Читать книгу Her Road Home - Laura Drake - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

SAM JERKED AWAKE and in her panic, forgot. The ninja dagger plunged. She froze, panting in shallow rabbit breaths. Her heart slammed her ribs, which set them to throbbing.

Morning light slanted onto the bed through the white curtains. The nightmare seemed to drift on the dust motes. In the dream the cellar walls had transitioned to dirt. The rough cave opening had been only a darker shadow. Something had waited. Something that hammered her with soul-withering terror.

It’s not real. It is not real. She knew the mantra would calm her, if she kept at it long enough.

Her nightmares weren’t normal. She knew that. They washed her nights in an ugliness that lingered, the residue clinging to the inside of her skull. It leached out, leaving greasy stains on each new day.

When her lungs no longer begged for oxygen, she tried to roll onto her back and reach for the amber plastic pill bottle. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Her ribs’ painful response was only the high soprano in the operatic chorus of her body’s pain. Waiting until the wailing quieted to a whimper, she tried again. Slowly. That worked better. She swallowed the pills, grateful for the little white dots that promised relief.

Relaxing onto the pillow, she panted, waiting for the medicine to kick in. She glanced at the bedside alarm clock and did a double take. She hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in years.

Her mind worried at the edges of the dream, like a tongue on a broken tooth. But after a few minutes, her relentless antsiness kicked in; so long a part of her, it had melded to the myelin sheath covering her nerves. She moved, so gently, so slowly, that her medicine-lulled body only creaked. Easing herself to a sitting position, she slipped her forearm into the sling, and buckled it. She felt like the Tin Man, left out in the rain.

“Where is Dorothy, with that damn oilcan?”

She ran her fingers gently over the bruise on her chest. It felt swollen. She lifted her hand to the lump on her collarbone, and winced at her own touch. She had broken a collarbone before, thanks to a fall from a ladder; she knew a sling, Motrin, painkillers and time were the only cures.

Sam squinted through the worn, lacy curtains to the sun-splashed gravel parking lot. Evergreen boughs danced on the wind. Leaning over, she eased the window open a crack. A pine-scented breeze as clean as innocence and welcome as absolution swirled in, cooling her sweaty face.

“It’s a physical impossibility to be in a bad mood on such a gorgeous morning.” With hope that saying it would make it so, she stood and shuffled like an invalid to the bathroom.

After spending too much time dressing, she grabbed her helmet on the way out the door. It would be useless to her for a while; it belonged with the bike. She stepped out into the perfect day and pulled the door closed behind her. Yesterday’s rain clouds had scrubbed the sky to Alice blue, leaving only a few puffy white ones behind. The sun flashed off quartz in the gravel, and in a pasture across the lot, the breeze led the live oats in a stadium wave.

She set off for the road. Between the distraction of the day and the sun on her shoulders, Sam’s body eventually warmed up, walking fast enough to outpace a one-legged octogenarian. After a while, she came upon a bright red farmhouse on the left, a sign proclaiming it the Farm House Café that the old man had recommended.

Her belly sounded a rumbling timpani.

“Hang in there. Food’s coming.” Pushing the glass door to the café open, she was hit by the chatter of conversation, dishes clattering and the heavenly smell of bacon.

A blonde wielding a tray of dirty plates swished by. “Sit anywhere, honey. I’ll be right with you.” She had a tiny, pretty face, big hair piled in a riot of curls and perfect red fingernails. The white waitress uniform fit her busty stature as if she’d been dipped in it.

Sam eased herself onto a stool at the linoleum-covered bar that stretched the length of the room. Pretending to look at the menu, she studied the homey atmosphere. Customers filled the red vinyl booths, everyone talking at once. Small farm implements hung on the wall. Some of them, she could actually identify: a hand plow, butter churn, an oxen yoke. An old potbellied stove squatted in the back corner on a wood floor worn silver-gray with use.

The waitress appeared on the other side of the counter, coffee carafe in hand. “Sorry to make you wait, sweetie, this place goes nuts this time of day.” Her head cocked. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope, just passing through. This is a great place. Warm and cozy.”

“Why, thank you, sweetheart. We’re not fancy like some of those new places, but we try. I’m Jesse Jurgen, and that huge hunk of man behind me is my husband, Carl.” Sam looked through the serving window. A blond giant filled it, looking like a modern-day Norse god, his white T-shirt riding high on heavily muscled biceps. He waved a spatula in greeting.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

“That bacon smells wonderful. Could I get some scrambled eggs and sourdough toast to go with it?”

“Sure you can. You want coffee?”

“You bet.” Sam closed the menu. “What’s with all the bed-and-breakfast places downtown? They look new.”

“Oh, they’re new, all right.” The blonde pulled a coffee cup from under the counter and poured. “This has been ranch country for a hundred years, until some smart guy discovered the land hereabouts was perfect for growing grapes. Now we’ve got vineyards coming out our ears. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to sidle up to a nice glass of Zin now and again, but—”

The man a few seats down the bar broke in. “Oh, come on, Jesse. You can’t complain about the business all those tourists have brought in.”

“I’m not complaining, Hank, God knows. But this used to be such a sleepy town. You should see this place on a summer weekend now. The tourists swarm like termites.”

“I can see why.” Sam sipped her coffee.

“Can you believe there’s a limousine service in town that will drive people to wine tastings? What will they think of next?” Jesse grabbed the coffeepot and swished around the bar. “I’m coming, Oscar. Hold your water.”

“CaliFornication,” said the older man on Sam’s right.

“Sorry?”

“CaliFornication. You know, like the song. It’s when you take a beautiful state and screw it up with too many people, too many houses, too many—”

“Don’t listen to Don. He’s just a bitter old man.” A man on Sam’s left leaned in. “This is God’s country.”

“At least so far.” Jesse had returned and put a full plate in front of Sam. She stared at the sling, then the helmet. “Did you ride a motorcycle here?”

“Well, I tried to.” Sam grimaced, then took a bite of fluffy egg.

Sam could see puzzle pieces fall into place and the woman’s carmine lips opened. “You’re the motorcycle chick. The one who got hit last night!”

Sam had heard of small-town jungle drums, but had never been the source of their pounding before. “Yep, that’s me. Motorcycle chick.”

“I mean that with respect. I’d love to ride myself, but I’m a hazard on the road as it is.” She frowned down at Sam. “Are you sure you’re all right? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“Been there. Done with that.” Sam stuck her knife in a mason jar of what looked like homemade strawberry preserves and slathered it on her toast. “I’ll be fine.”

The woman looked unconvinced, but asked, “Where are you coming from, honey?”

“Ohio, originally.”

The blonde’s brown penciled-on eyebrows scrunched. “You mean you rode a motorcycle out here from Ohio? All by yourself? Lord, weren’t you scared? How long have you been traveling?”

Sam began to recognize that if you wanted to talk with Jesse, rather than listen, it would require using large amounts of duct tape. “I left Colorado two months ago, but it’s been six years since I left where I grew up in Ohio. People have been great, for the most part, and I’ve seen more beautiful country than I knew existed.”

“Well, I’m impressed. I’d never have the guts to do something like that.”

Sam’s mind skipped to the day ahead. Once she’d checked on the bike and picked up a rental car, she planned to cruise around and look for a job. “Can you tell me which direction is best to see some of the country?”

Eavesdropping diners tossed out suggestions.

“Zaca Station Road is real pretty.”

“Yeah, but Foxen Canyon is better. The wineries are beautiful.”

“They just repaved Calle Bonita.”

As a heated discussion broke out, Jesse leaned over. “Oh, just head out of town and take any old road. It’ll wind around and give you a pretty good lay of the land.”

As Sam ate, the café got busier. Overall-clad farmers, who clearly owned their booths, spoke of yesterday’s rain. A gaggle of teenagers bolted food while chatting loudly.

Sam ate her last bite of toast, grabbed her helmet and scouted the counter for her bill. Not seeing one, she walked to the cash register to pay for her meal.

Jesse stood behind the register. “That’ll be eight twenty-three.”

“I looked for the bill, but—”

“Oh, we don’t mess with those things here.” Jesse hit a button, and the drawer popped open.

“But how do you know how much to charge?” She handed over a ten.

“I just figure it in my head, silly.”

“Tax and all?” Sam glanced at the dining area. “And you remember what everyone ordered, and what it costs?” There must have been twenty-five people here, and it had been more crowded when she came in. There was more to this blonde than big hair.

The waitress smiled. “That’s easy. It’s not like riding a motorcycle across country. Now, that’s hard.”

Shaking her head, Sam tottered out the door to track down her motorcycle.

* * *

“YOU NEED TWENTY-TWO foot-pounds at eighty degrees, then eighty degrees again.” Nick leaned on the torque wrench, demonstrating. “Now, you—”

Next to him, his mechanic, Tom, made a low, quiet whistle through his teeth. Nick looked across the engine of the BMW M-Class to the windowed wall of his reception area. The blonde biker stood checking out his photo collection, one hand in the back pocket of her jeans, the other in a sling. He couldn’t blame Tom; she was a bombshell. Six feet tall, mostly legs. Lean, but the snug T-shirt didn’t hide her long, capable biceps. Or the nice set of headlights.

He straightened, pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. Her features suggested innocence, but her full lower lip and the woman’s awareness in her green eyes would set a man’s pants on fire. Unforgettable. He sighed. Nick had no time for a come-n-go biker chick, even a stunning one.

It wasn’t like he’d never asked a woman out before. Just not in recent memory. The business came first. Yeah, but the business is secure, and growing. That excuse isn’t going to work forever.

When he’d been in L.A., getting his mechanic’s license, he’d torn through the ranks of local single women. He’d had a high time. But Nick was still recovering from the fall off those dizzying heights. Since he’d come home to stay, things were more complicated.

In high school, good girls didn’t date hand-me-down guys like him. Oh, sure, there was curiosity in their aloof glances, but between his grease-stained fingernails, out of fashion clothes and their daddies’ admonishments, a glance was all he got.

To be fair, he couldn’t blame them. After his life exploded, he’d done his damnedest to live down to those low expectations.

Besides, women tended to shy from men with murder in their family tree.

“Man, it’s tough to be the boss.” Tom jerked on the torque wrench.

“Watch what you’re doing, or you’re gonna strip that head.” Nick stepped around the car and walked to the office.

“How are the ribs?”

Her look shifted as he approached, going from zero to redline the closer he got. Realizing his gaze had wandered, Nick parked his eyes on her face. “You like my bikes?”

She turned back to his collection of glossy supersport photos. “Do you race?”

“No, those are bikes I wrenched on. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.” He crossed to the computer at the counter. “Riding never interested me. I just love trying to pull one more ounce of horsepower out of those sweet, compact engines.” He jiggled the mouse to wake the screen. “I found you a new headlight and some fork seals online, but I wanted your okay to order them. After all, you were a captive customer last night. My rates are comparable with others in the area, but if you want to check around...”

Her studied gaze raked the reception area as she crossed the room and placed her beat-up helmet gently on the glass display counter. “You’d need to understand, I want only original parts used.”

He nodded.

“I’d love for it to be done quickly, but I understand that the parts may be hard to find. I won’t be here long, so I may need to leave it with you.”

He nodded again.

“I’ll be calling you, for weekly updates.”

“Or I can call you.”

Seconds ticked by as she studied his face. “I’ll trust you.”

Something about the tilt of her head told him she hadn’t trusted him, before she walked into the shop.

“I’ll take good care of your baby, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m glad to know it. Now, do you know where I can rent a car?”

“Nope. But I can loan you one.”

* * *

SAM FOLLOWED NICK around the outside of the shop to a ramshackle one-car garage. Leafy vines climbed the warped, weathered walls as Mother Nature reclaimed her territory. “My insurance will cover a weekly rental,” Sam said.

The old, spring coil door squealed as he lifted it. He turned to her and gestured to the car parked inside.

Sunlight filtering through the gaps in the boards shone off bright yellow paint. And green paint. And neon-orange glow paint. The...thing consumed the entire floor space.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to rent this.” There was a note of pride in his voice.

“No shit,” she whispered.

He jogged around, opened the driver’s door, started the engine and rolled the convertible monstrosity into the yard. She recognized the old Volkswagen Thing; a cross between a dune buggy, military vehicle and a Beetle—and none of those models should have been allowed to breed.

If that weren’t enough, the eye-popping yellow paint was festooned with cartoon flowers, peace signs and rainbows in garish colors. It looked like the artist had dropped acid.

He shut down the engine and sat with a smug smile, clearly awaiting effusive acclaim.

She gulped, imagining all eyes following her as she drove around town. “I couldn’t.” Sam believed that your ride was an extension of your personality. Her Vulcan showed one side of her, her Jeep, another. She’d made snap judgments about people based solely on what they drove, and most of the time, they proved correct.

Her? Drive this—abomination? No, really, I couldn’t.

He hopped out and gently closed the door. “The nearest car rental is Santa Maria, thirty miles that way.” He pointed northeast. “So I offer my customers loaners, no charge.” He patted the garish fender. “All of them are out right now, but hey, since you trust me with your baby, I’ll trust you with mine.”

She didn’t owe him anything. She opened her mouth to decline, wondering if it would be too rude to ask him for the Yellow Pages to look up another shop.

But he worked on race bikes. She wasn’t going to find a more experienced mechanic. She couldn’t insult him. He sat there, beaming like a little boy offering her his prettiest marble.

The universe must be trying to keep me humble. Well, she’d just keep her head down and let her hair hide her face. It wasn’t like anyone in town knew her, anyway. She swallowed. “Thanks.”