reminded her of an aristocrat’s granite profile.

“Sir, sir are you okay?”

There was no response.

Molly’s hand trembled as she reached out to touch him. He was warm. Did he have a pulse? Her fingers traveled along the powerful arc of his neck. She pressed two fingers just below his jawbone and felt the blood pulsing through the carotid artery.

Thank God. He’s alive. The thudding in her chest faded as her heart rate returned to normal.

She counted his pulse. It was faster than it should be, but at least he had one. She placed her palm on his chest and waited. Her hand moved in and out with the expansion and deflation of his chest. He was breathing.

“Sir, can you hear me?”

A sound coming from the back seat startled Molly and she gasped out loud and glanced over her shoulder. A child of about four was strapped in a car seat. On seeing Molly, the toddler began to cry.

“It’s okay. I’m here to help you.” Molly tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. “Are you hurt?”

The child sobbed. “I want my daddy.”

Molly glanced at the man’s limp form. What do I tell her? Her dad had a pulse, but was he unconscious? She hoped her nose didn’t grow with the lie. “He’s sleeping right now. I’m going to get you out of the car, then I’m going to help your daddy.” The child’s eyes were bright as silver dollars. That was a good sign. There was no visible blood—another good sign.

“My name is Molly. What’s yours?”

Another sob racked the