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“A Vulcan 750,” the tow driver said with an in-church voice. “I haven’t seen one of these in forever.” He trailed reverent fingers over the one pristine side of her cherry-red gas tank. “What year?”
“’85.” Sam glanced to the tow truck, grateful to see it had a flatbed.
A man in a rumpled business suit jogged up and stopped, too close. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I came over the hill and you were right there. I tried to stop, but I just slid—”
She took a step back. “I didn’t think I was going to stop in time, either.”
He leaned in. “Here’s my cell number and my insurance information.” He handed her a business card with writing on the back. “Do you live around here? Let me drive you home. Or do you need a room for the night?”
Her eyes skittered away. “I’m just passing through. I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
The man’s face showed shock at the harshness of her voice. He looked her over, then shrugged and walked away. She turned to the tow driver’s raised eyebrow and curious look. Heat pounded up her neck to flood her face.
Well, screw him, too.
The EMT stepped in front of her. “Look, I either have to take you to the hospital, or you have to sign another waiver.”
“I think my ribs are just bruised.” If she kept her breaths shallow, the pain only throbbed in cadence with the lugging truck engine. But the collarbone was another story. No longer distracted by the damage to her bike, the pain from her own damage cranked up.
“You really should let me take you in. Do you feel dizzy? Weak?”
“Not dizzy. I’m sure the weakness is from the adrenaline hangover. I’ve got to see to my bike, then find someplace to stay.”
The tow driver said, “You go ahead to the hospital. I’ll get her on the truck.” When Sam opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hands. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
He looked at the bike, then back at her. “We mostly work on foreign cars. But I’m a bike mechanic, and take a few in on the side. If you’d like, I can try to track down parts for you.”
The sign on the tow truck’s passenger door read Pinelli’s Repair and Tow.
“Or I can haul her wherever you’d like. Just let me know.”
She looked him over. Tall as she, with dark hair that was combed back on the sides and curling onto his forehead. He had a classic ’50s bad-boy look. A cigarette pack would look right, rolled in the sleeve of the white uniform shirt peeking from beneath his windbreaker.
She remembered his light touch running over the gas tank as if it were a rare piece of art. “Are you in Widow’s Grove?”
“Yep. Just off Main, near downtown.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm, reached into a pocket, and handed her a business card. His open smile told her he knew he was being judged. He put out his hand. “Nick Pinelli.”
With only a slight hesitation, she shook it with her left hand. “Samantha Crozier.”
He noticed her wince. “You’re lucky you were ejected.”
She shuddered, imagining her legs taking the blow the bike had taken. “My body may not agree, but I’m with you.”
Man, this is going to be a hassle. But the pain was already wearing her down, and she didn’t want to imagine what the night would be like without painkillers. “Would you grab my stuff out of the saddlebags?” At his nod, she followed the paramedic to the back of the ambulance.
* * *
AT THE EMERGENCY ROOM, the paperwork took longer than the examination. X-rays showed a clean break in the collarbone, but luckily, the ribs were only bruised, albeit badly. By the time she walked out to the taxi they’d called for her, the drizzle had thinned to a fine mist.
As she eased in, the cab cocooned her in warmth and the smells of oily rags and old heater. She put her scratched helmet and bag of essentials on the seat, then snapped herself into the seat belt, ducking under the harness to avoid having it touch her shoulder.
The cabbie settled into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and dropped the clipboard into a holder on the dash. He checked his mirror, waiting for a break in traffic. “Where do you want me to drop you?”
“Can you recommend a hotel in Widow’s Grove?” She thumbed open the bottle of pills and, after reading the label, popped two and dry swallowed them.
He looked over his shoulder, then back to the mirror. “Are you looking for a room, or a bed-and-breakfast for a king’s ransom?”
She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. “Do I look like a B-and-B kind of girl to you?”
He shot her an assessing glance. “I’ve got just the place.”
They rode two miles to the turnoff in silence, then slowed at the main street of town. The view made her forget the pain.
Wow. This is how to treat cottage architecture with respect.
Neat Victorian facades lined both sides of the street. She recognized Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles, among others. Each house sported gingerbread scrollwork, and intricate spandrels above porches displayed traditional strong colors: green, maroon, yellow, or blue.
Sam looked around as they drove through downtown, wishing she had access to her camera. On the right, they passed a yellow, single-story adobe building with leggy wildflowers in the yard. The sign over the door said Santa Inez County Grange Building. From its look, she thought it probably housed the county library.
They idled at a four-way stop where a tall flagpole graced the center of the intersection. She couldn’t read the weathered bronze plaque on the concrete base, but imagined it stood in memory of the founding of the town, or of its brave departed soldiers.
She glanced up the cross street lined with beautiful bed-and-breakfast hotels. Although the architecture had a Victorian flavor, they were spanking new. It reminded her of Main Street in Disneyland, everything so perfect and “in period” that it flirted with parody.
Nestled between them were antiques stores, art galleries and souvenir shops. The rain-drenched streets were deserted. They rolled through the intersection, past an empty coffee shop. White wrought iron tables dotted the patio, and a flock of small sparrows, looking as bedraggled as she felt, took shelter under the bright umbrellas. The entire town seemed like a carnival after hours—without the crowds it seemed pointless and lonely.
A half mile farther, the cab pulled in a graveled drive just past a sign for Raven’s Rest, a cluster of tiny wooden cabins, their heyday probably dating to the ’60s. Huge pines hovered over them, branches resting on moss-covered roofs. Each cabin had a small porch with a rusting metal chair that had once been white.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean and safe.”
“No, this is good.” She unbuckled the belt, and bent carefully to retrieve her saddlebags.
She paid the driver from her dwindling wad of bills. “Can you tell me how far I am from Pinelli’s Repair?
“It’s less than a mile from here. Just turn left at Hollister. Nick’s is a block down.”
“Thanks.”
The taxi backed out, then pulled onto the road. The rain began again, this time more of a cold, soaking mist. The office seemed a distant island in a vast sea of wet gravel. She almost sighed, but caught herself in time. She trudged, helmet and suitcase banging her leg, the pain in her ribs and shoulder pounding.
A buzzer sounded as she opened the creaking door and squeezed into a tiny office. Grumbling emanated from the recesses of the cabin, something to do with idiots out in bad weather. The curtain behind the desk whisked aside, and Sam faced...well, the first thing that came to mind was...a troll.
Old and stooped, the man had scraggly gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail. He wore a misshapen moth-eaten cardigan over a white shirt tinged yellow. A pair of Marine spit-shined wing tips peeked from under sagging pants at least a size too large. It took Sam several seconds to make out his words, as he was in need of an entire set of teeth.
“Lordy, whaddya have here?”
She could’ve asked the same question. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”
“Well, you’re in luck, missy. I have one left.” Faded blue eyes twinkled beneath grizzled eyebrows. “Forty-five dollars a night. No wild parties, no men and no room service.”
Sam barked a surprised laugh, then winced. Reaching for her credit card, she said, “And here I had my heart set on champagne and cabana boys.”
He turned the register for her to sign. “You look a bit like a drowned rat, but I guess you’ll do.”
“Do you know where I can get something to eat nearby?”
“The Farm House Café, just up the street. Not fancy, but good home cooking.” He pushed the key across the desk. “You can have our executive suite.”
“The Jacuzzi’s fired up, right?” She opened the door, and his laughter followed her into the drizzle.
Luckily, he’d put her in a cabin close to the office. She put down her stuff and unlocked the door. A frayed chenille spread covered the swaybacked iron bed, and an old-fashioned radiator squatted under the window. Inside, she dropped the bags and crossed to the tiny bathroom. The pitted stainless steel hardware gleamed in the stark light of a bare lightbulb.
Sam turned the shower on full force and gingerly peeled off the sling and her damp clothes while waiting for the water to heat. She glanced into the mirror, flecked with black spots, and winced. A lump and an angry red impression of the bike’s handlebar stretched from just below her sternum to her side. A purple goose egg rode her left collarbone. Damn. That was going to hurt for real tomorrow. She stepped into the hot shower, letting the stinging spray do its magic on her aching body.
Oh, heaven. Now if only the leprechaun at the front desk would just grant me room service...
Ten minutes later, when her body had stopped screaming demands and her bones felt soft and liquid, she stepped out of the shower. She wrapped the thin hotel towel around herself and walked the few steps to the bed.
She was hungry, but knew she was in no shape to walk anywhere tonight.
Lifting the covers, she gently burrowed in, shivering at the chilled touch of fresh sheets. She carefully rolled onto her uninjured side, creating a comfortable nest.
It looked like she’d be here awhile, and that suited her fine. The siren call of the open road had pulled her this far, but her travel account had reached warning levels. She’d need to find a job, but she was too tired to think about that now.
Her body relaxed and her exhausted brain drifted to the refrains of her road song and the sound of rain, dripping from the pines onto the roof.
Maybe this time she’d gone far enough, fast enough, to outrun her own guilty shadow. She sure hoped so, because she’d flat run out. Run out of time. Run out of money. And she’d run out of land to feed her restless front tire.
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.
