Читать книгу Man From Montana - Brenda Mott - Страница 8

Summer 1993

DERRICK WAS IN THE MOOD TO PLAY. He pulled his ’68 Gran Torino to a halt at the only stoplight in town. Beside him, Nick Taylor smirked and revved the engine of his Chevelle.

“Hey, loser!” Nick challenged through the car’s open window. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

From the Chevelle’s passenger seat, Jason Fremont sneered at him. “Your Torino sucks, Mertz, you drop-out hick!”

Nick and Jason had graduated last year and gone on to college, while he’d stayed right here in Sage Bend, Montana. Being the father of a two-year-old and holding down a full-time job didn’t leave much time for anything else.

But tonight Derrick felt like the boy he used to be—the boy he sometimes wished he still was. Just a guy out celebrating his nineteenth birthday. Even if Shelly had tried to ruin it by dropping Connor off on his doorstep unannounced. It wasn’t his weekend to take care of their son. He had planned to party with his friends, and she’d known that.

Derrick glanced into the back seat where his son sat strapped into the car seat. The little guy loved riding in the Gran Torino. They’d make their own fun.

The thud against his car door made Derrick’s head snap around. He saw raw egg running down the side of the Torino and choked back a curse.

Nick and Jason howled with laughter, then took off with a squeal of tires as the light turned green.

Assholes!

Derrick put the Torino in gear. “What do you think, Connor? Want to show those jerks what for?”

“What for!” Connor replied, his dimpled cheeks reflected in the rearview mirror as he giggled.

Derrick let out the clutch, and the Gran Torino leapt forward like a big cat on the run. He’d gotten the car from his grandfather, and while it didn’t look like much on the outside, he and Grandpa Mertz had made everything under the hood purr.

No way could that piece of crap Chevelle outrun him.

Rapidly shifting gears, he caught up with Nick and Jason, passing them by a half length as they sped away from town out onto the county road. Country music blared through his stereo speakers—a song about fast cars and faster women—as Derrick watched his speedometer needle arc higher.

“Yeah!” He let out a whoop and shifted into high gear. The Torino’s engine no longer purred—it roared.

Ahead, the paved road curved and narrowed down to dirt and gravel. Derrick gripped the wheel, prepared for the rough transition. Nick’s Chevelle edged up beside him on the curve, crowding him as Nick tried to pass.

Derrick floored it. “Eat my dust!”

The Torino gave what he asked, leaping ahead as they came out of the curve. Derrick whooped again and glanced in his rearview mirror. Nick had dropped behind, and Derrick could see him cursing. He wasn’t so smart now.

Derrick felt on top of the world.

Not somebody’s father.

Not somebody’s meal ticket.

Just a kid in a fast car.

The Charolais bull came out of nowhere, its off-white coat blending into the gray dusk. It stopped in the middle of the road and turned its head and, for a moment, Derrick looked right into the animal’s eyes.

“Crap!” He jerked the wheel.

With a spray of dust and gravel, the Torino skidded onto the shoulder of the road, missing the bull by inches. The car fishtailed, and Derrick cranked the wheel in a desperate attempt to regain control. The right rear tire slid, then the front end whipped around—too far. And everything seemed to move in slow motion.

Grass and rock scraped the undercarriage. The fender struck a wooden post as the Torino rocketed across the shallow ditch, through a barbed wire fence. And rolled down the incline of the cow pasture.

Derrick couldn’t get his bearings. Couldn’t even tell which end was up. His head smacked the steering wheel, and his vision swam, then went black.

He awoke to silence. Disoriented.

Where was he? He blinked, then looked around as he remembered.

Nick’s Chevelle was nowhere in sight. He and Jason had taken off, leaving Derrick in the middle of a pasture? Amazingly, the Torino had landed upright after rolling.

His prized possession—the car—had meant so much to him. But suddenly it meant nothing at all as the significance of the silence hit him.

“Connor?”

His heart leapt in his chest as he twisted around to look into the back.

Connor sat slumped in the twisted safety seat, a streak of blood darkening his brown curls. Glass from the shattered windshield lay everywhere. It covered Connor’s T-shirt, his jeans….

Dear God! Derrick fumbled with his seat belt. How could he have been so stupid? The buckle gave, and he clambered over the seat to reach his little boy.

“Connor? Hey, buddy.” Hands shaking, he touched his son’s neck and felt the faint flutter of a pulse. “Conner, wake up. Please?” He muttered a prayer.

What had he done?

He wanted to pull his son into his lap. But should he move him? Why the hell wasn’t anybody coming down the road?

Frantically, he looked up. He thought he heard an approaching car…. Relief coursed through him when he saw the minivan. Derrick pushed against the door of the car, but it was caved in—jammed shut.

“Help me!” He beat it with his fist, glass shards cutting his hand. “Somebody help me—help my son!”

It took him a moment to hear the man. The Good Samaritan who’d rushed from the minivan. “Are you okay, kid?”

“Yeah—I—” He looked at Connor.

“I called 911.”

Three numbers that had meant little to Derrick before now.

Three numbers that held his only hope that Connor would be all right.

He stared at Connor and prayed.