Whitehorse (10 page)

The door creaked and popped as Leah stepped onto the highway. The truck, still covered with crusty mud from two nights before, listed to the left like a sinking boat. The back tire lay in shreds along the asphalt. The wheel appeared bent from her having driven on it God only knew how long before realizing there was a problem. A new tire would set her back a hundred bucks. A wheel would cost several hundred.

"Damn it!" She kicked the wheel. Then kicked the fender. She walked around to the back of the truck and kicked the tailgate. Spying a metal rod lying in weeds littered with beer cans and a Burger King drink cup, she picked it up and proceeded to beat the hood, the roof, the already-broken-out headlamp, the door, then the shredded tire and mangled wheel. She beat it until the rod in her hand snapped in two, one end flying back to miss her face by inches.

"I won't cry," she chanted to herself. "Crying won't do me any good. It won't fix my tire. It won't pay for a wheel. It sure as hell won't buy me a new truck or get me that job at the track." And it would not turn back the clock eight years ago, to the night she and Richard had rented an X-rated video like two naughty and curious kids and became so turned on while watching it that they had unprotected sex.

As she stood on the shoulder of the road, the stink of the rotting raccoon beginning to filter through her senses, Leah rocked back and forth, her arms clamped around her waist, her body shivering from the cool mountain air.

Car lights rounded the bend—two pinpoints at first, looking like little round owl eyes reflecting moonlight, growing larger as the vehicle neared. The old Olds 442 roared by, sounding like a freight train. At the last minute the driver hit the brakes and the taillights lit up like red beacons. The car reversed, rumbling like a Caterpillar 'dozer, stones crunching and spitting as it stopped beside her. A man's face peered out at her, his skinny, unshaven features made eerie by the dim green lights from his dashboard.

He grinned, looking like a jack-o'-lantern. "Need some help?"

Leah hugged herself tighter, the image of her cell phone left lying on the kitchen table popping into her brain like a camera bulb. She had laid it down to fix her coffee and forgot to retrieve it before leaving.

Think. It was ten miles back to the house. It was twelve miles to town, and another eight to the reservation where a half-dozen goats were bleeding to death, chewed up by barbed wire. Chances were Ramona Skunk Cap would call the house when Leah did not show up, but Shamika did not normally answer Leah's
business phone, not
at this hour.

"Blowout," she finally replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

He grinned again and winked. The car crawled over to the shoulder, headlamps trained on the shredded tire and mangled wheel. The man stepped out, hitching up his too-tight jeans before spitting a stream of tobacco onto the road. Despite the cold, he wore a tank top and a grimy gimme cap that reflected his interest in the World Champion Denver Broncos. Her initial feeling of unease streaked up her back and made her scalp prickle. She glanced down at the broken rod she still held in one hand, gripped it more tightly and tried to breathe evenly. Once, she had taken a self-defense course—what women should do if they found themselves threatened—but she had always suspected that to be effective in gouging out eyeballs or cracking testicles with the tip of her boot she would have to be totally in control of her logic. But how did one control logic when fear fogged reasoning beyond comprehension?

The stranger walked over, gravel scraping under his scuffed Red Wing boots. He had the look of a construction worker, skin dried like an old cow hide, lanky body wiry but strong, arms corded and muscled without the slightest hint of fat. A tattoo of snakes and skulls entwined both arms from his shoulders to his wrists. He smelled like beer. And sweat. And rancid Skoal.

Letting loose a low whistle, he regarded the wheel and shook his head. "Made a mess of it, didn't you?"

"Seems that way."

"I reckon it don't matter if you got a spare or not. No way in hell you gonna get anywhere on that axle." He spat again. "If I was you I'd get rid of the whole damn thing. This baby's 'bout seen its last mile." Looking out at her from beneath the brim of his cap, he said, "What's a good-lookin' lady like you doin' out on a highway this late at night?"

"I'm a vet. I was on my way to a call."

"A vet?" He grunted and looked her up and down. "You mean like an animal doctor?"

She nodded as another car rounded the curve and barreled toward them, blinking its brights to acknowledge Leah's presence on the shoulder. Perhaps if she jumped up and down and waved, it would stop. She could tell the tattooed snuff-sucker to beat it—she did not need the help of someone who looked as if he were spending his first night out of
Attica
prison.

Then again, if it did not stop, her actions would indicate exactly how she felt about standing in the dark on an isolated highway with someone who smelled like road kill.

The car roared by, its driver invisible behind tinted windows. Leah watched its taillights dwindle into specks, then disappear completely.

His hands on his hips, the stranger watched the car disappear into the dark, then he looked around slowly, his eyes invisible under the low brim of his gimme cap. Leah focused on his mouth. Lips said a lot about people's thoughts, even more than eyes. She didn't much care for the thoughts running through the Bronco fan's head in that moment.

"Tell you what," he said. "I don't mind givin' you a ride into town."

Leah looked up and down the dark highway again.

"Looks to me like you ain't got much choice, lady. It's me or the road."

"I appreciate the offer, but I really shouldn't leave my truck unattended. There's all of my supplies… I can't afford to have them stolen. Why don't you drive into town and send out a tow truck?"

"I'd feel real bad about leavin' you out here alone. A lady was discovered murdered along here just last month. Cops ain't ever found out who done
it…"

Her scalp began to sweat. And her hands. She was tempted to wave the broken rusty pipe in the man's face as a warning that she would not go down without a fight, but the realization that he just might decide to use the pipe on her made her think again.

"Relax," he said. "You're lookin' a little like a 'possum caught in the lights of an oncoming semi."

"I …
can't leave my truck."

He took a step closer.

She gripped the pipe more tightly. Go for the throat, the face, the eyes—the eyes were most vulnerable…

A truck rounded the bend, its row of night lights across the top of the cab glowing like orange fireflies, as were the lights on the fenders over the double rear tires. The smart thing to do would be to step out into the road and wave her arms. The driver would be forced to hit her or swerve around her. Either way he could not ignore her. So why wouldn't her legs move?

The truck slowed and blinked its headlights.

The Ford dually emerged gradually from the dark, illuminated with enough white and orange lights to rival a carnival ferns wheel. A
white
dually. Like Johnny's. Only there were probably a thousand such trucks in the area. What were the chances that Johnny Whitehorse would be on this highway at this time of night?

Slower, engine rumbling, ghostly in the dark, a guardian angel sent to rescue her from a man who probably was safe as a priest. Brake lights flashed; the truck stopped. A tinted window buzzed down, revealing Johnny Whitehorse.

Leah sank back against the truck, vaguely aware that the pipe was dropping from her fingers. It hit her boot, then bounced to the asphalt, clattering in the darkness.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she mouthed, trying not to look relieved.

Johnny glanced at the stranger. "Is there a problem here?"

"A blowout," Leah replied. "Wheel's wrecked."

"Seems every time I see that truck it's giving you problems."

She nodded and crossed her arms over her stomach. "Seems to be the story of my life recently."

"No joke." Johnny checked the rearview mirror, then did a U-turn in the highway, pulling up behind the 442. Leaving the truck running, he stepped onto the highway, shirttail out of his faded jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Tonight he was without his hat, allowing his dark hair to flow freely over his shoulders.

The stranger made a sound, not quite a laugh, more like a grunt as Johnny moved toward him. "If it ain't Geronimo. I don't recall the lady sendin' up any smoke signals, chief."

Johnny grinned. "Careful, Bubba. Just 'cause I haven't scalped anyone this week doesn't mean I can't be tempted."

Leah closed her eyes, telling herself that Bubba would be foolish to pick a fight with a man nearly a head taller than him, with shoulders twice as broad. Johnny had not gotten the scar on his chin and over his right eyebrow by turning the other
cheek …
not during his angry youth.

Bubba wasn't amused. But neither was he a fool, Leah surmised. Without a glance her way, he sauntered to the 442 and sank into its bucket seat. He gunned the engine before flooring the accelerator, tires screaming and stinking of hot rubber as he streaked off into the night, leaving her and Johnny standing in the bright pool of his headlights.

She could not quite make herself look at his eyes, so she focused on the top button that was buttoned on his plaid shirt. A vee of dark skin was exposed to the middle of his chest. "I recall a time when you would have made cottage cheese of that creep's face for what he just said."

"It's called Anger Management 101. Someday I'll probably explode and take out a dozen or more Bubbas with an Uzi."

She smiled at her feet. "After my behavior the other day I wouldn't have blamed you if you had waved and kept on going."

"You know I was always a sucker for a pretty face. Especially when it was yours." He walked around her and stooped to have a better look at the demolished wheel. "Hope you weren't on your way to something important, Doc. This wheel is history."

"Ramona Skunk Cap's goats are dying. They ran through a barbed-wire fence."

"Again?" He laughed. "If it wasn't for Ramona's goats, every coyote around the
Sacramento Mountains
would starve to death. She might as well change the name of her farm to Cabrito Burrito."

Leah smiled as her gaze reluctantly found its way to Johnny's profile. Thank God he wasn't looking at her. She had never been one to hide her feelings; they radiated like neon in her eyes. Right now there were so many emotions bombarding her insides she felt like a target at a shooting range.

Johnny stood.

Leah looked away.

"I'll run you out to Ramona's if you want," he offered.

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Don't you?"

"No, actually. I don't think that I do."

"Get what you need from the truck and lock it up. I'll call Triple A and have a tow come out and get it. That way it won't cost you anything."

She started to say something smart-ass, like "I don't accept charity from former lovers," then decided there was no point. She could not afford another towing expense, not when what little budget she had was going to be blown by buying a new wheel and tire. Besides, this camaraderie between her and Johnny felt much better than their earlier hostility.

As Johnny walked back to his truck, Leah collected sutures, scissors, clippers, sterile gloves, syringes, and tetanus medications. Then there were antibiotics, and bantamine for pain. She put them all in a box with gauze and vet wrap, double-locked the drawers of prescription medications, and buried the key deep in her pocket, praying they would all still be there when she got her truck back.