Formula for Danger

Her father had been concerned, but even more than that, he’d been worried about the research, about the product launch. As usual. Unspoken was the specter of her last disastrous venture, and how he’d blamed her for it.

Four years ago she had developed a grape-seed extract moisturizer for the spa to launch as a new product. A month before Joy Luck Life spa released it, Avignon spa in New York happened to release a grape-seed extract moisturizer, as well. It wasn’t the exact formulation, even though it also used a grape-seed extract ingredient, and Rachel hadn’t thought it would be a problem to continue with their product launch. Plus, it was too late to stop it. But then Internet news reporters had accused Joy Luck Life of “stealing” Avignon’s formula. The spa received a lot of bad press and had been subjected to false rumors, which her father had taken hard, asking her again and again why she had suggested they continue with the product launch.

And now this sabotage of her basil plants, causing a setback for her latest product launch.

She’d considered skipping her daily bike ride this morning, but aside from a low-level headache and some tenderness around her eye, she felt fine. She needed to be alone with her thoughts.

As she neared the base of an upcoming hill, the hum of a car engine came from behind. Her heartbeat sped up for a second as the gleam of chrome seemed to appear directly next to her, blinding her—the vehicle was too close!

Then the auto blazed past her, whipping her in the wind of its wake, making her wobble a bit. She caught a glimpse of the bright sticker of a car-rental company on the bumper before it disappeared over the hill.

Another tourist, viewing the sights of Sonoma County or maybe getting a very early start on a wine-tasting tour. She couldn’t complain, since the tourists contributed to the spa’s popularity, but their recklessness on the roads sometimes made her hug the sides more than normal.

She struggled up the winding hill, the breeze dropping with her dwindling speed. The sun warmed her head inside her bike helmet. Her lungs heaved, and she welcomed the exertion, trying to somehow purge her body of all the confusing, frightening feelings of last night.

The greenhouse destruction made it obvious that someone else knew about her research and wanted to stop the product launch. While anyone could have followed her to the greenhouse at any time, they couldn’t know how central those plants were to her current project unless they’d somehow gotten her research notes, which were only on her computer at work.

She couldn’t take the chance someone had hacked into her work computer, or could do so in the future. This morning she had called her cousin Jane, a computer expert, to ask her if she could come to the spa to upgrade the security on Rachel’s work computer and see if someone had breached her system.

Jane was the main reason she had developed the scar-reduction cream, and she could barely repress her desire to present it to her, to feel that she had somehow atoned for what she had done to Jane all those years ago.

When Rachel and her cousin were eight years old, Rachel had inadvertently started a fire in Jane’s playhouse, causing scarring along Jane’s cheek and jawbone. Jane said she forgave Rachel, but Rachel couldn’t forgive herself. When she’d realized how incredible the results of the cream were, she had doubled her efforts to perfect the formula, thinking of Jane’s scars the entire time.

She reached the crest of the hill, her heart pounding. Her entire body was tired today, probably from the stress of last night, getting home so late only to face her father’s heavy disapproval, and then rising early to go for a bike ride. Maybe she’d cut her ride short today so she could get into work early. She coasted down the hill, the breeze cooling her, the wind filling her lungs.

Another car engine sounded behind her, ruining the feeling of freedom and being alone out here in the crisp air. She damped down her irritation and, mindful of the last car, moved closer to the side of the road.

The engine seemed abnormally loud—and close. She glanced over her shoulder.

Her movement caused her bike to slip off the asphalt and skid a little in the gravel bordering the road.

Suddenly she felt as if the car behind her had bumped into her back tire. The bike bucked her off and flung her upward.

She screamed.

For a stricken heartbeat she hung poised in midair, staring at the ground sloping from the road to a field of grapevines. And then she plummeted down, rocks and juniper bushes rising up to meet her.

She curled as she landed, striking her right shoulder with a crack! that trembled through her entire frame. She rolled and pitched, head over heels, sideways and underways and every which way. She finally landed with a jarring thud! to her spine that snapped her head back into the ground.

For long, excruciating seconds, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t make her diaphragm move. She stared at the pale blue sky, misted with incoming clouds, and struggled to make her body obey her frantic mind.

Then she gasped long and hard. She coughed, hacking up dust from her lungs, burning her throat. And pain exploded in her bones.

She curled onto her side, thorns pricking her cheek. She could suddenly hear the whistle of the wind, and the receding sound of a car engine.

Someone had hit her—and was driving away.

He’d come. The one man she wouldn’t have expected but wanted.

As soon as Edward’s truck pulled alongside her and she met his fierce gaze through the windshield, she relaxed muscles that she hadn’t realized were tight.

She had never been more thankful for her rugged waterproof phone—it had been unscathed from her accident. After calling Aunt Becca, she’d made her way back to the road and moved away from the sloping hill so that she’d be out of range of any cars speeding down. Also, a stubby tree that she could lean against grew a few feet in from the road. She still felt as if her bones were creaking, but at least she could walk.

She vaguely registered Naomi, Monica and Aunt Becca also getting out of the four-door truck, but Edward filled her vision. He reached her first, folding her in his tanned arms, strong and warm, smelling of earth and pine.

He had never embraced her before.

She never wanted to move again.

“Are you all right?”

“Where’s your bike?”

“You look awful. Let me look at you.”

This last was from Monica, who wedged between them so she could stare critically at Rachel’s face and her limbs. “Any pain when you walk?”

“No.” She glanced around Monica’s head, but Edward had already walked away, his back to her.

Her sister touched her at various places on her body. “How about your arms? Ribs?”

“My shoulder hurts.” It throbbed, actually, as if the blood would pulse right out through her aching muscles.

“Hmm, doesn’t look dislocated.” Monica gave a few experimental touches.

“Ow!” Pain lanced through Rachel’s shoulder.

“Hold still,” Monica said grimly.

“Did you call the police for me?” Rachel asked Aunt Becca through gritted teeth.

“I spoke to Horatio personally. He’s on his way.”

“What happened?” Naomi demanded.

Rachel relayed what she could remember, trying to block out the memory of her terrifying flight and painful tumble.

Monica shook her head in disbelief. “Not to be mean, but you’re not hurt very much considering you were rammed by a car. You should be grateful it’s not worse.”

“Well…” She remembered the jumbling of the bike frame as her tires skidded. “I turned back to look at the car, and my bike ran off the road because I was hugging it too closely. Maybe that made the car only sideswipe me rather than hitting me full on.”

“Praise Jesus!” Becca said. “He took care of you.” She wrapped her in a hug against Monica’s protests.

Had God been taking care of her? Did He really care so much about her that He’d do something small like making her bike skid? Was He really orchestrating her life like that? Rachel wondered.

Her mind shied away from the thought. She had never really thought of God as that intimately concerned about her. She had always thought of God as a distant, powerful figure who didn’t bother Himself much about her, which was a view of Him that was easier for Rachel to understand and fit into her life. Did God really care about her like that? The idea seemed foreign to her. A God who cared about her might require more of her than she’d been used to giving Him—more than going to church with her family, reading her Bible once in a while, praying once in a while. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that.

“Did you see anything about the car?” Edward approached her again. “Make, model?”