by Snow, Nicole
This old truck, which had seen better days long before we left Wisconsin, has already been working overtime to pull the horse trailer up and down the rolling hills.
I’m keeping the speed low so I can try to avoid any mishaps. They’re all too likely with the sort of luck we’ve had on our journey thus far. We must’ve lost a good hour back in Minnesota, straining to change a flat.
Every time I glance at the old Ford’s dashboard, I’m expecting to see red.
A check engine light. Low oil pressure. Battery, alternator, brakes, another broken thingamajig.
Nothing would surprise me.
Still, despite being rusted up and dented, no thanks to my teenage driving skills years ago, the truck soldiers on. It’s almost like family, an old workhorse with the air of an immortal.
Only, the signs of aging are as impossible to ignore as its scabs of rust.
I know it’s a cheap metaphor for my father, who hacks up another coughing fit next to me.
Ask me how much I care about metaphors right now.
The once robust Nelson Sellers, who used to practically juggle hay bales, has shrunken the past few months. It’s not just his weight and musculature.
He slouches, even when sitting, something he always used to get after me for as a kid.
Dad’s demeanor has changed, his energy flatlining as his body limps along. His once coppery-brown hair is dull silver, and that fiery shine in his blue eyes that made him Dad is just...gone.
All depressing signs of the crushing weight we’ve shared lately.
But deep down, he’s still a Sellers. He won’t stop, and neither will I.
As long as this old Ford trudges on, so will we, all the way to Montana.
Same with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—aka Rosie and Stern—the two horses riding in the trailer behind us in my rearview mirror. I’m not sure who loves them more, Dad or me.
They were his pride and joy once, and my best friends growing up. Practically the only friends I’d had when we’d left the city for the small farm north of Milwaukee to raise pumpkins.
Yes, pumpkins.
Feels like an eternity ago now. I’d finished high school while living on the farm, moved out, went to college for interior design, and dreamed of covering pretty places in prettier ideas.
Sadly, pretty anything hasn’t been in the cards for a long time.
I watched too many dreams get demolished on that farm. And then one day, when there was nothing left but smoldering ruins, we threw together our things and hit the road while we still could.
Someday, I’ll have my freaking slice of pretty.
Even if it feels like someday might as well be in the next century with this dark, deserted road and white dunes that could swallow a person whole crowding every mile.
“Gracie,” Dad says, breathing heavy. “It’s getting damn near impassable. You’re gonna have an accident. Pull over.”
“I can’t just stop here, Dad. There’s nowhere to park.” Not without potentially trapping the truck in an icy grave, and us with it. Believe me, I would if I could. Even in my boots, my toes are frozen nubs because the heater can’t keep up with the cold air invading the cab. “I can’t make out a shoulder, let alone how deep the ditches are.”
It’s the truth, but I don’t need to say it.
Dad’s eyes aren’t that bad.
He can see the snow-covered road and the huge flakes swirling around in the beams of our headlights before splattering against the windshield and being swept away by frantic wipers.
“We’ll pull over as soon as I find a hint of civilization,” I tell him, scratching my cheek.
“There has to be a town somewhere. I checked the map a hundred miles back; I know I saw something,” he grumbles.
“Only you still read off of a paper atlas. Every phone has GPS that works most of the time, even when the service sucks.” I give him a teasing smile, but it fades just as fast when I see the look on his face.
I can tell how he’s trying to hold in another cough. It’s there behind the slight sideways quirk of his lips.
My heart hurts for him, and worry sours my stomach.
Congestive heart failure.
Probable.
That’s what the emergency room doc said last week. We didn’t get a chance to stick around for the follow-up with the cardiologist. Honestly, his ticker running out is the whole reason we’re in God Forsaken Nowhere, North Dakota.
As soon as we got the bad news, I said we had to go.
Leave.
Before it’s too late for him to find a little peace.
I’m still praying it isn’t. Nobody deserves to spend their last days on earth being hunted.
“Can’t believe how long this is taking,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his side of the windshield. “There has to be a pit stop up ahead, a gas station...something.”
“You’d think so,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I’m pretty sure there are more oil drills than people out in these parts.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard all about the oil boom out here a few years back. Hell of an industry to be in,” he answers dryly, but with a hint of a smile. “Oil crews gotta eat, though. That means a town somewhere in this mess.”
“It’s coming,” I say. “And then we’ll stop for an overdue breather.”
“Not too long,” he reminds me, tapping a finger against his seat belt. “Just enough to take a leak and give Noelle a call. You said she left a few messages?”
“Right. I just haven’t had time to—”
Those words stop short in my mouth when I notice an odd purple flashing light in the swirling wintry darkness beyond the headlights.
My eyes narrow to a squint.
It’s almost like the purple light winks right back at me the harder I stare, holding the truck in what I hope is still our lane.
Weird.
I haven’t seen a patch of clear pavement or another vehicle for miles, and I’m almost wondering if I’m seeing things. Hallucinating out of desperation.
Nope.
Purple lights. Still there. Still pulsing.
I’m hoping it’s a business, not just some kind of derelict radio tower or utility site. My hands are cramped from white-knuckling the steering wheel for what’s felt like hours.
The tension in my shoulders and neck makes my muscles burn. It hurts to turn my head enough to glance at Dad again.
“You see that?” he asks. “That purple light?”
“Sure do. Glad it’s not just me.”
Coming closer now, I see the flashing light belongs to a sign. A tall one hoisted high in the sky. Between the snow and the distance, I can’t see anything below the sign, yet.
An old motel, maybe, but it could be something else, too.
“It looks like...a cat?” I whisper, trying to make sense of the round face outlined in bright royal purple with what looks like two pointy ears. “Definitely a cat. Meow.”
Now I can see the whiskers, the cartoonish grin, one eye winking as the sign flicks back and forth.
“Thank God. Hope it’s not just a snowmobile dealer,” Dad mutters.
I get the reference to a big brand in winter gear, but I’m pretty sure their logo doesn’t look anything like this. That winking face is actually kinda ridiculous, and by far the happiest thing I’ve seen all night.
“I think we’re in luck,” I say, smiling.
We’re close enough to read the name stenciled in curly lit letters under the cat’s face.
The Purple Bobcat, it reads. Good eats. Beer. Fun.
“Looks like a dive,” Dad says as the building comes into view. “Whatever, it’ll do.”
I nod, holding my breath for signs of vehicles in the lot. I don’t want to get my hopes up unless it’s still open.
The bar itself is a one-story wooden building painted bright purple. The owner must be a huge Prince fan or just hellbent on grabbing attention out here in the sticks.
Coming closer, the windows
are lit up bright with beer signs. Looks like a few trucks parked in front of the building.
I exhale that breath I’ve been holding.
It may not be much, but right now a parking lot and a few walls feel like a luxury resort.
“It’s still open. Hope you’re hungry,” I say, easing my foot off the gas.
I refrain from tapping the brakes. It’s hard to determine just how much ice is packed under the snow.
The last thing I need is to send the trailer fishtailing across the lot and smack right into some good old boy’s favorite pickup.
Two little blue reflectors sticking out above the snow tell me where the driveway is. I slowly steer the truck between the reflectors and pull up along what I’m assuming is the edge of the parking area where there’s room to park without boxing in other vehicles. Plenty of room to make an easy turn when it’s time to leave, too.
“Don’t forget your hat,” I remind Dad as I shut off the truck and stow the keys in my purse. “Go on ahead of me; it’s freezing out here. I’ll check on Rosie and Stern, then meet you inside.”
Dad grumbles under his breath.
Something about being perfectly capable of looking after himself, but he puts on his wool-brimmed hat to humor me. I smile as he pulls the side flaps down over his ears, giving me a firm look that says happy? before opening his door.
I dig around on my lap and find my green-and-gold stocking cap, and then tug on my thick, fur-lined, made-in-Duluth Chopper mittens. The wind coming in through Dad’s passenger door is so bitter it rips my breath away.
When I open my door, the cold makes me shiver from head to toe.
“Winter, bite me,” I say, mostly to myself because I don’t think Jack Frost is listening. And if he is, well, the sweeping chill he flings in my face is worse than a middle finger.
Tucking my chin into the collar of my coat, I pull the fur-lined hood tighter around my face to help block the wind. I hate every single big fat snowflake stinging my cheeks and catching on my eyelashes as I waddle past the truck in my boots to the trailer.
Thankfully, it only takes a few minutes to check on the horses. They must be freezing, but they aren’t showing any signs of distress from the ride or bad weather. I feed them a couple carrots they wolf down like starving beasts before my own stomach growls.
If my lucky streak continues tonight, maybe this place will have something that isn’t oozing grease. A girl can hope. It’d be nice to keep my blood sugar levels in the happy range where I’m not hankering to chew my own arm off.
By the time I enter the bar, I’m ready to call the weather a winner.
I’m chilled to the bone. The dense snow packed on my boots makes my feet feel like they’re twenty pounds heavier. It’s a workout as I go stomping through the door.
The Purple Bobcat isn’t nearly so colorful inside.
Too bad.
It’s smaller than it looked on the outside, dark and dingy, but fairly clean. No ripped-up seats or rickety tables or cracked tile floors. No ugly crowd of guys missing teeth or gals with their boobs hanging out of their shirts over pool tables, either.
The wood-paneled walls are covered with metal signs advertising retro beers and off-color jokes. Dad’s found a table where he’s parked himself to look over a menu.
One of the only occupied tables tonight, it seems.
If this place has regulars, or newcomers, or even long-haul truckers looking for a nightcap and a side of bawdy conversation, the storm has kept them all away.
Who could blame them in this blizzard?
There’s an older man and woman in a booth near the frosty windows, picking at what looks like plates of gyros and fries. The table Dad chose is in the center of the room, surrounded by other empty ones.
At the bar, I count four guys on stools. A couple big blue-collar guys in stained coveralls—oil workers, maybe—plus two tall figures at the far end with several seats between them and the other men.
The maybe-oil-workers are quiet, focused on their tall beers, but the two on the opposite end are talking loudly.
Well, one of them is.
He’s tall. Built. Ginormous. Loud.
A tiger of a man stuffed in a red-and-black flannel shirt. I’m a little embarrassed when he whips around with a smile meant for the bartender.
Maybe he sensed the weirdo staring, and with said weirdo being me, looking like Jack Frost just kicked my butt up and down the playground, I...
I can’t hold it against him for wondering who the miserable, crazy lady is who just dragged herself in from the cold like a wet cat.
Am I still staring?
Maybe.
Because maybe I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer taking in the handsome face perched on his wide shoulders, a jaw so defined it was cut by a mad sculptor, over six feet of defiant muscle that looks like it’s ready to burst right out of that flannel corral barely holding it.
Maybe he’s sporting just the right sandy-dark stubble to sear a woman’s skin, like this otherworldly, beautiful freak who just leaped out of a fashion ad.
Oh my God.
Um, and maybe he’s staring right back. Turning the most obscene blue-eyed lightning I’ve ever been struck with on my bewildered face.
It’s a look that bites.
A gaze that’s too intense, too assessing, too ready to reach down inside me and dredge up feelings I have zero time for and even less energy to give.
It’s a fight to tear my eyes away. I stomp my boots on the rubber mat out front again, taking my sweet time, saying a quick prayer that the next time I look up, the tiger will have moved on to other things.
Oh, thank hell. I let out that breath I’d been holding in.
He’s not facing me anymore, and he’s back to telling his boisterous, animated story that’s got the bartender laughing away. Seems they’re two giant, steely-eyed peas in a pod. The bartender is also a wall of a man with a thicker beard and a rougher look in his eye.
The other guy seated next to Tiger, on the other hand...
He’s just out of place.
Lean, older, and his button-down shirt and tie look far too posh for a bar called the Purple Bobcat. Whatever they’re saying, he’s just nodding along, looking bored out of his mind.
I flip my hood down while giving my boots one more good shake, then pull off my hat and mittens. I walk to the center of the room and sit down next to Dad.
“The horses are fine,” I tell him, remembering how to speak.
“Figured they’d be. And what about you?” He covers his mouth as he coughs.
“Still kicking,” I whisper, reaching to slide his menu across to me. “Anything good here?”
He can’t answer while he’s busy fighting his own lungs.
God. We’ve been on the road for over twelve hours, but with this weather, we still have a good four or five more to go to Miles City.
That concerns me a lot. Dad’s beaten, worn out, drained.
It’s hard to keep my eyes glued to the menu for the sake of being polite. But he hates it when I fuss over his health, even if I have every reason to.
With a soft sigh, I set my hat and mittens on the table while he takes a long drink of water.
“Listen...I think we need to call it a night. I’ll check to see if there are any motels nearby,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
“No, Grace. The horses can’t stay in that trailer overnight. They’ll freeze their rears off.” He inhales sharply. “I...I ordered us both some coffee, and he’s making a fresh pot so we’ll have plenty more to go. We’ll wait for the snow to let up and then press on. We can handle a few more hours. Noelle’s place isn’t far.”
He’s so wrong I bite my tongue.
Jesus, I’m not sure if I can even handle a few more hours, but if he’s this determined...
I nod, but now there’s a new reason to be concerned when I look at my phone.
Three missed calls and a flurry of texts. They’re all from Noelle, and they
say the same thing.
Grace, call me ASAP.
She’s my cousin, my mom’s side. I haven’t seen her since Mom’s funeral, but when I’d called in a nervous fit last week, she’d invited us to come to Montana and stay with her until our trouble gets sorted.
Our choices are pretty limited when we’re low on money, and Noelle is the only family we know with a farm and plenty of space for us to bring along Rosie and Stern.
Too bad Miles City is hundreds of miles from Wisconsin. I swear, we’d be there by now if it wasn’t for that stupid flat and this intensifying storm we hit past Bismarck.
She and her husband have a hobby farm a lot like ours, only instead of pumpkins, they sell eggs, homemade cheeses, and other goods. She’s always wanted us to see it, and a small part of me was looking forward to being part of something like that again.
That pit in my gut deepens, scrolling through the missed calls.
She’s been texting for hours.
With the snow demanding every bit of my focus, I hadn’t taken a hand off the steering wheel to do anything except hit the blinker switch to pull in here.
Crap. Whatever it is, I don’t think she’s just checking up on our progress.
The coffee arrives, steaming and black. I reach for a sugar packet and tear it right open, hoping nobody notices how my hands shake.
I thank the bartender before telling Dad, “Be right back. I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I spot the restroom sign above a hallway near the end of the bar. Purple, what else?
Of course, I carefully avoid another awkward stare-down with Tiger Sex Eyes. He must be quite the comedian—the bartender and the oil guys are still roaring at whatever he’s saying.
Probably some crude joke that’d be too fitting for a place like this.
The hallway is short. I shove open the women’s door and enter the small, two-stalled room, pull out my phone, and hit Noelle’s contact.
She answers after one ring. “Grace? Oh my God, finally.”
“Yep, it’s me.” Turning around, I lean my backside against the top of the sink. “What’s wrong?”
She goes deathly quiet. “Well, um...have you guys left Milwaukee yet?”
