Millie quietly watches him for a moment. Her button nose twitches, as if smelling the overpowering stench of wasted chemistry and bubbling aggravation. “Okay, Mama.”
And with that she retreats back inside, the soft buzz of the window closing following behind. With a smile, I return to my position in front of Crawford. I find myself waiting for his reaction, once again. He doesn’t give me more than his undivided concentration.
“That’s Millie. She was just checking on our progress.” I scratch at my arm, the sweat drying into an uncomfortable layer.
He just studies me. I almost squirm under his intense scrutiny.
“Okay, then. You wouldn’t happen to have a, um…” I make a circular motion with my finger. The term I’m looking for has escaped me. Heat infuses my cheeks as I continue gesturing. “Uh, that one tool.”
A single brow quirks. “Tire iron?”
I snap my fingers. “Yes, a tire iron.”
“I don’t.”
A fresh round of choice words flood my brain. I tip my face up, glaring at the cloudless sky. So much wasted effort. Why is this happening to me?
Crawford grunts, probably enjoying my pity party for one. “A wrench will work.”
“Well, do you have one of those?”
“You bet.”
Before I can ask, he’s walking away. He grabs a few things from a set of bags hanging off his bike. I watch with a slack jaw as he gets to work without another word. A few measured cranks and precise twists are all it takes. He’s efficient, this one. It takes Crawford less than five minutes to swap the tires and get his tools packed up. My brain finally catches up, and I gape at his retreating form.
Wait, that’s it?
I continue standing in one place, tension coating my limbs. “All right, well, uh, thanks?”
“Don’t mention it.” After a sharp jerk of his chin, he slips on his helmet and straddles the bike. His motorcycle roars to life with a swift flick of his wrist. In the next moment, he speeds off and disappears from sight.
A lingering cloud of dust is all that remains. I could almost convince myself this entire ordeal was the product of my mind after suffering from heatstroke. Almost. The thrumming in my veins speaks the truth. But Crawford gave me plenty of his own.
That dark knight isn’t interested in this jaded damsel.
Healing Hug #5: For a pillar of another’s strength waging against the storm.
Once again, I’m surrounded by green. The seemingly simple shade has been chasing me for weeks. My only reprieve from fantasies of a certain emerald hue is the muted palette of Iron Throttle. But remaining trapped inside of those concrete walls nonstop is a punishment I refuse to endure. That is precisely why this dose of rustic escape is very much necessary, and on purpose.
I kick at a few stray pebbles littering the trail. Vibrant shades of glittering gold and green bathe the landscape. Sunlight filters through the trees overhead, casting a sparkling glow across the dirt floor. The woods surrounding my property are dense and lush. The natural protection is another perk I appreciate. Patch couldn’t agree more. The isolated area allows her to run off leash, wreaking havoc on any wildlife who dare cross into her territory.
A bush shakes beside us, and Patch is immediately on the prowl. She takes off at a dead run, lacking her usual stealth. Her stark white fur is a streak of lightning across the shadows. It’s clear she’s tired of being outsmarted by the smaller and faster critters. Squirrels and rabbits have been dodging her efforts thus far. If she’s lucky, there’s a turkey playing possum, and this will be her massive payday.
I don’t bother following her erratic movements. Patch will either return with a reward, or get bored and prepare to try again. I allow the quiet to wash over me, a rare calm cooling the thunder in my pulse. Nature gives me a peace I can find nowhere else. How my father and brother could prefer city living is beyond any conceivable thought. Lofty pines and aspens claim this land, their presence more stable than any person who has crossed this path. Flowers and blooms of all colors dot the ground. The bright bouquets decorate the already stunning backdrop. This space can turn the hardest man into a damn poet. I release a loud snort at the thought. Birds flap in the distance, disturbed by my intrusion. The punch of sound is too intense for this scenic serenity.
We’re nearing a break in the trees on our way to the creek when I hear faint notes of muffled sobbing. The cry is quiet, as if the person is trying to mute their sorrow. Patch abandons her current hunt and dashes toward the warbling noise. She resembles a destructive moose crashing through the barrier of brush in search of a fresh discovery. Whoever is lingering on the other side gets a decent warning from her. That doesn’t stop me from being hot on her heels, my boots pounding into the earth with a stretching stride. The fate of whoever waits beyond the forest wall pushes me faster.
When I enter the open area, Patch is sitting on her haunches and looking toward an aspen several yards away, where a small, feminine form is huddling at the base of the tree. Either the girl didn’t hear Patch barrel into the clearing, or she chose to remain curled in on herself for protection. Another barely audible sob shakes a pair of bony shoulders. Stick-thin arms are tightly wound around knobby knees, hiding her identity.
“Hey, there.” I announce my presence in the most soothing voice possible. Offering sympathy and comfort isn’t typically on my roster, but kids are kids.
A pair of blonde braids swing outward when the little girl snaps upright to face me. Bottomless green eyes freeze me on the spot—the exact shade that’s been haunting my thoughts for weeks. And the similarities don’t end there. This child is a spitting
