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“Oh?”
“The lot behind your shop may be coming up for sale.”
I’d been looking to expand my first business venture—an invitation-only car shop—but didn’t have the room. If I could get that parcel, my problem would be solved. “I’m interested.”
The car slows, and I glance at the road to see what’s happening.
“If the rumor’s true,” Zander says, “we’ll need to move fast. How far do you want me to take it?”
“How reliable is your source?”
“Never let me down before.”
We roll to a stop behind a Model A Ford on the shoulder. “Hold on, Zan.” I lean forward. “Taylor, what’s up?”
“Damsel in distress.” He turns off the Maybach and climbs out to walk around the front end, toward the disabled car. I shift in the back seat to crane my neck out the open window.
Yeah, the old girl’s a looker. Deep, balsam green body with black runners and lemon-yellow spoked wheels. Somebody’s polished her up. But the only distress I’m seeing is a cast-iron jack holding up her back end where a tire’s missing. I open my mouth to tell Taylor to phone for help so we can keep going.
“Stupid, dad-blamed tire! What am I going to do with you?” a woman’s voice complains.
She’s answered by a deep howl like a blast on an ancient ram’s horn.
What in the world?
A freckled face partially covered by a wind-swept mop of chestnut hair finally comes into my line of sight. Sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground, a woman who looks to be late twenties, early thirties struggles with the tire on her lap. Beside her, tethered to a door handle, is a massive caramel-colored bloodhound. It lets out another mournful bay.
The woman bumps the dog with her shoulder. “Okay, okay, I hear you. We have visitors. I get it. Please stop flinging your drool at me.”
Taylor’s damsel in distress. The tire and the dog are twice her weight and equally challenging. She could definitely use some help. But Taylor and I have obligations in Denver. The quicker we can get this situation sorted, the quicker we can get back on the road.
“Zander, I’ll have to call you back.”
“Gotta problem?”
“Nothing serious. Get the land for me. Whatever it takes. I trust you.”
“I’ll keep you posted. Be safe.”
I end the call practically before he finishes his message. Dropping the phone on the charger from habit, I climb out the back door to investigate.
Chapter Two
Charlie
This stupid tire is giving me fits.
Trying to tuck in the rubber liner that holds the rubber innertube sandwiched inside the rubber tire is like trying to slide across a leather seat while wearing leather pants. The liner keeps folding on me, and all the different pieces of rubber won’t slide against each other smoothly. If I can’t get it to work, I can’t fix the tire, and I’ll be stranded on the side of the road. That makes me a sitting duck. With two men sidling up. In the middle of nowhere.
I shoulda planned better before jumping in a hundred-year-old car and heading seven hundred miles from Sycamore Hill, Missouri, to the car show in Denver. If it hadn’t been for my friend and client, Portia Goldstone, I would have planned better. No, I would have stayed home, creating the stained glass transoms for her jewel box of a house. But she egged me on to take a risk, have an adventure. In hindsight, she probably meant try out a sushi bar, not traipse across two states by myself and a canine tagalong in a vintage vehicle.
“Need some help?” asks the man who’s built like a wall. He’s in black jeans and a black t-shirt that barely stretches across his chest. If he flexes his biceps, I’m betting his sleeves will rip. My heartbeat speeds up, until he breaks into a huge grin shining through a wiry black beard. I can only pray he’s a gentle giant rather than an apex predator, sizing up his next meal.
Anxiety makes my mouth as dry as the prairie air swirling around. I’ve taken a few self-defense classes at the gym, and at 5’7”, 145 pounds I’m not a small woman. But there’s no way I’ll be able to fend off this guy if he’s not as friendly as his smile. How offended would he be if I asked him nicely not to come any closer? Offended enough to turn that smile into a snarl? My fingers slide from the tire to the wrench lying on the ground between my dog and me.
Drooly howls again, bringing him up short, the welcoming smile wiped from his face. His eyes open wide and fixate on my bloodhound, even though her tail is wagging furiously.
“Stop it, you traitor,” I whisper from the side of my mouth at her. She licks me and tugs on her leash to get to the visitors.
