Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1)

by Christine Hartmann

  That evening, an unfamiliar sound brought him out of his tent a final time into the chilly semi-darkness of a full moon. He shone his headlamp around the perimeter of his campsite, looking and listening.

  Someone’s running.

  An outline of a short, thin figure approached. Lone Star cupped his hands. “Grace? Just Grace, darlin’, is that you? Don’t run. I’m here.”

  A gravelly falsetto answered back. “Not Grace, sweetie.”

  Lone Star switched off his headlamp to let his eyes adjust. The man halted next to him, breathing deeply.

  “Sorry to disappoint. Seems like you were expecting someone else.”

  Lone Star held the back of his neck with his hand. “Now that’s embarrassing.”

  The runner’s teeth flashed white in the dark as his face split into a grin. “Not at all. First time I’ve been mistaken for a woman. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “Not everyone would.” Lone Star clasped his hands in front of him. “Name’s Lone Star. Where you headed?”

  “Shadow. Going to Canada.”

  Lone Star whistled. “Whoo-wee. Look what the cat dragged in. Read about you on the listserv. Go so fast that all people see is your shadow. I count myself real lucky.”

  Shadow put his hands on his hips and marched in place. “Somebody gave me the name and it stuck. Not sure that’s why, though.”

  “Modesty. Like that in a man.”

  “Just hiking my own hike. We’ve all got our reasons for being out here. I got tired of ultra marathons. The PCT seemed like a logical next step.”

  Lone Star shoved his hands into the pockets of his down vest. “Is this your first thru-hike?”

  “No. I did it last year. This year I’m going for the record.”

  “Thought I remembered that.” Lone Star stepped off the trail. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

  Shadow switched to stretching, standing first on one leg, then the other. “No worries, man. I got time. Don’t get to talk to a lot of people. Why are you out here?”

  Lone Star cocked his head to the side and looked at the dark rim of distant mountains. “I’m thirty-five and felt kind of burned out at work. Spending most days sitting at a desk looking out my window isn’t what I imagined when I picked a law career.”

  “Thought it would involve more work in the woods?” The moonlight highlighted Shadow’s teeth, exposed in a wide smile.

  “Thought I’d have more free time, I guess.” Lone Star shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I always loved hiking. When I was a kid, my whole family would go on overnights. In the summers, we’d even go for a week. Those were some of the best times of my life. Being with family and being outdoors.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. My family still goes on the trips. Only the last two times they went, I couldn’t. Had too much work.”

  Shadow groaned. “That sucks, man.”

  Lone Star picked up a rock and threw it into the distance. “It set my priorities straight. Told my boss she could either give me five months unpaid leave or find herself a new lead attorney.”

  “Did she cave?”

  “Mostly. She gave me four months. So now I’m hiking against the clock. But at least I’m out here.”

  Shadow returned to marching in place. “Hiking against the clock’s not so bad.”

  “Got any tips?”

  “Go ultralight. My base weight’s eight pounds.” He looked at Lone Star’s camp site. “No tent or sleeping bag. Only a tarp and quilt.”

  The nylon of his shelter fluttered as Lone Star kicked at a guy-line. “I’ve come a long way already, believe it or not. My family used to take a huge Army surplus monstrosity. Had to carry it one year. Nearly broke my back.”

  “Tents aren’t all bad. Maybe you’re planning on having company in there from time to time.”

  “The only one I’d want for company I left back at Lake Morena.”

  “Let me guess. Grace?”

  “Just Grace.” The bracing night air carried the scent of nearby sage brush, reminding Lone Star of where he’d met her. “Ever feel like you’re making a mistake?”

  “Often. But never on the trail.”

  The two men both looked at the dirt. Shadow began jogging in place. “Afraid I’ve got to get going. The night air chills me if I don’t keep moving.”

  “How many miles till you make camp?”

  “Don’t know yet. The trail tells me when to stop.”

  Lone Star reached out his hand and shook Shadow’s. “Good lesson for us all. Been a pleasure talking with you, Shadow.” The dark shape disappeared into the desert night long before the reverberating thud, thud of his footsteps died out. Lone Star stood and stared after him until the cold drove him back inside.

  Good night, Just Grace. This trail will bring us together again. You can count on it.

  Chapter 6

  Early in May of the previous year, west of Oakland’s technical high school, Jerry Kriebel rolled his new mountain bike home toward the dingy single-family house he shared with seven acquaintances. Strong California sunshine reflected off the shiny metal.

  He lumbered up cracked cement stairs carrying his purchase, a plastic Stoke’s Spokes bag dangling from the handlebars. He leaned the bike against the living room wall next to the TV, grabbed a beer from the kitchen, and spread out an assortment of new gear on the grungy living room carpet. Biking shorts, shirt, helmet, gloves, and a hydration pack covered the threadbare floor. An extreamly tall young man in shorts and an oversize shirt walked through the room.

  “Shit, dude.” Jerry’s roommate examined the acquisitions with obvious envy. “You got yourself some banging stuff.”

  Jerry grinned. “If I can find a ride to Marin County tomorrow, I’m gonna take this baby out on the trails. See what she can do.”

  “Sweet.” The friend stroked the bike’s gleaming surface. “Bet you could do sixty down a good hill.”

  “Yep. Way better than my crap car.”

  “Your crap car’s totaled.”

  “That’s why I got the bike.”

  “Bike’s a better fit for those stubby legs of yours anyway.” The friend punched Jerry’s arm. “If you need a ride to Marin, Rasta might let you borrow his pickup. If you get it back before dark.”

  “Got no license, dude, remember?”

  “Don’t think Rasta’ll mind. He probably even knows where you should go. Just don’t total his shagging wagon.”

  They snickered at the shared joke of their roommate’s consistent failure to get any of his short-lived girlfriends to join him in the bed of his pickup, where he optimistically kept a mattress.

  The next morning, Jerry drove the pickup out of Oakland, crossed the Bay Bridge, meandered through fog-encased San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge, and entered Marin. He was grateful for the stinking mattress protecting his new bike in the back of the truck as he navigated bumps in the pavement. The truck wound up Shoreline Highway and then along Panoramic. The Pacific Ocean lay to the left. But a dense white mist hung in the trees over the embankment.

  All these clouds. Can’t even see the ocean. It’s like I’m on top of the world.

  Jerry negotiated the sharp turns and steep inclines with squealing tires, often veering across the dividing line into the opposing lane. At seven on a Sunday morning, he encountered few other drivers.

  The GPS on his phone recalculated when he passed the Mountain Home Inn on Mount Tamalpais. He swerved on the fire road to the north and shot into the empty parking lot across the street. After dressing in bike gear in the front seat, he threw his street in the footwell. The cool air made him wish for a long-sleeved shirt. But it had seemed so unnecessary in sunny Oakland.

  He tucked his shoulder-length hair under his helmet, then pedaled up the fire road’s wide dirt expanse.

  Jerry rode toward the summit of Mount Tam like an agitated crab, all at right angles. Elbows pointed to the sky, short legs jutted to the sides, torso bent forwar
d. Bulging eyes focused on the trail ahead. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he puffed for air. After ten minutes, he stopped.

  Screw all this climbing. I’m wiped.

  He jerked his handlebars to the side, nearly lost his balance, recovered, and pointed the bike downhill.

  “Now this is more like it.” He leaned forward and shifted into high gear. His legs pedaled furiously, increasing his pace.

  The bike bounced across small rocks and dirt, skidding from side to side. It slithered around a turn. Jerry dropped his foot, scraping a long, thin line in the sand. The shrubbery and trees sped past his peripheral vision in a blur. Before long, he arrived back at Panoramic Highway. He turned down the first road he saw. There, the initial descent petered out quickly and his pace slowed as the street meandered past multi-million dollar houses perched on the hillside.

  Who the fuck lives here?

  He passed gated driveways with surveillance cameras and mysterious steps leading to impenetrable fences. Occasionally, beat up cars hugged the side of the road.

  Must be the cleaning ladies’ cars. People around here drive Beemers and Ferraris.

  As if to prove him right, a gleaming black metalic Mercedes SL Roadster pulled around a corner. Jerry braked. The balding man in the convertible gave him a wave as he roared past.

  Jerry returned the wave with a salute.

  Sweet ride.

  Around another corner, he saw what he had been looking for: a narrow dirt and gravel footpath sloping steeply downhill.

  Awesome.

  He swerved onto the trail.

  Now this is effing mountain biking.

  The wheels bounced precariously and threatened to throw him off. Lattices of exposed roots and large rocks jutted out at unexpected intervals. Jerry braked, tipped, and seesawed down the path. He grazed a tree. Vines and brush that clung to the upside of the hill clutched at him as he sped past.

  A little more lift and I’ll take right off. Who said mountain biking is difficult? I’ve got natural talent. With a little practice I’ll probably make a team.

  A large rock jerked his thoughts back to the trail. His front tire spun. He caught a brief glimpse of the steep ravine to his left.

  Don’t want to end up down there.

  His feet pushed the bike to quicken its pace. He rounded a sharp corner.

  The next instant, the world moved in slow motion. Flash of blue. Handlebars yanked right. Fingers clenched. Eyes closed. Tires skidding. Body off seat. Bike into hillside. Head back. Shoulder into protruding root. Pain down arm. Leg pinned to slope.

  Ouch.

  Jerry moved his arm.

  That hurts.

  He wiggled his fingers.

  Don’t think anything’s broken.

  Then his leg.

  I’m okay.

  He stood.

  Christ, that was lucky. I could have gone over the handlebars. And down the cliff.

  He reoriented himself.

  Then he heard screaming.

  “Kaylee!” A woman’s voice rose from the woods below him, drifting up through the grey mist. “Kaylee! Are you all right? Kaylee, answer me!”

  Jerry pushed his bike back onto the trail and returned to the spot where he’d been knocked off balance. He peered over the edge of the cliff and glimpsed a curled hand. A crumpled body. Sky blue shorts from which protruding legs twisted obscenely, like a mutilated doll. The back of a torn white jacket patched with a crimson that deepened as he watched.

  “Kaylee!” The shouting neared.

  Jerry grabbed his bike.

  The girl’s beyond help. Save my own ass. That’s always the best plan.

  He ran up the hill, shoving his bike ahead of him.

  “Stop! You hit Kaylee.”

  The cries urged him on. Jerry clambered erratically up the trail. His feet toppled over roots. The bike wheels snagged on bushes. He plowed ahead, fueled by fear and adrenaline. The shrieks grew fainter.

  When he reached the pavement, Jerry jumped on the seat. The road flashed under his tires as he put distance between himself and the broken girl. Back at the highway, a few cars filled the parking spaces beside his truck. He slid to a stop beside it, hefted his bike, and tossed it onto the lumpy mattress without an ounce of his prior pride or care.

  “Easy, dude, easy.” He gunned the engine. His heart pounded in his head like thunder. His hands sweated through the bike gloves. He floored the accelerator.

  His breathing didn’t return to normal until he stopped for gas at a Sunoco on a crowded US 101 near San Jose, seventy miles south of Mount Tam. The pimply clerk in the stained Pro-Pain punk band t-shirt admired Jerry’s biking gear when he paid for an extra large Dr. Pepper and three Snickers bars.

  “Forget you ever saw me.” Jerry handed the guy a twenty.

  “Sure, dude. Never saw you.” The boy pocketed the bill and looked away.

  Have to get out of these clothes. Nobody looks at a regular guy in a pickup.

  Jerry got his street clothes and changed in the dingy men’s room where toilet paper littered the floor and lewd graffiti mocked him from the walls. Then he called his housemate from the front seat of the truck.

  “Tell Rasta I’m driving his pickup to LA. Tell him to chill out about the money. I’ll wire him some by the end of the week. And don’t spread this around, okay? I had this urge to go south for a while. I’ll call again when I get there.” He hung up quickly and dialed his cousin in Milwaukee.

  “Don’t you have a friend in an LA band?” A car pulled into the parking lot and Jerry slouched lower in his seat.

  “Yeah. My girlfriend’s roommate’s got a brother in a band. Mega Oil Spill. Why?”

  “Can you give me his number? I’m heading to LA and I need a place to crash.”

  “No problem.” His cousin put down the phone and Jerry listened to the muffled conversation of two voices. When he returned to the receiver, he gave Jerry the number. “Hey, dude, I don’t want to ask questions, but you in some kind of trouble? Last I heard from you, you were liking Oakland.”

  “Just need a change. But if anyone asks, you haven’t heard from me.”

  “Sure.” His cousin paused. “Something you want me to tell your folks if they ask?”

  “They been asking?”

  “Nope.”

  “They ever asked?”

  “Nope.”

  “So you got your answer. Bet they don’t even realize I left Milwaukee.”

  “It’s all good, dude. You got some ranking times coming your way in LA. I can feel it.”

  The seven-hour drive to LA gave Jerry time to think.

  First, don’t speed. Last thing I need is a cop who looks at my license and punches me into a police computer. Second, when I get to LA, I’ll need cash. So I’ll sell the bike. Even if I only get half what it’s worth. The sooner I get rid of it, the better. Probably has something disgusting from that girl on it. I’ll sell this truck while I’m at it. That’ll give me enough to send to Rasta. With probably some left over.

  Interstate 5 traffic inched into the city bumper to bumper. His dented truck jostled for position with lipstick red Ferraris and utilitarian grey Prius hatchbacks. Drivers shared middle finger gestures as they cut each other off. Jerry relaxed.

  There’s no way the trouble I left on the mountain will follow me here. To the land of movie stars. The land of money. One day soon, I’ll be driving one of those Ferraris.

  For now, I’ll get stoned. Get that crumpled girl out of my mind. Back in Milwaukee, I was always good at forgetting things.

  ***

  The following afternoon, Ed Galeano looked up from behind Stoke’s Spokes bike shop counter as the door chime rang. Streaming sunlight framed the dark silhouette of a uniformed police officer.

  “Good afternoon. My name’s Turangeo. From the Mill Valley Police Department. I’m looking for Edmundo Galeano, the owner.”

  Ed’s eyes narrowed slightly, visions of previous encounters with the police briefly flooding his tho
ughts. He took a breath. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  “There was a mountain bike accident yesterday on Mount Tamalpais.” The officer paused, advanced a stride, and appraised Ed’s face.

  Must have been one of my customers, Ed thought.

  He relaxed and stepped from behind the desk. “How can I help?”

  The officer hung his thumbs from his belt. “A nine-year-old girl was run off a trail on Mount Tam. She’s in critical condition.” Again, he paused and scanned Ed. “Her mother saw someone on a mountain bike. We think it was the person who ran her down.”

  Ed nodded.

  “Someone identified you at the scene of the crime, Mr. Galeano. So I have a few questions. Is there a room where we can talk?”

  Chapter 7

  I never got his real name.

  The thought jerked Grace awake. She shook off the sleeping bag and pitched out of her tent, thinking hard about where she was and where Lone Star had gone.

  Lake Morena County Park. Lone Star left. Without me.

  She hurriedly packed her tent and filled water canisters at a bathroom sink. Her hands still dripped and gear threatened to fall out of her half-closed pack as she raced past rows of campers where scents of bacon and cinnamon drifted on the early morning air.

  Wait, Lone Star.

  But before she reached the park entrance, her thigh muscles cramped. Her fingers numbed. Surrounding trees greyed and swayed.

  Oh, no.

  Shaky knees gave way, and her back slid down a pine tree trunk to the dusty ground.

  ***

  “What am I going to do without him?” Grace watched her new friend back at the RV cook breakfast, inhaling the sweet odor of pancakes that pervaded the trailer. “I almost killed myself out there. Now I’m terrified I’m going to do it again. Although it won’t be for lack of water. I’m filling all my containers I have to the brim. I don’t care if I look like an elephant.”

  “Sweetie, I always told my kids, if you fall off a bicycle, you have to get right back on. Or else you’ll be scared of bikes for the rest of your life.”