“Slow down!” I scream, unable to stand another second. At that same moment, the guy holding the guitar case sends it flying out to the right of the bike.
It skitters on the asphalt, slips under the rail and disappears from sight.
“Stop!” Holden yells.
Thomas hits the brakes, swings onto the shoulder and then slams the truck into reverse. Suddenly, we’re backing up so fast my head is spinning.
“Right here!” Holden shouts and before Thomas has even fully stopped the truck, he’s jumping out the door and running.
“There’s a flashlight in the glove compartment,” Thomas says, leaning over me.
I’m too stunned to move, and so I sit perfectly still, willing my reeling head to accept that we’ve stopped. Hank Junior barks his approval, and I rub his back in agreement.
Thomas hauls out, flicking on the flashlight and calling for Holden. Within seconds, he’s disappeared from sight, too. I tell myself I need to get out and help look, but a full minute passes before I can force my knees to stop knocking long enough to slide off the truck seat. I hold onto Hank Junior’s leash as if my life depends on it and teeter over to the spot where I’d seen them hop over the guardrail.
The drop off is steep, and vines cover the ground. I can’t see much except in the swipes when cars pass and lend me their headlights. I catch a glimpse of the light way down the hill. I hear Thomas’s voice followed by Holden’s.
“Are y’all okay?” I call out.
“We got it!” Thomas yells.
I’m so relieved I literally wilt onto the rail, and send up a prayer of thanks. Hank Junior and I wait while they climb up. Holden appears first, looking as battered as his case. Thomas is right behind him. As soon as they reach the top, they both drop down on the ground, breathing heavily.
“Man,” Thomas says. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to beat their tails!”
They gulp air for several seconds before Holden fumbles with the latches on the case and pops it open. Thomas points his flashlight at the interior, and my heart drops.
“Well, that’s not good,” Thomas says, his big Georgia voice dropping the words like boulders.
Holden picks up the guitar. It hangs limp and useless, broken in three places. He holds it the way a little boy would hold a baseball glove that got chewed up by the lawn mower. His expression is all but grief-stricken.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas consoles.
“Then whose fault is it?” Holden snaps, his blue gaze lasering me with accusation.
“Those two butt-wipes who stole it,” Thomas says tightly.
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t insisted on stopping to help her!”
“Man, what’s wrong with you? Her car was on fire. Chivalry ain’t that dead.”
Holden hesitates, clearly wrestling with a different opinion. “We didn’t have to give her a ride to Nashville.”
“No, we didn’t,” Thomas agrees. “But that ain’t who we are.”
I stand and dust off my skirt. I walk to the truck, Hank Junior trailing behind me. I climb up on the back tire, reach for my guitar and return to where the two of them are still sitting. I pull out my own lyric notebook and the flash drive that contains the only two song demos I’ve been able to afford to have made. I stick that in my pocket, close the case and hand it to Holden.
“You take mine,” I say. “I know it won’t replace yours, but maybe it’ll work temporarily. Y’all have been real nice to me. I’m not gonna ask any more of you. Thanks a lot for everything.”
And with that, Hank Junior and I start walking.
Blue Wide Sky Page 19
