One Christmas Knight

Chapter 1

“Lord, I hate these California turnarounds.”

I-40-Arizona

Like all well-brought-up Southern boys, Jimmy Joe Starr had been taught to respect both automobiles and good women. So when the lady in the shiny new silver-gray Lexus cut in front of him in the entrance to the Giant truck stop that was clearly marked Trucks Only, he didn’t give her a blast from his airhorn or push his Kenworth’s blue “anteater” nose up on her bumper to teach her a lesson, like some drivers he knew would have done.

But he did shake his head and smile to himself. Oh, yeah. She was a looker, no doubt about that. Just as sleek and fine and pretty a sight as you would ever want to see. And the woman behind the wheel wasn’t bad, either.

Jimmy Joe wasn’t generally all that attracted to redheads, but hers was a real nice color, a rich, glowing auburn. And she had a self-confident, bordering-on-arrogant tilt to her head that appealed to him-which was something else that set him apart from most Southern men of his acquaintance. Having been raised by a mama with pure applejack running through her veins, he was pretty well adjusted to uppity women.

There were a couple of other reasons why Jimmy Joe was inclined to be in an easygoing and forgiving mood. For one thing, that was just pretty much his basic nature. For another, it was the 23rd of December and he’d just dropped off a load of textiles in the garment district of downtown L.A. and picked up a shipment of piece goods destined for an after-holiday sale in Little Rock, after which he was going to be headin’ for Georgia, where a little boy named J.J. was waiting for his daddy to bring Christmas home with him. The Good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, Jimmy Joe expected to be rolling into his mama’s front yard just in time for turkey and all the trimmings.

So that was why, when the redhead finally got herself sorted out and the silver Lexus pointed toward the four-wheeler parking lot, he just chuckled to himself and said, “Well, Merry Christmas, darlin’.” She crossed right in front of him with a saucy little flip of her sleek auburn head, and he caught a glimpse of a California license plate.

“Figures,” he muttered.

“You will never in a million years guess where I’m calling you from,” Mirabella Waskowitz said to her friend Charly Phelps, in an ambiguous tone somewhere between chagrin and glee.

“Sounds like a truck stop,” said Charly, much to Mirabella’s disappointment. She loved Charly dearly, but the woman had no respect for a punchline.

“How did you know?”

“I can hear the loudspeaker in the background. They just called some driver for something-or-other up to the fuel desk.”

“Oh,” said Mirabella, who hadn’t been paying attention. In her experience, voices on loudspeakers seldom had anything to say that concerned her.

“You would not believe this place,” she continued after a moment, her enthusiasm undaunted. “For one thing, it’s huge. Acres and acres of trucks. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s kind of awesome, actually. Oh-and they don’t call them truck stops anymore. They’re called ’travel stops’ now-I guess so they’ll appeal more to the Winnebago set. It’s like a mini-mall in here. They have all sorts of stores, a post office, a couple of fast-food places, and a regular restaurant that actually has a salad bar, can you believe that? And get this-the phones are on the tables! At this very moment I am sitting in a comfy booth, one that actually has enough room to accommodate my stomach, with my decaf and a fairly decent turkey club on whole wheat in front of me.”

“What?” said Charly drolly, “no sushi?”

“Mock if you must, but the rest rooms are clean. Oh-and Charly, you’d love the gift shop. What an eclectic mix. They have some lovely signed Acoma Indian pottery sitting right next to key chains made out of honest-to-God rattlesnake heads and license-plate holders that say Honk If You’re Horny. Oh-and my personal favorite-there’s this little bald fat-guy doll, and when you squeeze a bulb he drops his pants and moons you. I think you’re supposed to put him in the back window of your car. I’m thinking of getting one for my Lexus.”

Charly, who was originally from Alabama, laughed and said, “Get used to it. You know the place you’re heading for is the world capital of tacky.”

“I thought that was Venice Beach.”

“No, no, no, darlin’-Florida! Birthplace of the pink plastic lawn flamingo. Need I say more?”

A gasp cut short Mirabella’s chuckle of appreciation. She added, “Ouch…damn,” and as she leaned abruptly back in the booth, her gaze collided with that of a young man, obviously a trucker, who was sitting in a booth identical to hers, just catercorner across the dining room. He was on the phone, too, but not talking, and as he listened, for some reason he seemed to be frowning right at Mirabella.

“What’s the matter?” Charly demanded. “The little tyke giving you problems?”

Hearing the alarm in her friend’s voice and knowing Charly wasn’t above doing something rash, like putting in a call to the highway patrol, Mirabella hastened to reassure her. And while she was at it, she put a dazzling smile on her face for the benefit of the nosy trucker across the way.

“Oh, you know,” she said through the smile, “it’s just these darn pressure pains. Seems like they’ve been getting worse the last couple of days.” She lost the smile, though, as she shifted to find a comfortable position for her legs while a lump the size of a small grapefruit was slowly blossoming on the right side of her abdomen. She rested one hand on the lump and rubbed it with a gentle circling motion as she said through held breath and clenched teeth, “Right now it feels like the little rascal’s doing push-ups on the nerves in my groin. I get these shooting pains that go all the way down to my toes. There wasn’t anything about this in the books, I can tell you that.”

“Bella, you’re crazy to be doing this-you know that, don’t you?”

“Hey, I’m fine.” The young trucker had finished his phone call and was now drinking coffee and watching her intently through its steam.

Cute guy, said a voice way in the back of her mind. And then, My God, he’s young.

It was a purely objective observation; Mirabella considered hrself something of a connoisseur when it came to masculine physical attributes, having recently done some extensive research on that subject. This one was tall, lean, tan and blond-some of her very favorite flavors. In fact, if she could pick-

She gasped, gulped cold decaf and nearly choked on it.

“Bella?” said Charly’s voice in her ear. “You okay?”

“Fine-I’m fine.” Mirabella mopped her bulging front with her napkin. “Spilled my coffee, dammit. Look, of course I’d rather have flown-and I don’t see why they make such a fuss about it, for God’s sake, my due date’s still four weeks off, and anyway you’d think nobody’d ever had a baby in a plane before-but on top of that, it’s the holidays, and there just wasn’t anything available. It’s not like I had much choice.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Charly…”

The sigh that drifted across the wire was suddenly contrite. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. How’s your dad doing, by the way? Have you talked to your mom?”

“I talked to her this morning. He’s doing better, actually.” She took a deep breath to calm the fear that always rippled through her when she thought about her father, and about the utterly unthinkable possibility of his dying. Pop, die? No. Not for-oh, at least twenty or thirty years, yet.

Pop, you’d better get well, and stay that way. I need you, dammit! Because, aside from the fact that she couldn’t even begin to imagine a world without her dad in it, she just hadn’t counted on raising this child without Pop Waskowitz for a grandpa.

Especially, she thought with a twinge of guilt she tried to ignore, if he couldn’t have a dad of his own.

And with some mysterious homing instinct, like birds returning to a favorite nesting place, her eyes found the long, slender form of the young trucker in the booth across the way. Incredible, she thought. Uncanny.

“They’re calling this heart attack a warning,” she said to Charly in a tone bright with false optimism. “Mom said it looks like they’ll let him go home for Christmas, but then after the holidays they’re going to want to run tests. You know how it goes-see if he’s going to need surgery.”

“He’ll be okay, Bella. Bypass surgery’s not even a big deal nowadays.”

“Yeah,” said Mirabella on an exhalation, not in the least convinced. “I know.”

“He know you’re coming?”

“He doesn’t know I’m driving. Mom didn’t want to tell him. She’s sure he’d only have another heart attack worrying about me.”

“So, you’re gonna be his Christmas present.”

“Let’s hope,” said Mirabella. “So far I’ve only made it as far as New Mexico.”

“New Mexico! Is that all? My God, it’s been two days.”

“I can’t help it. The problem,” said Mirabella defensively, “is that I keep having to stop all the time to go to the bathroom.”

“And you’re still going to make it by Christmas?”

“Uh…Christmas Day, yeah, hopefully. I should be able to.” But she had to shut out the little voices of self-doubt that were starting to kick up a fuss in the back of her mind, and her natural bent toward honesty made her add, “If I can make it as far as Texas by tonight. Which reminds me, if I’m going to do that, I’d better say goodbye and get on my way. What about it, Charly, shall I get you a souvenir? That Acoma pottery’s nice.”

“You sure you’ve got room? If I know you, that Lexus is probably packed to the roof with presents already.”

“Just the trunk,” said Mirabella with a guilty smile. “I did try to behave myself this year.”

“Well, if you insist,” said Charly, “I’d rather have the license-plate holder. Listen, you take it easy now, okay? Your mom and dad want you to get there in one piece. And I do mean one.”

Mirabella laughed. “Oh, I’m taking it easy. Obviously.”

She said her goodbyes, punched the Off button and returned the handset to its cradle on the wall next to the booth, then took a deep breath and picked up a triangle of her club sandwich. At last the baby had settled down. Maybe she could actually eat in peace.

She did notice that the young trucker across the way had picked up the phone again and was no longer paying any attention to her, thank God, but just looking out the window, watching the big trucks roll in off the interstate, one after another…

Jimmy Joe Starr was finally getting through to his mama’s house in Georgia. He listened patiently to the rings, and on the third one the voice he wanted most in this world to hear said, “This is the Starr residence. How may I help you?”

He just had to chuckle, hearing all that coming out of his eight-year-old son’s mouth. J.J.’s regular greeting up to now had been more along the lines of,“H’lo, who’s this?”

“Gramma been workin’ on you?”

“Dad!”

“Hey, J.J., whatcha up to?”

“Oh, nothin’ much. Where are you? When are you comin’ home?”

Those were J.J.’s two standard questions, and they never failed to wring a twinge of guilt and regret out of Jimmy Joe’s insides. And of course, never more than at this time of year. “I’m in New Mexico,” he said, hoping it sounded cheerful enough. “Got a load to drop in Little Rock tomorrow, and then like I told you, I’ll be headin’ for the barn. I’ll most likely be there when you wake up Christmas morning.”

“Promise?”

“Sure, I promise-long’s the road don’t open up and swallow me.”

“Dad…”

“Come on, J.J., you know I’m gonna be fine.”

“I know, but… you know what? There’s supposed to be a big snowstorm in the Texas panhandle. What if you get stuck?”

“Hey, where’d you hear about this snowstorm, huh? Gramma tell you?” He was going to have to have a little talk with his mama, is what he was going to have to do-remind her what a worrywart J.J. was.

“I saw it on The Weather Channel. They called it the Arc-Arc-tic Express. It sounds really bad.”

Jimmy Joe shook his head. What was he going to do with an eight-year-old kid who watched The Weather Channel? “Hey, what’d I tell you? The Big Blue Starr’ll drive through anything, right? I’ll be there on ol’ Santa’s heels, just like I said I would. Now, quit your woffyin’-you’re startin’ to sound like an ol’ lady, you know that?” He smiled at J.J.’s outraged denial. “So, tell me quick, what you been up to? I gotta get back on the road. Everybody gettin’ ready for Christmas? Who was that had the phone tied up so long? Your Aunt Jess, I reckon. Am I right?”

“I guess. Dad?”

“Yeah, son?”

“When can I go back to school?”

“Back to-what kinda question is that? It’s Christmas vacation!” Just as Jimmy Joe was starting to think his kid had come down with some kind of bug or other, something in the boy’s tone of voice got through to him. He let his breath out and said, “Okay, J.J., what’s up? You in trouble with your grandma again?”

“It wasn’t my fault, Dad, I swear! I mean, what else was I supposed to do? She kissed me!”

“What? Who kissed you? Gramma?”

“No! Sammi June.”

“You don’t mean your cousin Sammi June?”

“Yeah. Right smack on the lips, Dad. Yuck!”

Jimmy Joe was trying his best not to laugh-at least not enough so it would spill over into his voice. With deep seriousness he said, “What on earth do you suppose made her do a thing like that?”

A heartfelt sigh drifted over the wire. “Well, she said it’s on account of the mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe?”

“Yeah, Aunt Jessica went and hung little bunches of it all over the house. Sammi June says if you catch somebody standing underneath one of the bunches, they have to kiss you, it’s a rule. Is that true, Dad?”

Jimmy Joe coughed and said, “Well, I think it’s more like a tradition than an out-and-out rule. So, anyway, she caught you and she kissed you. And then what did you do?”

“I socked her.” He said it like. “Well, of course-what do you think?”

“Oh, Lord. J.J.,” said Jimmy Joe sternly, “what do you know about hittin’ girls? Come on, now, I don’t have to tell you that. You tell me.”

There was another long sigh. “Never, never, never hit a girl. Ever.”

“You got it. And that is a rule. And don’t you forget it. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir…”

“So, what’d your grandma give you for punishment?”

That patented sigh again. “No computer till after Christmas, and I have to do Sammi June’s chores for a week.”

Jimmy Joe snorted. “You got off lucky. Times have sure changed, you know that? I’d have got my butt paddled, but good.”

“I’d rather have a spankin’ than no computer,” J.J. said in a mournful tone. Then instantly he added, in a much perkier voice, “Dad, can we get on-line?”

Oh, Lord, thought Jimmy Joe. “Hey-hey,” he said. “Wait just a darn minute-what brought this on?” Unnamed alarms were already spiking through his insides.

“Can we, Dad? It’d be so coot-there’s all this neat stuff you can do-”

“Absolutely not!”

“But Da-ad…”

“Now, don’t start with me, J.J. You’re way too young to go surfin’ around the Internet, or whatever it is they do, unsupervised. Shoot, there’s stuff on there’d make me blush. I’d sooner let you go to the downtown bus depot by yourself.”

“Dad, you would not There’s creeps and weirdos down there.”

“Yeah, well, there’s creeps and weirdos on the Internet, too. What put this idea in your head, anyway?”

“My friend Rocky just got on-line. He gets E-mail. If I went on-line, we could send each other E-mail.”

“Yeah, and so could anybody else.” What in the world, thought Jimmy Joe, was he going to have to protect his child from next? Television was bad enough, but there at least, he-or anyway, his mama-had some control over what came into the house. “I can’t believe his parents’d let him do something like this, J.J. You sure Rocky isn’t just puttin’ you on?”

“No, Dad, honest. It’s like this, see. His parents are divorced, and his mom works, so she got Rocky on-line so she can keep track of him and help him with his homework from her office. Isn’t that cool? And very ed-ja-cational, too.”

Jimmy Joe couldn’t think of a reply to that, so he muttered something along the lines of, “Yeah, well, we’ll talk about it.” And remembering the mistletoe incident, he pointedly added, “After Christmas.”

This business of being a single parent, he thought, by no means for the first time, was getting harder and harder every day. He had a lot of sympathy for Rocky’s mother, even if he didn’t think much of her idea of a solution to her problem. It made him sad to think about a little kid doing his homework in front of a computer screen, all by himself in a big old empty house, instead of at the table in a nice warm kitchen with his mama cooking dinner a few feet away. That was the way it ought to be. That was the way it had been for him, and the way he tried to make sure it was for J.J. Of course, he had to admit, it did help to have a whole bunch of kinfolk around to help out.

“Hey,” he said, “guess I’d better get back on the road if I’m gonna get there in time for Christmas turkey. You tell your grandma I called, and behave yourself, now, y’hear?”

J.J.’s sigh was resigned. “I will, Dad, I promise. But I wish you were here now.”

“I wish that too, son.”

“I miss you, Dad. And I miss Rocky, too. There’s nothin’ but women around here.”

“Yeah?” Again, it was hard to keep laughter out of his voice. “Well, all I can tell you is, there’s gonna come a time that won’t seem at all a bad thing.”

“Uh-uh, Dad-no way.”

“Well, we’ll see. Okay, you be good now.” And he added the trucker’s sign-off, like he always did when he was on the road: “Ten-four.”

“Ten-four, Dad.”

Jimmy Joe hung up the phone with a hollow belly and a heavy heart, which was about normal after talking to his son.

As he slid out of the booth he figured he could let himself look one more time at the woman across the way. The fact was, it had come as something of a shock to him when he’d realized that the pregnant woman squeezing her belly into that booth was none other than the driver of the silver-gray Lexus with the California plates. No doubt about that auburn hair, though. He decided he liked the way she wore it, shoulderlength and parted on the side, in a way that reminded him of the old 1940s movies Granny Calhoun liked to watch on her VCR. He thought it was kind of sexy, the way it showed her ear on one side, but dipped across her eyebrow and just barely grazed her cheek on the other. Sexy, with attitude; he hadn’t been wrong about that little “So what?” tilt of her chin.

All in all, she was just plain nice to look at. She wasn’t tall, which he thought might make her look further along than she was-not like his sister Jess, for instance, who was tall and big-boned and could hide a pretty good-size baby under a men’s blue work shirt until the last minute if she wanted to. Obviously this lady wasn’t interested in hiding anything, though, because the top she was wearing-a long-sleeved turtleneck in some kind of thick, silky stuff in a deep, dark plum that shimmered in the light-had a tendency to cling. Not in an embarrassing way; like the car she drove, the lady had class. Just enough to give a hint of the way her body might look under normal circumstances-all curves and sweet, giving softnesses, voluptuous as a Southern summer.

He would probably have looked at her a whole lot more, but he figured he’d already embarrassed himself enough, getting caught flat-footed staring at her like some kind of noaccount Cracker without the manners his mama had taught him.

As it turned out, though, the booth where she’d been sitting was empty and the waitress was clearing off the table. Just as well, he thought, and tried to put the lady and some vague feelings of disappointment out of his mind.

Which was easier said than done. It wasn’t about her being such a looker, either, although she sure was that. But he wondered what in the world was she doing, a California girl, way out here in the middle of New Mexico, as far along as she was. And all by herself, by the looks of things.

One thing for sure, Jimmy Joe thought, if she wasn’t single, her husband ought to be ashamed of himself. And if she was… Well, it was a shame. A real shame.

He just hoped she knew what she was getting herself into.

Mirabella emerged from a stall in the ladies’ room feeling not much better than she had going in. She washed her hands and blotted her face with a wet paper towel and then, since there wasn’t anyone to see her, paused a moment to study her reflection in the mirror above the sink. As usual, what she saw did not please her. Her hair was okay, and her complexion, though paler even than usual, didn’t trouble her; but she didn’t like the dark circles under her eyes and the deep grooves, like tiny parentheses, around her mouth. She hadn’t been sleeping very well, that was the problem. Just lately it seemed as if the baby had changed position, or something, and it was almost impossible for her to find a position that was comfortable-or if she did, one that would stay that way for any length of time. Small wonder-she was just so huge. Like a bloated hippo, she thought, eyeing her enormous and slightly pendulous breasts and bulging belly with dismay. How would she ever get back to her normal size and shape? Was it even possible?

Then, as she always did when such thoughts overcame her, she felt terribly guilty. I didn’t mean it, she hastily assured whatever powers might be listening. It’s what I wanted. No matter what, it’s worth it.

She knew what she needed more than anything was just to lie down for a little while, maybe put her feet up. She considered with longing the lounge she’d glimpsed during her earlier explorations-a nicely darkened room with a TV and several comfy-looking couches. But it had been in the section designated Professional Drivers Only, and she didn’t think it very likely anyone would mistake her for a trucker-even though from what she’d seen, some of them had stomachs as big as hers. Bigger.

Oh, well. Mirabella hadn’t gotten where she was by being a wimp or a crybaby, and she didn’t believe in giving in to minor inconveniences or discomforts like backaches and leg cramps. She did, however, believe in extra-strength Tylenol. So before going back out to her car, she dug the bottle she always carried with her out of her purse and shook two of the white caplets into her hand.

She was looking around for a source of water with which to swallow them when she noticed a crowd of truckers gathered around a large lighted wall map over near the ATM and the machine that sold prepaid phone cards. She’d spotted it earlier but hadn’t stopped to study it, having had more pressing needs on her mind at the time. Now she deduced that it was some kind of weather map-one that displayed all the time zones, major truck routes and temperature and weather conditions for the whole Northern Hemisphere. In addition to which there were up-to-the-minute weather bulletins constantly ticking across the top of the map, like the news headlines in Times Square. She noticed that most of the assembled truckers seemed to be watching the message like it was Michael Jordan going down the court for a layup, except they didn’t look very happy about it.

Mirabella had more than her share of natural curiosity, so of course right away she wanted to know what was so interesting about that weather board. On the other hand, she wasn’t crazy about the idea of venturing into a crowd of fairly scruffy and rough-looking men. She felt comfortable enough with men when she was in familiar territory and calling all the shots, but this wasn’t L.A. None of the men she customarily dealt with wore parts of snakes as clothing accessories or clanked when they walked.

Plus, there was nothing she hated more than being stared at, and she wasn’t exactly inconspicuous at the moment. Not that she ever had been.

So she was hanging around the outer edge of the crowd, trying her best to read the message from a distance and thinking maybe it was time to get her contact-lens prescription updated, when she happened to spot the cute blond trucker from the restaurant. Since he was also busy trying to get a closer look at the board and not paying attention to anything else, Mirabella was pretty much free to stare at him all she wanted.

She couldn’t get over it. It was all there-tall and lean, blond hair with just the right amount of curl, and not even a hint of a freckle that she could see. Good facial bones, strong but not heavy; nice cheekbones, straight nose, firm chin. No eyeglasses-unless, of course, he wore contacts, too. But for some reason she just knew he didn’t. God, he was perfect. Everything about him was just… perfect.

No doubt about it, she could have been looking at her baby’s father, in the flesh.

Right then, almost as if he’d felt her staring at him, the trucker looked around and straight at her, and she had to turn her head away quickly and try to pretend she’d only happened to glance his way by accident. Then, while she was being careful not to look at him, she was certain she could feel him watching her. Only she didn’t dare look to see if he was, because if he was, then he would know she was looking at him.

And she wondered, Is this what it’s going to be like? Every time I see a tall, good-looking blond guy walking down the street, am I going to ask myself, Is it him? Is he the one?

It wasn’t, of course. She knew that. No way. Her baby’s father was a student, a music major. It didn’t seem likely to her that a trucker would fall into either the music or student category, even if this one was wearing a University of Georgia sweatshirt. The shirt had a picture of a bulldog on the front, and looked faded and comfortable, like an old, well-washed favorite. Maybe, she thought, letting her gaze travel on down to slim hips encased in equally worn and comfy-looking blue jeans, he just happens to like big, ugly dogs…

“Excuse me, ma‘am, is there somethin’ I can help you with?”

If Mirabella had been the type to die of embarrassment, she surely would have then. Fortunately, however, she’d had lots of experience dealing with humiliation, and had learned that the best way was usually just to brazen it out. Caught flat-out staring, she raised her eyebrows and said, “I beg your pardon?” in a haughty tone, as if she wasn’t the one who was being rude.

The young trucker was frowning at her, but looking more puzzled than hostile. “I was just wonderin’-do I know you from somewhere?”

God, he was cute. Brown eyes, interestingly enough, not blue. Mirabella gave him a small, tight smile that said, “Fat chance,” and shook her head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, hey, I’m sorry I bothered you then. I just thought the way you were lookin’ at me, like you were tryin’ to figure out where you knew me from…” He had a nice, easy smile-not cocky, more sweet. Like Robert Redford. And damned if that wasn’t a dimple.

Mirabella’s heart did a little skip, which she knew from experience meant she was attracted to this guy and consequently in imminent danger of making a fool of herself. So of course, right away her attitude got even more haughty. “I apologize for that,” she said, drawing herself up like a grand duchess. “You reminded me of someone I used to know.” Then, realizing she’d been given a golden opportunity, she paused and allowed herself to melt a little. “Actually, I was trying to see that message board over there. What’s going on, do you know?”

The trucker’s dimple disappeared along with his smile. He sort of rubbed at the back of his neck and looked uncomfortable, as if the weather was in some way his fault. “Ah…there’s a blizzard, I guess. In Texas.”

“A blizzard?” Mirabella was a Californian, born and bred; even the word sounded foreign to her.

“Yeah, guess so. They say it’s snowin’ as far south as Dallas.”

Geography not having been one of her best subjects, Mirabella wasn’t sure precisely what that meant. She did, however, know that Texas was where she was heading. And furthermore, that she was going to have to get through it in order to reach her final destination. She drew a vexed breath and said, “Texas. Lovely.”

“Yes, ma‘am,” muttered the trucker humbly. Then, aiming his beautiful dark brown eyes right at her and narrowing them into a frown of what looked like genuine concern, he ventured, “Ma’am, it looks like the Panhandle might be pretty rough goin’. You might want to think about headin’ south-take I-25 out of Albuquerque, swing on down to ten. Whereabouts you headed?”

“Florida,” Mirabella told him without even thinking whether or not she should. “Pensacola.” Oh, Lord, she thought, those eyes…

The trucker nodded and looked relieved. “Oh, yeah. That’s what I’d do, if I were you. Look here-” he touched her elbow in a deferential way, just enough to guide her closer to the map as he pointed “-this here is 1-25, see that? Goes right on down to I-10. You’d miss all the mess that way-be a lot safer.”

A lot longer, too. From what Mirabella could see, just doing a rough calculation in her head, it had to be four hundred miles longer that way, at least. A whole extra day. No way she would make it by Christmas, then. “Which way are you going?” she asked, angling a look at the trucker.

“Me?” He shrugged. “I don’t have much choice. Got to stay on forty-got a load to deliver in Little Rock. But if I was you…”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Mirabella, who wasn’t in the habit of taking advice from anybody, especially men-not even cute ones with big brown eyes and dimples. Especially not really young cute ones with big brown eyes and dimples. “But I think I’ll just push on.”

She was thinking, Hey, guy, if you can make it through on 1-40, so can I.

From the look on his face, the trucker obviously didn’t think so, but Mirabella was used to seeing that look on men’s faces and, if anything, it only made her more determined to prove him wrong.

“Well, good luck, ma’am.” He was giving her his halffrowning, concerned look, but with more intensity this time. Enough to make Mirabella’s heart do that little skip again, which she really wished it wouldn’t. “You have a safe trip now-drive carefully.”

“Thanks,” said Mirabella crisply. “I plan to.”