My panic began to resurface, but I took a deep breath to center myself. I could do this. I had to do this.

“Carly. Get out of here,” he pleaded, and I was surprised that he sounded genuinely concerned.

“Look,” I said, trying to think this through. “My purse is in the truck and I have a pair of scissors in there. If I can reach them, then you can cut yourself out.”

He thought about it for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “I can try it, but if the truck starts to move, then you get the hell away from it and go get help.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Do you see my purse?”

“It’s at my feet,” he said, “but I can’t reach it. I already tried once before you got here.”

“Maybe you can grab the purse with the tire iron. You can loop the handle with the end.”

He was silent for a moment. “Yeah. It’s worth a shot, but you’re going to have to throw it to me. Don’t touch the truck.”

I considered tossing the crowbar to him from where I stood, but I didn’t have the best aim, and I was worried my adrenaline would make me heave it too hard and smash him in the face. So I sidled closer to the open door. At least the floorboard was lower now, the seats about shoulder-level to me.

“You’re too close, Carly,” he said, looking anxious. “Get back.”

“I’m not sure I’ll get it to you if I’m this far away, and I only have one shot.”

He held up a hand. “Just be careful. It’s not worth me gettin’ out of here if the truck smashes you in the process.”

I shot him a grin, but it was wobbly. “Ah, see I knew you liked me after all.”

Guilt filled his eyes. “Carly…”

“Let’s discuss it when I get you out of here.” I lifted the tire iron. “You ready?”

“When you toss it, back the hell up in case this thing comes crashin’ down.”

“Okay.”

Whispering a quick prayer, I heaved the crowbar toward him. As soon as it was free from my grasp, I scrambled backward, watching to make sure he caught it. But just as his hand wrapped around it, I promptly lost my footing and hit a patch of mud. With nothing to hold on to, I started sliding down the hill.

“Carly!” Wyatt shouted.

I’d only descended about five feet before I grabbed a scrub tree. The trunk bent but held my weight. I took a deep breath, then called out, “I’m fine!”

“Can you get back up?”

“Yeah. I didn’t slide very far.” I took another deep breath to slow my racing heart. “Did you get my purse?”

“I’m not moving a muscle until I’m certain you’re out of the way. I’m not going to risk taking you with me if the truck falls.”

I took a moment to reassure myself I was fine, then started pulling myself up the hill, one tree at a time, until I was even with the truck. Sure enough, Wyatt was pretty much in the same position he’d been in when I’d fallen down.

“Shit, Carly,” he said. “What’re you doin’? Get up to the road!”

“Let’s get something clear, Wyatt Drummond. I don’t take kindly to orders.”

He gave me a cockeyed grin. “Hell, I figured that out the night I met you.”

“Then you know I’m not going up that hill until you do, right?”

“What if I add a please?”

“I’m going to stay right over here and watch your progress.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but I was out of harm’s way, so instead he slowly lowered the tire iron and started reaching it toward the floorboard and fishing around. After several attempts, he lifted the metal rod and dragged my purse up with it.

Once he had the purse next to him, he tossed the tire iron through the passenger door opening. It landed on the ground in front of me.

After Wyatt found the scissors, he zipped the bag back up and tossed it out to me too. I scooped it up and heaved it up the hill. It landed in a patch of mud, but at least the important contents would be safe enough.

He started cutting through the thick strap over his chest. “Why are you carryin’ around a pair of sharp scissors in your bag, anyway?” he asked.

“You really want to know?”

“I didn’t ask to make conversation.”

“Protection.”

He didn’t respond, instead finishing his hack job. As soon as he made the final cut through the thick fabric, his body fell forward into the steering wheel and dashboard, but he stretched out his arms and braced himself.

The truck groaned and dipped forward several more inches.

“Wyatt!” I screamed in terror. I couldn’t watch him die. I refused to watch him die. I was getting him out of that truck.

“I’m okay,” he said in a soothing voice, and I found it odd that he was reassuring me even though he was the one in danger. “It’s the next part that’s tricky.” He lifted his feet against the dashboard, then scooted across the cab until he reached the passenger door. “Carly, climb up a little higher.”

I grabbed the rope I’d tied to the tree up above and pulled myself up several feet, figuring it was faster than using the trees. “What’s your plan?”

“I’m gonna jump.” He made a move to dive out, but just as he started to leap from the truck, it creaked and then pitched hard toward the passenger side.

I screamed, but Wyatt somehow managed to remain inside the truck as it slid down the hill again, barely missing me, and fell another fifteen feet. The passenger side smashed into two pine trees with a terrifying crunch.

Panic hit me full force. “Wyatt!”

“I’m okay,” he called back, his voice muffled. The smashed-in driver’s door was angled up toward me, the window still up and intact. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I wanted to take a minute to recover, but I needed to get him out of there. Grabbing the rope, I let gravity pull me down the hill, the rope burning my palms as I pulled myself to a halt to grab the tire iron. “I’m coming!”

“Stay where you are!” he shouted, his voice dampened inside the closed-up cab. “If you get near this thing, it might fall again.”

I took a good look at the position of the truck, and I judged that it likely wasn’t going anywhere. At least not yet. “I told you I don’t take orders, Wyatt.”

“Dammit, Carly!”

Thankfully, the rope extended all the way down to the truck, so I continued my descent, trying to come up with a plan as I went. The driver’s side window was too high for me to reach, and even if I smashed it he would have to climb up, something that could jar the truck too much. I could only think of one way to get him out—climb into the truck bed and smash in the back window. It seemed safest to keep all the weight in the truck balanced in the middle, so instead of crawling in by the bumper, I climbed up the back tire and hiked my leg over the side into the truck bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he shouted through the intact back window.

“Getting you out of there.” I lifted my other leg over the side and spread my feet apart to keep my balance on the sloping bed. Holding the tire iron like a bat, I said, “Cover your head.”