Her Road Home

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.