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“Well, it will be a challenge, I’ll admit. My biggest to date. But I’ve renovated four other houses on my way across the country. I can handle it.”
Jesse glanced at Sam’s sling, but said nothing.
Sam claimed a stool at the afternoon-empty counter and dropped the DayGlo flower keychain on the counter.
Jesse’s penciled eyebrows shot up and she raised her head to look past Sam to the parking lot. “I heard about that.”
“Heard about what?”
“Nick must have thought a lot of you to let you borrow the Love Machine.”
“And here I thought I had the booby prize.”
Jesse’s solemn look stopped Sam midlaugh. In a quiet voice, Jesse said, “That’s his mother’s car.”
Before Sam could ask for that story, Jesse turned a sharp eye on her. “You are a surprise, sweetie. How did you ever get involved in that career?”
“I’ll tell you, if you promise to explain the math-whiz thing to me, sometime.”
When Jesse nodded, Sam picked up the menu in front of her. “My dad wanted a boy—bad. My mom was the love of his life and she died when I was born, so I was as close as he was going to get. He taught me what he loved. Growing up, partially built houses were my playground.” Sam perused the menu. “By the time I was old enough to realize that all kids didn’t spend their summers crawling around construction sites, I was hooked.”
“Well, then I’m glad you’re buying it. Fighting over the estate, the family priced it out of the market. By the time they got real, it was in such bad shape, it wasn’t worth much. I’ll bet they just jumped at the chance to unload it.”
Jesse started to fill Sam’s coffee cup, but paused, midpour, looking off with an unfocused stare. “It used to be such a beautiful thing. I went to a Christmas party there once when I was a kid. You should have seen it. White lights strung along the eaves, huge Christmas tree in the front windows. It sure was pretty.” Jesse finished pouring, then raised her voice. “Hey, everybody—this is Samantha, and she’s just bought the old Sutton place. I expect y’all to make her welcome.”
Embarrassed to be singled out, and unsure of her reception, Sam glanced around to see smiles and some curiosity, but none of the suspicion or animosity she expected. Being a woman, traveling cross-country on a motorcycle, she was used to people not knowing how to react to her. A few customers raised their coffee cups in salute.
Jesse smiled down on Sam. “Well, honey, anything we can do to help, you just let us know. That hunky guy in the kitchen is pretty handy. And I can help you plan the housewarming!”
“Whoa up a minute, Jesse. It’ll take me close to a year to complete the renovation, since I do most of the work myself. I think it’s a little early to be planning a party.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the support. It can be hard to fit in to a new town.”
It is, usually. But a tiny dust bunny of contentment had nestled in her chest, the past few days. It felt odd there, but she thought she liked it.
* * *
SAM CONTACTED THE storage company in Telluride where she’d finished the last project and arranged for them to send her meager furnishings, the Jeep and her father’s precious tools to Widow’s Grove. She planned to bivouac in one of the rooms while she worked on the rest of the house.
One morning a few days later, she glanced out her cabin’s window to see the old manager shuffling by, huge wrench in hand. His attire hadn’t improved, except he now wore mirror-shined brogans.
Sam stepped onto the porch. “Excuse me, Mr. Raven?”
He stopped and squinted at her. Sam was relieved to see he’d put in his teeth.
“Could you tell me where I’d find a lumberyard or a hardware store around here?”
“Well, there used to be Lincoln Hardware, downtown.” He frowned, and his lip curled, just a bit. “But they cancelled Dave’s lease last year. Guess the landlord thought he’d make more money off another antique store. Now there’s just Coast Lumber, on the way to Solvang.”
Sam stepped off the porch into the morning sunshine. “Mom-and-pop yards can’t compete with the big chains anymore. But it’s the local builders that suffer, since the smaller places catered to their localized needs. The box stores couldn’t care less.”
He extended a gnarled, arthritic hand. “You’ve been here a week and a half—the name’s Tim.”
Those fingers looked painful. She shook his hand gently. “And you can call me Sam.”
“Sam it is, then. Give Coast a try, they’re better’n most. I traded with them when I had my plumbing business.” His blue eyes twinkled as he hefted the iron wrench. “That’s a’fore I retired, you see.”
Sam smiled. “Thanks, Tim.” She turned and walked to the borrowed car where it sat looking like a tavern slut in a church pew.
The drive to Solvang only took twenty minutes.
Sam had the same emotional connection with hardware stores that many women had with lingerie boutiques. She stood in the tool aisle, inhaling the clean scent of cut pine, debating the quality of power saw brands with a clerk.
She noticed a man eavesdropping. He examined a band saw, but glanced at her often. As her conversation ended, he approached.
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I overheard you say you’re a contractor, starting a large project. Do you mind if I ask what it is?”
Sam eyed him. He was short and round, a fringe of dark hair around the edge of a bald head. His demeanor didn’t seem threatening, but there was no reason to announce that she’d be living alone, way out of town.
“Let me explain why I’m interested. Then you can tell me to get lost if you’d like.” His smile was harmless, anyway. “I’m Dan Porter, the shop teacher at Widow’s Grove High. I teach occupational programs to give the kids usable skills. I’m always looking for sites for my kids to get some real-world experience.” He extended a broad, hairy paw.
After a brief hesitation, Sam shook it. “So you stalk the aisles of lumber stores, springing yourself on contractors?” She smiled, imagining this little Friar Tuck in his Hawaiian shirt, stalking like a big-game hunter.
“Yeah, something like that. I’ve approached several about my idea, but haven’t had any takers yet.”
“Fear of lawsuits, right?”
“No, I’ve worked that out with insurance through the school. They just don’t want to be bothered. Not that I blame them. They’re in business to make money. But I know they’d see a benefit to their business as well as the kids if they’d give it a shot.”
That’s all she needed—a bunch of left-footed teenagers, falling off her roof. “How much experience do these kids have?”
“Some of them are really good. They’ve gotten all the classroom experience I can give them and they’re familiar with all the tools from my class.”
She thought of the deep-grunt demolition work ahead. And her damned collarbone. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed help. “I’d need a lot more information. By the way, I’m Sam—Samantha Crozier. I bought the old Sutton place outside of Widow’s Grove.”
He let out a low whistle. “Now, that is an ambitious project. Are you planning on subbing out the work?”
“I’ll do most of it myself.”
“Not for a while, you won’t.” He eyed the sling. “Why don’t you stop by the school sometime, to see our setup? You’ll get an idea of the kids’ skill levels, and I could introduce you to some of them.”
“Let me think about it.”
“I only teach shop classes, so you could stop by anytime during school hours.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “You have no idea what this would mean to these kids. And remember, you’d be getting young muscle, cheap!”
Sam didn’t notice the products on the shelves as she wandered the aisles. The hardware store ambiance was a soothing backdrop to the battle waged in her head. She liked working alone. The projects took longer to complete, but at the end, she could admire the quality result and know she’d left a mark on the landscape as she passed through. She’d know she was more than an anonymous biker in leathers. She liked working in peace, no one talking, interrupting or getting in the way.
Oh, sure, she usually subbed out plumbing, and an occasional electrical job. But teenagers? They were a seething batch of hormones with big feet. Unsafe, unfinished, unknown.
When she lifted her shoulders to shrug off the idea, her collarbone shot a bolt of pain down her arm.
Dammit. She didn’t have six weeks to wait to heal. Every day, money was trickling out of her account. She could hire professionals, but they came dear, and had opinions about how to do things. With kids, she could be sure it was done her way.
But was she prepared to take on a babysitting gig?
* * *
SINCE WORK COULDN’T begin on the house until the deal closed, Sam found herself once more, with too much time on her hands.
Late afternoons, she usually walked to the Farm House Café. During slow hours, she and Jesse would sit drinking coffee and “shooting the poop,” as Jesse called it. Sam got acquainted with the town through Jesse’s stories. Sam considered it research, learning more about the market without having to meet the people.
She’d also found Jesse a fascinating study in opposites; she looked like Flo, from the old sitcom, Alice. But she also appeared to be a savant with numbers, and Sam had seen enough to know that she was the force behind the diner’s popularity.
Today, she’d sat at the counter talking to Jesse long enough to get the coffee jitters.
You don’t have to like asking for help with the house; you just have to do it. “Jesse, do you know Dan Porter, the shop teacher at the high school?”
Jess refilled Sam’s cup. “Of course I do. Why?”
“I’m looking into the possibility of using a couple of his students for a couple of weeks.” She lifted her damaged arm, then winced, and put it down. “Only till I heal.”
“Oh, Dan’s one of the good guys. He got Teacher of the Year, back in ’09. Kids who aren’t going off to college need skills, to get a job. He’s helped out a bunch of them.”
The clanging of the cowbell against the glass café door brought Jesse’s head up.
“Hey, Nick.”
Sam’s mechanic sauntered to the counter. “Hey, Jesse.”
Sam leaned away. It wasn’t that he stood close. His presence itself seemed to crowd her, taking more space than his body. His scent enveloped her, an odd blend of smoky aftershave with an undertone of engine oil that shouldn’t smell pleasant, but did. He smelled like a blue-collar man. He smelled electric. He smelled like danger.
He looked down at her. Not with the “hunting coyote” look. More of a “who are you, under the Biker Chick?” look. The open curiosity seemed kind and well-meaning. She wouldn’t have trusted just a look—faces were just masks men wore. But something in his loose posture, his sincere mouth, his quiet waiting telegraphed his question; she knew it as true as the skill in her hands.
He slid onto the bar stool beside the one she’d begun to think of as hers. Her skin prickled with awareness. The hair on her arm rose, waving like a charmed snake.
God, she hated this. She lived well by herself, but every once in a great while, her traitorous body craved touch. Not a jump-in-the-sack touch. Just a simple longing for human contact that was almost stronger than her ability to quell it. It hit at random—in line at a store, she’d be suddenly and completely aware of a stranger ahead of her. Time would slow. Details would come into sharp focus: working hands with heavy-boned fingers, dark hair on a tanned forearm, set off against a stark white cotton shirt. A core-deep ache would bloom in her chest and she’d have to fist her hands to keep from reaching to touch the pale, vulnerable skin at the inside of a stranger’s elbow.
She shuddered, shivering the feeling off like a dog shakes off water.
“You know, Jesse,” Nick tipped his chin to the pie safe next to the cash register “That pie looks familiar. In fact, I think it’s the twin of the one I found on my front porch this morning.”
Jesse raised her pert nose and sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pinelli.” She turned to the kitchen window to pick up an order.
“I do appreciate it, Jess, but I’m not in high school anymore. I can cook, you know.”
Eyes straight ahead, Jesse swished by, a food-laden tray gracefully balanced on her shoulder.
“Hey, Samantha.” He turned his attention back to her. “What did the doctor say?”
She fingered her empty coffee cup. “Who needs a doctor? What I really need is a time machine to speed up the healing.”
Nick gave her the hairy eyeball. He opened his mouth, but apparently thought better of it. “I’ve been checking online parts boards every day, but nothing new has come up for the Vulcan. From the look of things, this may take a while.”
“That’s okay. As it turns out, I’m going to be here awhile.” She told him about her plan to buy, renovate and sell the house. “My Jeep will be here in a week or so, and I can return your car then.”
“No rush.” Nick pulled a menu from the stainless clip at the edge of the counter. “Did you feel like the bomb, riding around town in the Love Machine?”
Jesse walked by frowning, and gave her a barely perceptible headshake.
Sam said, “Yeah, the bomb.” Nuclear bomb.
A stout middle-aged man stopped on his way to the register, dollar bills in hand. “Hey, Nick, I thought you were coming by this morning. Are you picking up bread tomorrow instead?”
“I don’t have a car at the moment, Bert. Can I make it Wednesday?”
“Sure, that’ll work. I’ll leave the back door open at seven.”
Jesse strolled up. “Nick picks up day-old bread at the bakery and takes it down to the homeless shelter once a week.” She glanced at Sam.
Through the years, Sam had enough people try to set her up to recognize the matchmaker gleam. Sam ignored Jesse’s grin as an awful thought surfaced. “Did I take your car?”
Nick looked up. “Nah. That’s my mom’s car. I don’t own one.”
Remembering Jesse’s cue, she wasn’t going near that one. She closed her open mouth. “You run a garage that fixes cars, but you don’t own one?”
“Nope. Don’t need one, most of the time. When I do, I just use one of the shop’s loaners.”
Ah, an opportunity! “Why don’t I swap your mom’s car for another loaner? I’d hate to have something happen to—”
“Nah, you keep it as long as you need. It needs to be driven now and again.”
He snapped the menu closed and ordered a burger with fries from Jesse, then turned his attention back to Sam. “So where are you from? Originally?”
“Ohio.” Sam felt speared, by his interest and his gaze, as the moment spun out. Caffeine zinged along her nerves.
He cocked his head. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Her tone teetered on bitchy. “A woman shouldn’t ride a motorcycle? Shouldn’t be on the road, alone? Shouldn’t have a man’s job? What?”
His open smile disarmed her. “I’m just surprised anyone would want to travel so far from home.”
She examined the dregs of coffee in the bottom of her cup. “Well, not everybody grew up in Mayberry, Opie.”
He chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy. “And not everywhere that looks like Mayberry, is.”
Hmm. Maybe, like Jesse, there was more to Nick than bedroom eyes and a great smile. “So, tell me how a guy who doesn’t own a car came to own a tow and repair shop?”
“I’ve been a mechanic for a long time. I came into some money about eight years ago.” His eyes sidled away. “I bought the shop from Bud Proctor, who was retiring. I added towing—” he looked up, and winked at her “—and wrenching on injured classic babies, which I do for pure love.”
Damn, he’s good-looking. But it was his focused interest that made her hop from the stool and make a hasty exit.
