by Tamara Gill
Alarm flared through her. So she wasn't fooling him after all! But what could she say? Glancing at him, she saw that his face was set, as though he expected a rebuff. Hadn't Annette said that Kathryn regarded him as an interfering big brother? Doubtless she would have snapped at him for prying into her affairs. Catherine, however, longed to tell him everything—if only she could find the words that would ensure his belief.
“I see you don't,” said Logan when she hesitated too long. “No problem. Just wanted you to know I was here if you needed an ear.”
Oh, I do! she longed to cry. If only I thought there was a chance you would believe me. With a sigh, she turned back to the window. Soon. She would tell him soon, she vowed. But it would have to be when they had more time, for a short explanation would never do.
A few minutes later, Logan turned off the freeway onto a smaller highway, though their speed seemed about the same. There were more trees here, blocking her view of the more distant scenery as they whipped past. Finally Logan slowed and Catherine saw a sign that read “Palmetto Motor Speedway.”
Following the arrow to the left, they turned onto a much smaller paved road that, after a mile or so, turned to reddish dirt, the first dirt road Catherine had seen since coming forward in time. In spite of the dust their passage raised, she felt a nostalgic pleasure in it.
The rutted, dusty road seemed to go on for some time, or perhaps it was simply that their speed was necessarily much less than it had been. Catherine realized that she was already used to going places more quickly than had been possible in 1825. She was getting spoiled.
Logan noticed her cynical expression and misinterpreted it. “Don't say I didn't warn you. It's too late to turn back now.”
“I haven't the slightest desire to turn back,” she assured him, earning another penetrating look from those handsome hazel eyes. He made no other comment, however, turning his attention back to the road, which certainly merited it.
Another turn, this time to the right, brought them to the speedway itself, where Billy was maneuvering his truck and the trailer into the waiting line of vehicles. Logan pulled in behind. When the line diverged to follow signs marked Grandstand or Pit, they stayed in the Pit line. Catherine presumed that those who went on to the Grandstand were spectators, as none of them towed cars. A blue-uniformed man came up to Logan's window, holding out a pen and pad.
“Here's where you sign your life away,” he said jovially. Logan smiled and explained to Catherine that it was a liability waiver, which meant nothing to her, so she merely nodded.
After glancing at the signature, the police officer looked up. “Oh, so you're Logan Thorne! We heard you'd be here tonight. Give the folks a good show!” He waved them on.
“You are famous,” remarked Catherine, only half teasing.
“And now I have to live up to it,” said Logan wryly. “I shouldn't have let Billy talk me into this. Trust him to broadcast it!”
Logan paid their admission into the pit and they were motioned inside the red clay track, where two other men pointed out the area where the late-model cars were parked. They pulled to a halt next to the white race car on its trailer and Logan climbed out. He spoke to Billy for a minute, then the other man walked off with a cheery wave.
Catherine watched Logan unhitch the trailer and climb into his racer to back it onto the mud of the pit, wishing she dared offer to help, though had no idea what she might be able to do.
Instead, she looked around at the other cars and quickly decided that Logan's was the most attractive one there. The others had writing all over them: Ron's Plumbing, Katz Auto Parts and Earl's Garage were among the names she noticed. Logan's car, by contrast, was pure white with only a discreet number thirty-three written in silver-gray on each side.
Now Catherine was struck by the steadily increasing noise in the pit. As more and more cars arrived, she wondered if she would be permanently deafened by the sound of the roaring engines. With difficulty, she resisted the urge to cover her ears.
“Let's go catch up with Billy,” Logan shouted over the roar when he finished inspecting his own engine. She nodded and followed him through the sticky red mud, eagerly taking in the sights with only an occasional wince when a nearby car let out an especially ferocious sound. Billy was waving at them from another part of the pit, where more conventional looking race cars were parked.
“These are the hobby, super stock and pure stock cars,” Logan informed her loudly, pointing out the different types as they walked over to Billy. Catherine examined the racers he indicated with interest.
Billy introduced Logan and Catherine to some friends, presumably other racers or perhaps even family members—she couldn't be sure, since she only heard about one word in every three. Logan and Billy talked for a few minutes, but from several feet away Catherine had no idea what they were saying.
“This your first time?” a woman Billy had introduced as Linda asked her.
“Yes,” shouted Catherine in reply, not wanting these people to think her a mute.
The woman nodded knowingly. “Thought so. So, are you and Logan an item?”
Catherine blinked at the question and glanced quickly over her shoulder to be certain he hadn't somehow heard. Rather than shout an answer, not that she had one, she shrugged.
“Mind if I introduce him to my sister?” asked Linda when Catherine failed to lay claim to him.
Catherine was startled at the spurt of jealousy that shot through her. There was no civil way to object, however, so she shrugged again, which Linda took as permission. She walked over to another, younger woman whom Catherine had not met, but just then the engine roars subsided somewhat and a voice began booming announcements over the remaining noise.
“We'll start warm-up laps in a moment, folks, but first I want to welcome a driver you may have heard of from the NASCAR Grand Nationals . . . Logan Thorne!”
There was applause and cheering, and Catherine noticed Billy beaming as if Logan were his own creation. After a moment the voice resumed, announcing that the late-model cars would have ten minutes to warm up before the super stocks took the track. Logan touched Catherine's arm to get her attention and she jumped.
“That's my cue,” he said, able to speak without shouting for the moment. “Let's get back to my car, unless you'd rather stay here with Billy and his gang.”
Catherine pondered the skepticism in his voice. He obviously liked Billy. Was he assuming she would not? From what she had learned about Kathryn, it seemed unlikely that this would be her sort of place, or these her sort of people.
“I'll watch from here, if you don't mind,” she replied. His eyebrows shot up, but he only shrugged and strode quickly back to his racer. Drivers of all classes began revving up their motors in preparation for the warm-up laps, and the din was worse than before, the sound echoing and reechoing off the sides of the bowl-like depression that housed the track. It sounded to Catherine like a continuous clap of thunder, directly overhead. Were these people used to it, or had they all lost their hearing long ago? It seemed not to bother them in the least.
“See that blue number twelve?” Billy shouted to her from a few inches away. She turned to see the car he indicated, circling the track at what seemed a perilous speed.
“That's Crazy Charlie,” Billy yelled. “I should have told Logan to watch out for that guy. He's liable to do anything just to get attention for his sponsor. They don't seem to mind how many times he smashes up the car.” As they watched, the blue car spun sideways on the turn before straightening out and continuing on at the same pace.
“Aren't those cars expensive?” Catherine asked.
“You bet! Forty or fifty thou, not to mention the tires, which are only good for one race. That's the rich man's class.”
“What about everyone else?” She was genuinely curious.
“It still ain't cheap. I like to call dirt track racing a rich man's sport that poor people do.” She smiled appreciatively, but he was pointing again. “There g
oes Logan,” he shouted.
Catherine turned quickly and saw number thirty-three flash past. He seemed to be traveling just as quickly as Crazy Charlie, but he was negotiating the curves much more skillfully, with a minimum of skidding.
“How fast are they going?” she asked Billy, who was donning a helmet for his own warm-up laps in a few minutes.
“Prob'ly no more than a hundred or so. They save the real speed for the heats. My God! Look at that!”
She whipped around to look. Crazy Charlie's number twelve had gone into a full spin on the curve. The other cars swerved violently to avoid hitting him, and a man standing on one of the huge tires that ringed the track waved a red flag frantically. Instead of slowing, the blue car spun faster, as if the driver were trying to keep it spinning.
Logan's white car came around the far curve then, moving faster than she had believed possible. Catherine saw Logan's car swerve first one way, then another, trying to stay clear of cars until he could stop. Another racer, a black one, skidded out of control on Logan's left. It careered into Logan's car rear-end first, knocking it into the path of Crazy Charlie's car, which still had not slowed its spin. The whirling blue car hit Logan's hard from the opposite direction. Slowly, each second seeming to take minutes, Catherine saw Logan's car flip entirely upside down on the track.
She barely heard the scream that broke from her throat. Her only thought was to get to Logan. The announcer's voice was shouting something, but all of her attention was on the white car lying on its crumpled roof. She could see no movement inside it. Panicked, she began to run, only to slip and fall in the slick red mud. Pushing herself up with her arms, she saw that two men on three-wheeled vehicles had reached the scene of the accident and were carefully pulling Logan out.
A sizable crowd had gathered by the time she was able to reach the cluttered end of the track, but she shoved her way through, frantic to see Logan for herself. He was sitting on the ground, obviously conscious. She released her breath, only then aware that she had been holding it—and that she was shaking.
“Will he be all right?” she asked of the man examining Logan. The noise level was the lowest it had been since they had arrived at the speedway, and though her voice was weak and breathless, Logan looked up at her question.
“I'm fine, Kathy, just a bump on the head. But thanks for asking.” He appeared shaken and pale—though no more so than Catherine felt. The man attending him must have noticed, for he hastened to reassure her.
“He'll be fine, ma'am, but he won't be racing tonight. He needs to go home to bed. He may experience some dizziness or a bad headache, so he shouldn't drive. If it still aches tomorrow, Mr. Thorne, you should go see your doctor and get a real examination.”
“What, this doesn't count?” asked Logan.
“I'm just a medic,” explained the man. “I don't think you've got a concussion, but a doctor ought to verify it. Let's get you out of this crowd now.” The medic helped Logan to his feet, and Catherine was relieved to see he could stand without assistance.
He looked at Catherine again, appearing to really focus on her this time. “You're a mess,” he said with a feeble smile.
“Yes, I . . . I fell.” The other man handed her a cloth and she rubbed the worst of the mud from her hands and arms, then her knees. “Thank you.” She handed it back and he left to check on some of the other drivers who had been involved in the pileup.
“Are you certain you are all right?” she asked, turning back to Logan. “I've never been so frightened in my life!”
His smile became warmer, stirring an echoing warmth deep inside her. Though his voice was light, she could tell he was working to keep it that way. “Why, Kathy! I didn't know you cared. Does this mean—”
Billy came up to them then, his face still white. “Logan, man, don't scare me like that! I sure am glad you're okay. And don't worry about your racer—I'll take it back to my garage. It looks like it'll need some work, anyway. Where are the keys to your street car?”
Logan fished in his pocket and handed them to Billy. He still looked more than a little bit disoriented, though he tried to hide it.
“Here, ma'am,” said Billy, handing the keys to Catherine. “You'll have to drive him home.”
***
CHAPTER TEN
Catherine stared at Billy Clark's retreating back, her mouth open. Drive Logan home? She was to drive Logan home? How on earth was she supposed to manage that? She had hoped to coax driving lessons out of Annette, but this was entirely different! Logan would know at once that something was wrong—and he was in no condition right now for complicated explanations.
She directed a searching look at the man by her side. Logan was standing, but he leaned heavily against the metal fence and still seemed rather dazed.
Perhaps she could carry it off after all—and what an adventure it would be! She was a quick study, she told herself. In London she'd had to learn numerous dance steps, how to flirt with a fan, how to curtsy to persons of varying rank—all useless knowledge now. But she had watched Logan closely as he drove, both tonight and previously, and was almost certain she had memorized his every move.
Key in the ignition, turn it to the right, move the lever until the little arrow points to D. Then just steer with the wheel. Yes, she could do this. She must.
“Come, Logan, you can lean on me until we reach the car,” she said. He nodded numbly.
Their progress was slow, but by the time the warm-up laps resumed, they had reached the Porsche. Catherine remembered with relief that Logan had backed the car in earlier, so at least she would not have to drive it in any direction but forward. Logan automatically headed for the driver's seat, but Catherine led him around to the passenger's side and helped him into the car. Once seated, he leaned back gratefully against the headrest and closed his eyes.
Catherine slid behind the steering wheel and closed the door, elation and nervousness warring within her. Which key was it? She glanced surreptitiously at Logan, but he seemed to be dozing. The third key she tried went in. That's the first step, she thought. Placing one foot firmly on the brake pedal, she turned the key to the right and the car roared to life. She eased her foot off of the brake and waited. Nothing happened.
Now, what? She remembered the lever attached to the steering wheel. It resisted her attempt to move it at first, but finally, as she was getting desperate, it moved—and so did the car. Backward!
Catherine stepped hard on the brake, but not before the car bumped against the fence behind it. Logan stirred, but did not speak or open his eyes. The lever moved more easily now, and she was able to shift the indicator to the D, as Logan had done. She took a few deep breaths before easing her foot off the brake.
This time the car moved forward, very slowly. Catherine grinned. She'd be fine now. She was able to maneuver the Porsche out of the space it was in and turn it in the direction of the gate, still crawling along at no more than a mile an hour. Any time another car within sight moved, which was often, she hit the brake.
Eventually, she made it to the Speedway exit. Once on the dirt road, she accelerated to five miles per hour, simply by keeping her foot off the brake. After a minute or two, she gained enough confidence to try the other pedal—lightly—and the car increased its speed.
The unpaved road seemed to go on forever—so long, in fact, that she began to wonder if she had missed a turn. Surely she wasn't going that much more slowly than Logan had? She was just considering the advisability of awakening Logan to ask directions when she saw the smooth, black pavement ahead.
The ride was now no longer bumpy. Pressing harder on the acceleration pedal, she held the car firmly to the middle of the road until she saw another vehicle coming in their direction—a truck! She gasped and swerved violently to the right, running up on the grassy shoulder to avoid a collision.
At that, Logan opened his eyes. “What . . . what's going on?” he asked thickly.
“N-nothing,” replied Catherine breathlessly. “I
am simply driving you home, as Billy told me to.”
Logan shook his head to clear it, then clutched it with a moan. Still, he sat up to look around. “Where are we?”
“On our way back to Columbia,” said Catherine, thinking it unwise to go into detail.
“But why are we stopped on the side of the road?” Catherine was already feeling foolish about her near collision with the truck. Of course she should have been driving on the right-hand side, as Logan had. “I, ah, wasn't quite certain of my direction, but I didn't wish to wake you.”
“Was I asleep? Maybe I have a concussion, after all. But I'm starting to feel better now.”
“The doctor at the racetrack said you should see your own doctor tomorrow,” she reminded him, not wanting the conversation to return to her driving.
“He wasn't a doctor. But he was probably right. I'll do that. Now, let's see, you need to follow this road out to 321, then take a right and follow it for several miles. I'll try to stay awake—the ramp onto the new highway is still poorly marked. Oh, and if you see any place that looks like it sells coffee, stop—I could sure use a cup.”
Catherine nodded nervously and eased the car back onto the road. If he stayed awake, he would undoubtedly notice that she didn't know how to drive. On the other hand, if he went back to sleep she would just as undoubtedly get lost. What a predicament!
Keeping the car carefully to the right, Catherine dared to touch the accelerator pedal, bringing the car's speed to ten miles per hour. Courage/ I've driven carriages faster than this in London. She eased the speedometer display up to fifteen, twenty, then twenty-five, as her confidence began to reassert itself.
“It's starting to get dark,” commented Logan. “Why don't you turn on the headlights?”
“Headlights?” squeaked Catherine, trying not to panic.
“The little dial on the end of the turn-signal lever,” said Logan, as if that would help. Catherine looked at the two levers extending from the steering column, then back at Logan, who was frowning curiously at her.
