by Janet Dailey
She steeled her nerves, checked her side mirrors and began a cautious backing-and-filling motion, working the car around in a counterclockwise direction. Some of the waiting cars had begun to honk at her, but she was almost there. One more maneuver should do it. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place and back on the road.
But she should have known this wasn’t her lucky day. Backing up for the last time, she felt a slight bump of resistance. Then, from behind her wagon, she heard the awful crunch of twisting, folding metal.
Kylie’s stomach lurched. She hit the brake and switched off the ignition. Legs shaking, she climbed out of the car. People had turned to look, but nobody was screaming or calling for the paramedics. It couldn’t be too bad, she told herself. She’d barely been moving. If she’d caused a fender bender, her insurance would pay for it.
At first, she couldn’t see what she’d hit. Then, as she walked around to the back of her vehicle, there it was. Her heart dropped.
Crumpled against the rear of her station wagon was the ruined front end of a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.
Chapter Two
“You’d better get outside, Shane! Some damn-fool woman’s backed into your bike!”
At the bag boy’s words, Shane Taggart abandoned his cart in the coffee aisle and made a beeline for the front entrance of the store. Not the bike, a voice in his head shrilled. Anything but the bike!
Shane had owned the 1977 Harley-Davidson Low Rider since high school—so long that, when he rode it, the lovingly maintained machine felt like part of his body. Today he’d chosen to take it on one last run before draining the tank and locking it away for the winter. Bad decision. The idiot woman had probably been gabbing on her cell phone, not paying attention when she backed out of her parking place. Whoever she was, she was damn well going to pay.
Charging outside, he scanned the parking lot. A crowd had gathered around the spot where he’d parked the bike. Traffic was backing up. Angry drivers were yelling and blasting on their horns. Shane muttered a curse. Whatever was in the middle of that mess, it was bound to be bad.
Steeling himself, he strode across the parking lot. The knot of people clustered around the accident parted to let him through. Shane was well known in Branding Iron, and even the meanest of its citizens knew better than to mess with his motorcycle. They were no doubt expecting a showdown. Shane was of a mind to give them one.
He saw the bike first. Shane bit back a groan as he surveyed the crushed front wheel, the twisted forks, the broken gauges, and the cracked windscreen. Even if the frame wasn’t bent, he’d have a major repair job on his hands—and genuine parts for a bike as old as this one were scarcer than diamonds and almost as pricey. He swore silently. Given a choice, he’d rather have broken his leg. At least bones could heal themselves.
“It was an accident. I’m sorry.” The tremulous voice was smoky-sweet, like a swig of home-brewed peach brandy.
“ ‘Sorry’? Isn’t it a little late for that?” Shane glowered down at her. She was petite, five-three at most, with short, strawberry blond curls and wide bluebonnet eyes. She wasn’t a local—he’d have noticed her before now if she had been. Something about her did look vaguely familiar. But never mind. Experience had taught him that it was easier to be mad at a pretty woman than at a plain one. And he was mad as hell.
“Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he growled. “Those rearview mirrors aren’t just for putting on your lipstick.”
Her posture stiffened. Her eyes flashed. “How can you say that? You don’t even know what happened.”
“I can see what happened.” Shane knew he’d crossed a line, but he was in no mood to apologize. The vintage Harley had been his pride and joy. Now the front end of it was a twisted mess. He didn’t even have a way back to his ranch.
“Fine,” she snapped. “We can have a civilized conversation about this or you can deal with my insurance company. Your choice. Here’s my card. If you want to copy the information, I can lend you a pen.”
Shane took the printed yellow card and scanned it till his eyes found what he was looking for—her name.
KYLIE SUMMERFIELD WAYNE.
He felt a jarring sensation, like getting kicked in the rump by a steer. Shane bit back a curse. No wonder she’d looked familiar. He’d shared schoolrooms with snooty little Kylie Summerfield since the year they were in Miss Maccabee’s kindergarten class.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
Her blue eyes narrowed. “Nice to see you again, too, Shane.”
Kylie had recognized him the moment he came charging out of the store. Shane Taggart, the town bad boy, who’d been suspended twice in ninth grade for smoking in the boys’ lavatory. Shane Taggart who’d been tearing around on that motorcycle, with or without a license, since his legs got long enough to reach the foot pedals.
Now he loomed above her, all lean, hard six-foot-four of him. Warring emotions flickered across his movie-star face. Years of sun and wind had burnished his chiseled features like fine leather, deepening the set of his dark, hooded eyes and adding a glint of silver to the stubble that shadowed his jaw. Dressed in jeans, muddy cowboy boots, and a black leather jacket, he looked every inch the troublemaker he’d been in high school.
He had to be Aunt Muriel’s so-called cowboy. No wonder he made her seventy-nine-year-old pulse flutter. Shane had always been a heartbreaker. One of the hearts he’d broken had been Kylie’s—and he didn’t even know it.
His gaze had returned to the smashed motorcycle. Kylie recognized it now. It was the same machine he’d had as a teenage hellion. It looked meticulously cared for. Probably worth a lot of money now. Kylie had had enough experience with insurance companies to know they weren’t inclined to pay much for vintage items. And on top of that, the sentimental value . . . Heaven save her, why hadn’t she backed into something that could just be paid for and fixed—like maybe a brand-new BMW?
“I’ll do anything I can to help,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “But first, we need a way out of this parking lot.”
She eyed the worsening traffic snarl. The old man in the pickup had taken advantage of the melee to pull into the parking place and walk into the store, leaving Kylie trapped between the wrecked motorcycle and the honking cars, which were backed up in both directions. Shane surveyed the scene, taking silent measure. Then he went into action.
“Get in your car and stay there,” he ordered her. Then he strode down the line of vehicles, talking to each of the drivers, barking instructions. Kylie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the sound of honking horns died into silence. At his signal, the cars began to back away slowly, out of the jammed parking lane. Within minutes the lane was clear.
Kylie was free to pull away and go. But she could hardly drive off and leave Shane stranded with a wrecked motorcycle.
She got out and walked around to the back. Shane was standing next to her rear bumper, scowling down at the wreck.
“It was amazing, the way you unsnarled that traffic jam,” Kylie said.
He gave her a black look. “It’s going to take a lot more than ‘amazing’ to fix this bike.”
“Is there somewhere you can have it hauled? My auto club membership should cover that, at least.”
He shook his head. “This is no job for a body shop. It could take me weeks, even months to get parts, if I can get them at all. And I don’t trust anybody to load and haul my bike but me. I’ll need to hitch a ride back to the ranch and get my pickup.”
“I can take you. I live out that way now.”
One dark eyebrow lifted in silent question.
“We’re staying with Aunt Muriel now—my two children and I. She told me you were her neighbor. But I hadn’t planned on running into you so soon.” Kylie’s face went hot as she realized what she’d said. When she was a schoolgirl, being around Shane had always flustered her. But she’d never dreamed that effect would last into her thirties.
“If I’d known you were planning t
o run into me, I’d have stayed home.” His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were as stormy as the dark clouds roiling across the sky. Kylie winced, catching the bitter edge in his tone.
“I didn’t mean that literally,” she said.
He turned away from her. “We’re wasting time. Looks like the bike might be wedged under your bumper. Once I get it clear and moved out of the way, you can drive me home.” He crouched to study the trapped front end of the bike. His hands manipulated the twisted parts—big hands, with long fingers—working hands, calloused and bruised. When she’d sat one desk away from him in American history class, Kylie had loved watching those hands—restless hands that moved and shifted as if he couldn’t wait to be somewhere else.
He worked intently for a moment; then he twisted back to look at her. “Get in your car and start the engine. When I tell you, ease it forward till I say to stop.”
Kylie climbed into the driver’s seat, rolled down the windows, and started the engine. She could hear the scrape of metal at the rear of the station wagon. A snowflake drifted down onto her windshield, then another.
“Now,” he said, “take it slow. That’s it.... Stop.”
Kylie touched the brake.
“Okay, it’s clear,” he said. “Give me some room now. Drive up to the loading lane at the front of the store and wait for me.”
Kylie did as he’d asked. More snowflakes were falling now, drifting like eiderdown through the gray, windless air. Was this just a flurry or had the big storm already arrived?
The loading lane was a covered drive-up area, where shoppers, most of them elderly, could have their bags loaded into their cars. Kylie pulled into an out-of-the-way spot and turned on the radio.
“. . . Looks like a white Christmas, folks, an honest-to-goodness blue norther. Snow’s already coming down in some spots, but the big storm front’s still out there. It’s a slow mover, taking its time. But when it gets here, we’ll be up past our knees in white stuff. You ranchers know to look out for your stock. The rest of you, get your pets under cover and don’t plan to be out on the roads. . . .”
Glancing out the side window, she saw one of the baggers from the store, a husky teen, helping Shane support the bike like a wounded comrade as they wheeled it toward the covered area. They parked it out of sight behind a Dumpster. When Kylie pulled forward, she could hear the two of them talking through her lowered window.
“Don’t worry, Shane, I’ll keep an eye on it,” the boy was saying. “Nobody will touch your bike while I’m around.”
“Make sure.” Shane slipped him a bill. “I’ll be back to pick it up in an hour.”
Kylie braced herself as he turned and walked back to her car. She owed Shane a ride to his ranch and plenty more for wrecking his precious motorcycle. And she had little doubt he’d collect his due—starting now.
With a last glance at his battered bike, Shane slid into the passenger seat of the station wagon. The vehicle looked like it had seen better days. But as for the driver—Kylie looked damn good. Older, wiser, and sexier than the perfect, untouchable girl he remembered from high school.
“I heard what you told that boy. You could be driving through a blizzard in an hour,” she said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He fastened his seat belt, gazing out the window as Kylie headed for the road. Part of him wanted to rail at her for the careless maneuver that had destroyed his bike. But behaving like a jackass wouldn’t fix anything. “So you’re staying at Muriel’s—with two kids. There’s got to be a story behind that.”
“Nothing that interesting.” Kylie switched on her wipers as snowflakes settled on the windshield. “My husband was a captain in the army. He was killed in Afghanistan nineteen months ago. This fall, after our house in California got foreclosed, Muriel offered us a home in exchange for some help around the place. We just got in yesterday.”
“California, huh?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The move out here’s bound to be an adjustment for your kids. How old are they?”
“Eleven and thirteen. And no . . . they’re not happy about the change. But I don’t know what we’d have done if Aunt Muriel hadn’t invited us to come here. I tried to find a job in San Diego. But being an ex–army wife isn’t exactly a marketable skill.”
He studied her profile, the pert nose, the pink, girlish lips, the tired shadows beneath her baby blue eyes. She’d had a rough time of it, losing her husband and dealing with two kids on the verge of adolescence. But that was no excuse for causing a stupid accident that could’ve been prevented by a touch on the brake. He would have to keep reminding himself of that.
“What about you?” A nervous hand brushed back her short, tousled hair. She still wore her wedding ring, he noticed. “As I remember, all you wanted was to get out of Branding Iron and bike your way to the tip of South America. You even took that awful Spanish class to help you get ready,” she said.
“Only class I got a decent grade in. I can’t believe you remembered that.”
“I remember a lot of things. Did you ever make the trip?”
He shook his head, still feeling the sting of memory. “My father had a stroke. I couldn’t leave him to run the ranch alone.”
“So you’ve been here all this time.”
“At least I’ve still got the bike—or did have it until today.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t reply. At least maybe she understood now that the accident had shattered his long-held dream, or at least put it on hold. When he was growing up, all he’d wanted was to roam the world on that old bike. He’d seen the movie The Motorcycle Diaries more times than he could count, and he’d worn out his copies of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The last thing he’d wanted was to be stuck in Branding Iron, Texas, for the rest of his life. But day by day, the years had passed, and here he was.
By now, snow was flying at the windshield in big, silent flakes to be whisked away by the wipers. Beyond the car, the fields of yellowed grass were already dusted with white. A rider in a field was herding cows toward shelter. From the radio, the sounds of Christmas music tugged at the fringes of Shane’s memory. When he was a little boy, his mother had made Christmas a magical time. After her early death from cancer, Shane’s father had refused to celebrate the holiday. Now that he, too, was gone, Shane saw no reason to change things.
“Is your father still alive?” Kylie asked.
“He died last year. I’ll be putting the ranch up for sale this spring.”
“So you’ll get the chance to travel, after all.”
“Maybe not South America, but I’d like to see most of the USA, maybe Canada, by the back roads. At least that’s the plan.” Or was the plan. Shane bit back the words. Kylie was well aware of what she’d done. Of course, if he sold the ranch, he could afford to buy a new high-end motorcycle. But that old bike was a lifelong friend; the trip he’d planned a promise kept—a silly, sentimental idea, Shane knew. But he’d felt that way for too many years to give in to cold logic.
“So, did you ever get married? Any children?”
Shane forced himself to laugh. “Met a couple of ladies who got me thinking about it, but that’s as far as it went. Just not sure I’m husband-and-father material.” He glanced at the gold wedding band on her finger. “I take it you had better luck.”
She hesitated and he heard the little catch in her throat. “Brad was a fine man, and I loved him. But the army kept him away for months at a time. I learned early on to cope with everyday challenges on my own. But now that I know he’s not coming back . . .” Her voice trailed into silence. She was probably thinking she’d told him too much.
Maybe she had.
The drive from town wasn’t a long one. Through the falling snow, he could see the turnoff to his ranch, and beyond that, the gate and the house and barns. Eight hundred acres wasn’t big by Texas standards, but it had been Taggart land since Shane’s great-grandfather had bought the parcel at D
epression-era prices and built the spacious stone house that Shane now rattled around in alone. Even after all these years, the house was imposing, with two stately pines flanking the broad front porch. The soil was rich, the grass abundant, with plenty of well water under the ground. Shane had seen to it that the hay fields were well fertilized, and the pens and outbuildings kept in good repair. Somebody was bound to want the place and pay a good price for it.
Then he’d be free.
By the time Kylie pulled up to the shed where Shane kept his truck, snow was crunching under the tires. Shane hadn’t been unpleasant, but she’d felt his frustration and known she was the cause of it. The tension between them had been thick enough to give her a headache.
“Thanks for the ride.” She could feel the edge in his voice.
“You’re welcome. My number’s on the card I gave you. Call me when you want to talk about the insurance.”
“Sure.”
“Aunt Muriel told me you come around to help, so I guess we’ll be seeing each other, now and then.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He paused. “You can tell Henry I’ll be dropping the bike off tonight. If the weather’s not too bad, I’ll be back in the morning to see what he thinks about fixing it.”
Kylie had started to pull away. Her foot hit the brake. “Wait, you’re saying you’ll be leaving the motorcycle at our place?”
“That’s what I said. Henry Samuels has the best-equipped machine shop in the county. If anybody can help me fix the bike, he can.”
Shane watched the station wagon vanish into the flying snow. Then he turned and sprinted toward the barn. He needed to get back on the road to pick up the bike. But he made it a rule not to leave until he checked on the animals.
The Taggart ranch was a haying-and-feeder operation: buying young steers in the spring, putting weight on them for a long season, then selling the grass-fed Anguses at a premium in late fall. Shane had auctioned the last of the herd and paid off his temporary help a few weeks earlier, so there were no cattle in the snowy fields. But he had to make sure the ranch’s permanent residents were safe in the barn, with plenty of food and water in case the storm delayed his getting home.
