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Ronnie looked at the paper. “No.” She sniffed. “There’s a newer listing.” She flipped through her clipboard, laid it on the counter and pointed. “Here we go.”
Delaney looked at the asking price, choked a little bit, almost thanked Ronnie for her time and left. That would be the smart thing to do. Sometimes childhood dreams just needed to stay dreams.
She strode around once more, mentally saying goodbye to everything that she’d never even made hers. Even though all of this had been a panster move, it felt like all the blood in her veins had been replaced with disappointment. She stopped by the far wall, where a ratty piece of paper hung by a sliver of tape. Delaney smoothed out the curled edges and read the flyer.
Fiftieth Annual Classic Motorcycle Show.
Dogwood County Fairgrounds.
The event was in July. There was a contest, including prizes. The grand prize for the winning classic cycle was five grand plus a feature article inRidemagazine.
The disappointment started to drain away. Five grand wouldn’t pay all the bills, but exposure in a major motorcycle magazine would be a boon for business. Plus, there was something about that poster, just hanging there like that.
It seemed like a sign.
“Oh!” Ronnie’s sharp exclamation came from behind. “Oh, what is that?”
Delaney turned just in time to see a large dog waltz through the open bay door. He halted at the sound of Ronnie’s voice, one paw raised, ears pinned. He looked like a pit bull, his colors white and chocolate brown. The chocolate dominated his right side and ran up around his right eye. The other side of his face, including his muzzle, was white, as well as his chest and most of his left flank, though he had chocolate splotches there, too. He reminded Delaney of Chunk, the pit bull Dad had found in the neighbor’s cornfield back when Delaney was about eight years old.
It had been one of those thick, windy Omaha summer nights, and Dad was sweaty, shirt stripped and stuffed in the back of his jeans, when Chunk had followed him home through the corn maze to the front porch, where he’d plopped down and refused to budge. Delaney had been watchingGoonieson cable, and right when she saw Dad hit the porch she’d called out, “Sloth love Chunk!”—their favorite line. The dog had peeked inside, startled, and everyone had laughed. Chunk, even though he wasn’t Chunk yet, had been covered in blood-gorged ticks and Dad had spent the evening showing Delaney how to squeeze them in just the right place to snap them out of the dog’s skin.Gotta make sure you don’t leave the heads buried, Dad had said. Chunk had been their dog after that, fiercely loyal and a permanent fixture at the foot of Delaney’s bed at night up until the day he died in his sleep at an indeterminate ripe old age.
Only now did it occur to Delaney that she had no idea whatsoever what Dad had been doing in the neighbor’s cornfield. Though it would explain the abundance of fresh corn chowder all summer long.
Ronnie took a couple of steps backward, wobbly in her heels. “Stay very still,” she hissed. “This looks like a dangerous breed.”
The pittie sniffed the air. His eyes were wide. “Nah.” Delaney tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and waited to see what the dog would do. He’d come in here with such purpose. “He looks confused. Not dangerous.”
After a moment of stillness, the dog trotted over to the door behind the register. He sat down, his ears perked expectantly. He waited, but when nothing happened, he reached out with his paw and scratched the door.
“What is happening?” Ronnie whispered, hand on her chest. Nails and lips were a perfectly matched red. Rather than being pleasing, Delaney found the combo contrived. Ronnie screamed stop sign rather than alluring siren.
“Let’s find out.” Delaney went behind the counter, toward the door where the dog sat. She put her hand on the knob and the pittie rose, shaking out his legs, like he was readying to go inside. She turned the knob, but it was locked. “Do you have the key?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Ronnie’s gaze was on the dog.
“I need to see the room anyway.” Delaney offered her knuckles to the pit bull. He gave her a tiny bump with a cold, wet nose, and refocused on the door.
Ronnie dug through her pockets, then winged a key at Delaney from across the room. The key flew way to Delaney’s right.
She lunged and made a grab.
“Wow.” Ronnie forgot herself. “Good arm.”
The key slid easily into the knob and the door opened.
The dog rushed inside, a little whine escaping his throat as he pushed into the darkness. Delaney followed, fumbling against the wall. Just inside on the left, she flicked the switch and dim light flooded a large work space/storeroom. There were rows of metal shelves, empty, along with a larger open space that could be used to work on more bikes once Delaney had a staff of mechanics, or to store bikes and merchandise for sale. A second bay door—the back bay—covered half the rear wall. Off in the far corner of the concrete floor was a shaggy, worn dog bed, where the pit bull settled into a ball. His head rested between his paws, but his eyes were open. He huffed, not completely satisfied with what he’d found, even though the bed had been his destination.
Delaney’s heart suddenly felt too big for her chest. They’d cleaned out everything but the dog bed—and, apparently, the dog.
“I’ll call animal control.” Ronnie’s voice came from behind her shoulder. She was no longer whispering or on edge. Now that the dog was safely balled in the corner, Ronnie considered him with cold eyes.
He lifted his head and looked around, expectant.
Scared.
Lost.
His tail thumped against the bed, just as a child might wring his hands or fidget.
