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“Is there somewhere you can have it hauled? My auto club membership should cover that, at least.”

He shook his head. “This is no job for a body shop. It could take me weeks, even months to get parts, if I can get them at all. And I don’t trust anybody to load and haul my bike but me. I’ll need to hitch a ride back to the ranch and get my pickup.”

“I can take you. I live out that way now.”

One dark eyebrow lifted in silent question.

“We’re staying with Aunt Muriel now—my two children and I. She told me you were her neighbor. But I hadn’t planned on running into you so soon.” Kylie’s face went hot as she realized what she’d said. When she was a schoolgirl, being around Shane had always flustered her. But she’d never dreamed that effect would last into her thirties.

“If I’d known you were planning to run into me, I’d have stayed home.” His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were as stormy as the dark clouds roiling across the sky. Kylie winced, catching the bitter edge in his tone.

“I didn’t mean that literally,” she said.

He turned away from her. “We’re wasting time. Looks like the bike might be wedged under your bumper. Once I get it clear and moved out of the way, you can drive me home.” He crouched to study the trapped front end of the bike. His hands manipulated the twisted parts—big hands, with long fingers—working hands, calloused and bruised. When she’d sat one desk away from him in American history class, Kylie had loved watching those hands—restless hands that moved and shifted as if he couldn’t wait to be somewhere else.

He worked intently for a moment; then he twisted back to look at her. “Get in your car and start the engine. When I tell you, ease it forward till I say to stop.”

Kylie climbed into the driver’s seat, rolled down the windows, and started the engine. She could hear the scrape of metal at the rear of the station wagon. A snowflake drifted down onto her windshield, then another.

“Now,” he said, “take it slow. That’s it.... Stop.”

Kylie touched the brake.

“Okay, it’s clear,” he said. “Give me some room now. Drive up to the loading lane at the front of the store and wait for me.”

Kylie did as he’d asked. More snowflakes were falling now, drifting like eiderdown through the gray, windless air. Was this just a flurry or had the big storm already arrived?

The loading lane was a covered drive-up area, where shoppers, most of them elderly, could have their bags loaded into their cars. Kylie pulled into an out-of-the-way spot and turned on the radio.

“. . . Looks like a white Christmas, folks, an honest-to-goodness blue norther. Snow’s already coming down in some spots, but the big storm front’s still out there. It’s a slow mover, taking its time. But when it gets here, we’ll be up past our knees in white stuff. You ranchers know to look out for your stock. The rest of you, get your pets under cover and don’t plan to be out on the roads. . . .”

Glancing out the side window, she saw one of the baggers from the store, a husky teen, helping Shane support the bike like a wounded comrade as they wheeled it toward the covered area. They parked it out of sight behind a Dumpster. When Kylie pulled forward, she could hear the two of them talking through her lowered window.

“Don’t worry, Shane, I’ll keep an eye on it,” the boy was saying. “Nobody will touch your bike while I’m around.”

“Make sure.” Shane slipped him a bill. “I’ll be back to pick it up in an hour.”

Kylie braced herself as he turned and walked back to her car. She owed Shane a ride to his ranch and plenty more for wrecking his precious motorcycle. And she had little doubt he’d collect his due—starting now.

With a last glance at his battered bike, Shane slid into the passenger seat of the station wagon. The vehicle looked like it had seen better days. But as for the driver—Kylie looked damn good. Older, wiser, and sexier than the perfect, untouchable girl he remembered from high school.

“I heard what you told that boy. You could be driving through a blizzard in an hour,” she said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He fastened his seat belt, gazing out the window as Kylie headed for the road. Part of him wanted to rail at her for the careless maneuver that had destroyed his bike. But behaving like a jackass wouldn’t fix anything. “So you’re staying at Muriel’s—with two kids. There’s got to be a story behind that.”

“Nothing that interesting.” Kylie switched on her wipers as snowflakes settled on the windshield. “My husband was a captain in the army. He was killed in Afghanistan nineteen months ago. This fall, after our house in California got foreclosed, Muriel offered us a home in exchange for some help around the place. We just got in yesterday.”

“California, huh?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The move out here’s bound to be an adjustment for your kids. How old are they?”

“Eleven and thirteen. And no . . . they’re not happy about the change. But I don’t know what we’d have done if Aunt Muriel hadn’t invited us to come here. I tried to find a job in San Diego. But being an ex–army wife isn’t exactly a marketable skill.”

He studied her profile, the pert nose, the pink, girlish lips, the tired shadows beneath her baby blue eyes. She’d had a rough time of it, losing her husband and dealing with two kids on the verge of adolescence. But that was no excuse for causing a stupid accident that could’ve been prevented by a touch on the brake. He would have to keep reminding himself of that.

“What about you?” A nervous hand brushed back her short, tousled hair. She still wore her wedding ring, he noticed. “As I remember, all you wanted was to get out of Branding Iron and bike your way to the tip of South America. You even took that awful Spanish class to help you get ready,” she said.

“Only class I got a decent grade in. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“I remember a lot of things. Did you ever make the trip?”

He shook his head, still feeling the sting of memory. “My father had a stroke. I couldn’t leave him to run the ranch alone.”

“So you’ve been here all this time.”

“At least I’ve still got the bike—or did have it until today.”

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t reply. At least maybe she understood now that the accident had shattered his long-held dream, or at least put it on hold. When he was growing up, all he’d wanted was to roam the world on that old bike. He’d seen the movie
The Motorcycle Diaries
more times than he could count, and he’d worn out his copies of Jack Kerouac’s
On the Road
and Robert Pirsig’s
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
The last thing he’d wanted was to be stuck in Branding Iron, Texas, for the rest of his life. But day by day, the years had passed, and here he was.

By now, snow was flying at the windshield in big, silent flakes to be whisked away by the wipers. Beyond the car, the fields of yellowed grass were already dusted with white. A rider in a field was herding cows toward shelter. From the radio, the sounds of Christmas music tugged at the fringes of Shane’s memory. When he was a little boy, his mother had made Christmas a magical time. After her early death from cancer, Shane’s father had refused to celebrate the holiday. Now that he, too, was gone, Shane saw no reason to change things.

“Is your father still alive?” Kylie asked.

“He died last year. I’ll be putting the ranch up for sale this spring.”

“So you’ll get the chance to travel, after all.”

“Maybe not South America, but I’d like to see most of the USA, maybe Canada, by the back roads. At least that’s the plan.”
Or was the plan.
Shane bit back the words. Kylie was well aware of what she’d done. Of course, if he sold the ranch, he could afford to buy a new high-end motorcycle. But that old bike was a lifelong friend; the trip he’d planned a promise kept—a silly, sentimental idea, Shane knew. But he’d felt that way for too many years to give in to cold logic.

“So, did you ever get married? Any children?”

Shane forced himself to laugh. “Met a couple of ladies who got me thinking about it, but that’s as far as it went. Just not sure I’m husband-and-father material.” He glanced at the gold wedding band on her finger. “I take it you had better luck.”

She hesitated and he heard the little catch in her throat. “Brad was a fine man, and I loved him. But the army kept him away for months at a time. I learned early on to cope with everyday challenges on my own. But now that I know he’s not coming back . . .” Her voice trailed into silence. She was probably thinking she’d told him too much.

Maybe she had.

The drive from town wasn’t a long one. Through the falling snow, he could see the turnoff to his ranch, and beyond that, the gate and the house and barns. Eight hundred acres wasn’t big by Texas standards, but it had been Taggart land since Shane’s great-grandfather had bought the parcel at Depression-era prices and built the spacious stone house that Shane now rattled around in alone. Even after all these years, the house was imposing, with two stately pines flanking the broad front porch. The soil was rich, the grass abundant, with plenty of well water under the ground. Shane had seen to it that the hay fields were well fertilized, and the pens and outbuildings kept in good repair. Somebody was bound to want the place and pay a good price for it.

Then he’d be free.

By the time Kylie pulled up to the shed where Shane kept his truck, snow was crunching under the tires. Shane hadn’t been unpleasant, but she’d felt his frustration and known she was the cause of it. The tension between them had been thick enough to give her a headache.

“Thanks for the ride.” She could feel the edge in his voice.

“You’re welcome. My number’s on the card I gave you. Call me when you want to talk about the insurance.”

“Sure.”

“Aunt Muriel told me you come around to help, so I guess we’ll be seeing each other, now and then.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He paused. “You can tell Henry I’ll be dropping the bike off tonight. If the weather’s not too bad, I’ll be back in the morning to see what he thinks about fixing it.”

Kylie had started to pull away. Her foot hit the brake. “Wait, you’re saying you’ll be leaving the motorcycle at our place?”

“That’s what I said. Henry Samuels has the best-equipped machine shop in the county. If anybody can help me fix the bike, he can.”

Shane watched the station wagon vanish into the flying snow. Then he turned and sprinted toward the barn. He needed to get back on the road to pick up the bike. But he made it a rule not to leave until he checked on the animals.

The Taggart ranch was a haying-and-feeder operation: buying young steers in the spring, putting weight on them for a long season, then selling the grass-fed Anguses at a premium in late fall. Shane had auctioned the last of the herd and paid off his temporary help a few weeks earlier, so there were no cattle in the snowy fields. But he had to make sure the ranch’s permanent residents were safe in the barn, with plenty of food and water in case the storm delayed his getting home.

The warm barn smelled of hay and animals. Gray light fell through the high windows below the roof, but the place was still dark. Shane switched on the electric light, reminding himself to check the fuel in the reserve generator before he left.

The half-dozen chickens that ran loose around the place were settled in the straw or pecking at the grain he’d tossed on the floor. The three horses stood drowsing in their stalls. Shane forked extra hay into their feeders and filled their water troughs from the hose.

Inside the fourth stall, Shane had set up a high-sided box to contain the four puppies that were romping in the clean straw, tumbling over their patient mother. They were blue heelers—registered Australian cattle dogs with dark blue markings and beautiful blue-ticked coats, the finest animals on earth for working cattle.

Shane had been breeding and selling the pups as a sideline for the past eight years. It had started when he’d bought Mick, the big, intelligent male who’d become his constant companion. Mick had even learned to perch on the back of Shane’s motorcycle when they rode into town. When other ranchers had expressed interest in owning such a dog, Shane had bought Sheila, a sharp young female with champion bloodlines, and began breeding them.

There was a waiting list for pups. Three of these were already spoken for. But this litter would be the last. Mick had died last fall at the age of fourteen. A breeder had offered Shane five thousand dollars for Sheila, but she was getting old, too, and Shane wanted a better future for her than a breeding kennel. Once these pups were weaned, he planned to take Sheila to the vet and have her spayed. Carl, the bagger at Shop Mart who worked summers for Shane, was waiting to give her a good home.

Outside the box, Shane filled Sheila’s bowl to the rim with kibble and gave her plenty of water. For her pups, he filled a low tray with puppy chow and put it in one corner. They scrambled to crunch it with their baby teeth. Now that they were eating solid food, their mother would be ready for a well-earned rest.

Leaning over the box, he scratched Sheila’s ears. She thumped her tail in response. She was a beautiful dog, sweet and spirited. Carl loved her and would take good care of her.