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her own choices. And that, to her, was important. She wasn’t against accepting advice, but as far as her life went, she had to make her own choices.
    So here, she had a choice.
    What to do?
    He didn’t look like a serial killer. Then again, wasthere an actual look? Was there a stereotype, were they blond like Swedes, dark and romantic like Italians or Spaniards. Did they dress up in colonial costume?
    â€œLet’s get out of the snow,” she said. She started walking. He followed her.
    â€œYou have no horses,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a car,” she said. “It has an engine, a battery…pistons. I don’t know, I’m not a mechanic, I have the oil checked and leave it with the Ford people.”
    â€œThe Ford people?” he asked.
    She gritted her teeth. “Stop it! Enough. You look great. I don’t own or manage any of the historical museums around here. You don’t need to keep up the act.”
    He stopped short, looking at her with indignation again. He stood very straight, and he was handsome and imposing, like a hero out of an adventure book. “My dear young woman, I assure you, I am not performing in any manner. I don’t know where I am, nor do I understand this fascinating mode of transportation you refer to as a car. I…” His voice trailed off. He staggered forward, his knees buckling. She caught him, and he regained some of his strength, coming back to a full stand, but still leaning upon her. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
    If he was acting, his work was worthy of an Academy Award. Melody was afraid she had managed to give him a good clip to the head with the front bumper, and that he was suffering some kind of dementia because of it.
    â€œLet’s get to the car, and hope that I can get us out of this snowbank. My cell phone isn’t working.”
    â€œYour cellphone? ” he said.
    â€œOh, God!” she groaned. “Never mind. Let me just get you home.”
    She managed to get him to the car, she climbed in across the passenger seat.
    He jumped as she revved the engine.
    â€œIt’s all right, that’s the engine,” she said. “Please, just get in, and fasten your seat belt.” Before he could ask, she added, “The harness, right here. It saves lives, trust me.”
    He got in and, with her assistance, put on the seat belt.
    She forced herself to move slowly, patiently, and she managed to back out of the snowbank. Cautiously, she began to drive on the road again.
    â€œUnbelievable!” he murmured.
    She shook her head. “Okay, you don’t know where you are. But where were you before I hit you?”
    He stared at her. His handsome features knit in thought, and then confusion.
    â€œNew York,” he told her. “I was standing on the gallows, a rope around my neck.”
    Great! He was crazy. He was a homeless lunatic.
    Either that, or he’d somehow hit his head really hard when she’d struck him.
    She narrowed her eyes, staring very carefully at the road, wondering if she hadn’t completely lost her mind. She had picked up a madman.
    â€œI don’t want to know what part you were playing,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I need to know who you really are, and what you really do.”
    â€œWell, in actuality, I write,” he said.
    â€œGreat. Very good. Who do you write for? Were you involved in a publicity stunt?” she inquired. Talking to him was like pulling teeth.
    â€œA publicity stunt?” he inquired, confused. He hadbeen staring out the window, perplexed. He turned and stared at her instead, handsome features furrowed.
    She shook her head. “A publicity stunt. Something to draw the attention of the media. Something to get your name in the papers.”
    â€œMy name is in the papers,” he said.
    â€œOkay. Good start. What is your name?”
    â€œJake Mallory,” he said.
    She shook her head. “I’ve