Exerpt available on this website is unedited.
"Was he telling me the truth about Carter calling? I wasn't sure. The reality of whether or not I'd survive the night and claim I'd made the right choice to accept a ride from such a dangerous man was, as of yet, to be determined. A fierce battle raged within me. Although grateful for the ride, and the warmth of his Jeep, a cold shudder of terror slithered up my spine every time he glanced my direction. The locked door added to my apprehension. Cold overwhelmed me again.
He exercised a considerable amount of care in adjusting the army blanket higher across my chest with one hand. His warm hand brushed against my skin. I flinched, wanting to scream, but managed to keep it in check, in all honesty because I couldn't ... The phantom pressure of his hands lingered at my throat.
It seemed incomprehensible. I'd once thought him in need of my comfort, only to have him turn on me, becoming a killer. Never, if I lived forever, would I forget the coldness in his eyes at the moment I knew I'd die. The memory of his eyes, the cold purposeful reflection of them, caused me to shudder. I couldn't bring myself to look at him. Would his seeming gentleness be absent, replaced instead by the killer I knew existed behind the veil of concern for my well-being? Though good-looking, he'd proved beyond dangerous -- he'd proven deadly. He'd held my life in his hands. The option of my continued breathing his choice and his alone. I wasn't at all sure by what fate I continued to breathe and feared it had been a calculated move on his part to heighten my terror. He'd measured me well if such were his intentions.
It required a firm determination on my part to remain calm. In the subconscious recesses of my mind, I considered myself his prisoner. Distrust replaced my calm acceptance of his explanation of finding me with emphatic surety. I tried in vain to calm my instincts to run should the opportunity present itself."
The inspiration for this scene came about -- way back when (okay, forty years ago). My mother and I were traveling alone, across the desert in South Eastern Idaho when we came over a hill and hit black ice. Of course you don't see that part of this scene here. To make a terribly cold walk (and story) short, I, as a child, must have logged these fears in the recesses of my one day overly active writer's mind. I think most writers will agree, one pulls the inspiration from where one must, the most wonderful of experiences or like in this case, the coldest fears of childhood.
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