Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“It doesn’t matter,” I said after a minute. “I’m only passing through, then I’m headed to the coast, remember? As soon as my bike is ready.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mikey said. “My plan is to find a way to convince you to stay here with us. My only hesitation in leaving Texas was leaving you behind. If I can get you to move here with us, it will be perfect. All the people I love the most will be with me all the time.”
He didn’t realize the effect his words had on me. Or maybe he did. But I hadn’t had a life full of people who cared. I hadn’t had anyone looking out for me the way he had. Mikey may have been very different from his dad and brothers, but he’d still had them in his corner. No, they weren’t perfect, and in fact, sometimes I wanted to kick their asses, but they’d still been there.
The only person who’d been there for me was Mikey himself, and I would never ever forget it.
“I’m not making any promises,” I said roughly. “Not sure I can leave my business and Mom and the girls.”
Mikey’s expression turned serious. “No, I know. And I wouldn’t want you to do something you didn’t want to do. I just mean we love you. Whatever makes you happiest will make us happy, too.”
Tiller nodded and met my eye again in the mirror. He was a good man. I was grateful beyond measure Mikey had found him.
“Well,” I said, clearing my voice. “It will make me happiest to find a damned good ladder in the storage shed. How much longer till we get there?”
After finding the ladder we needed—at the local hardware store rather than the dusty old equipment shed—we made our way back to the lodge property where I spent a happy few hours inspecting the chalets. Tiller accompanied me and helped make a punch list of tasks, repairs, and upgrades the little cabins needed, but overall they were in fairly good shape. I could even knock out some of the work while I waited for my bike to be fixed.
Once I’d stuffed myself with Mikey’s lunch spread that included custom turkey sandwiches on thick slabs of homemade bread, I borrowed the SUV and set off to town to check in with the Chop Shop. Jim Browning assured me that he could fix it in the next few days.
“Are you sure? A couple of days seems quick for a bent fork and—”
“Never been more sure of anything in my life. Take my word for it. You’re gonna be good to go in a jiffy.” He beamed at me. “And if you need a loaner in the meantime, we have a good deal on a Kawasaki rental.” He tilted his head toward a bike in the lot. I expected a cheap, banged-up piece of shit, so I was surprised to see a Versys in decent shape.
“Run well?” I asked, thinking it was too good to be true to get my own wheels in this tiny town without much fuss.
He nodded. “’Course.”
“How much?” I asked Jim.
We settled on a rental agreement, but when I asked for the keys, he looked at me like I had two heads. “Key’s in the bike. This is a small town, Mr. Rigby. If anyone else is caught driving that bike, I’ll know who took it. Same goes with all our local customers’ vehicles. They leave the keys in ’em, and we don’t have to stick around for a late drop-off.”
I laughed at the reminder I wasn’t in Houston anymore.
When I finally walked out with an estimate for the repairs, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I would be less of a burden to my friends while I was here. I’d be able to roam the mountains without feeling stuck in one place.
I left the bike in the Chop Shop lot for now and tossed my saddlebags into the SUV before continuing to the address I had for Truman’s farm. My phone rang with calls from my mom, but I ignored them. Most likely my she was calling to beg legal help for Kira, and if it wasn’t for that, she was calling to ask for money. I didn’t even want to speculate as to why Kira wasn’t calling, too. She probably knew I wouldn’t answer and had asked Mom to call instead.
The first thing I noticed when I pulled onto the narrow road leading to Truman’s place was a dilapidated sign that read, “Berry Sweet Farm.” The second thing I noticed was half of a gate hanging drunkenly off to the side of the farm’s driveway. I wondered if someone had crashed into it with their car. Maybe even the aunt who’d owned the property before Truman.
As I pulled down the drive, I passed open fields with row after row of various types of little green shoots sprouting through the tilled earth. A giant arc of water from a sprinkler shot through the air over the plants, casting vague rainbow apparitions in the afternoon sun. Motion off to the left caught my attention, and I saw the same tight little Truman ass I’d seen earlier sticking up from where he bent over a wheelbarrow. He’d changed out of his jeans and hoodie. Now that the sun was blazing warm in the sky, he wore a faded T-shirt and old cutoff shorts that had once been khaki pants but were now just a collection of wash-worn threads being held together with a hope and a prayer. I almost crashed the SUV trying to catch glimpses of his bare upper thigh through the holes in them.