Her Road Home

“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.”