A Brush With Love by Rachel Hauck Page A

forward.
    “Boy, you do remember everything. The stallions of Rosebud . . . I haven’t thought of that nickname in a long time.” He ran his hands though his drenched hair but there was no place to dry his cold, wet hands. “Sorry about this mess.”
    “When you don’t have a life, you pay close attention to others.” She chuckled softly. “I can still see you, Eric,Edward, and Kirk Vaughn strutting down the school halls, three abreast, patting your chests on football Fridays, rapping some stallions of Rosebud song.”
    Tom laughed. “Yep, ‘We’re the stallions . . . of Rosebud High . . . fear the name, we’re what we claim, when you’re not looking, we’re gonna crush ya . . .” He drummed the rhythm on the dash. “Ole Kirk, I miss him.” Kirk had gone pro but died in a small aircraft crash while doing mission work during the off season.
    At his funeral, Tom’s heart first stirred toward full-time ministry. Something he swore he’d never do. He’d watched his father and wanted nothing of that life.
    “Such a senseless death.”
    “I can still hear Eric’s voice when he called to tell me . . . I couldn’t believe it.” Tom glanced at her. “But Kirk died doing something he believed in. At his funeral, I stood in the back of Brotherhood Community Center—there had to be a thousand people crammed in there—and bawled like a baby. That day changed me.”
    “How did that day change you?” The VW nosed down again. Ginger urged the car with a bit more gas, trying to move quickly through the rut.
    “I just knew. No more fooling around with God. I had to get serious.”
    “Serious with God? Were you not serious? The preacher’s kid?”
    “I was the opposite of serious.” The car hit another water patch and fishtailed sideways before listing to port, finding another rut and sinking. The engine gurgled and died with a tired sigh.
    “No, no, no,” Ginger rocked in her seat, trying to reignite the engine. But the rain, ruts, and mud had won. “Matilda, we were almost there.” She pointed to a small light on the distant horizon before turning to Tom. “See if you can push.”
    “Ginger, face it. Elements one, VW Bug with humans, zero.” Tom leaned out his door, looking under the car. “The back left is buried.” He ducked back inside. “We’re going to have to walk.”
    “Walk? In this?” Ginger angled over the wheel, peering at the rain. “Maybe we can wait it out.”
    As if the heavens heard, the clouds rumbled, lightning flickered, and the rain fell in double-time. The car sank a bit lower.
    Tom offered her his hand. “I say we run for it. You with me? Do you have a flashlight?”
    “Dear diary, Bridgett Maynard’s wedding was a blast. I got to run in the rain and mud.” Ginger popped open the glove box, producing a flashlight, then slipped the keys from the ignition and reached around behind the seat for her purse and small duffle bag. “I can’t believe this.”
    “I was on a patrol like this one night in Afghanistan.”
    “In a VW?” Ginger clicked on the flashlight, shot open her door, and stepped out. “Oh, wow, it’s cold. And muddy. Ew, I’m sinking.”
    “No, in a Humvee. And hold on.” He sloshed his way around to her and without hesitating or pausing to see if she’d care, he slipped his hand into hers and pulled her past the car onto a piece of solid ground. “Better?”
    “Better.” She exhaled, glancing up at him, shining the flashlight between them. “Thanks for coming with me.”
    He curled his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to wipe the rain from her cheek. “Wouldn’t have missed it.” This was ten times better than sitting around with a bunch of guys, wondering if she was all right.
    “Well . . .” She turned toward the small light beaming through the rain. “I say the last one there is a monkey’s uncle.” With a rebel yell, Ginger launched into a full-on sprint, the beam of the light bouncing about the darkness.
    “What? Wait—”