Chapter Three
Weston, Colorado
Sheriff Johnson drove them to the river and let Kate have the first crack at James’ new chair. He was talking with his deputy as Ken showed her the controls.
“He knows,” she whispered. “Judge Lowry knows about us.”
“You know that I worked for him, and maybe I said your name way back then, but believe me, I haven’t said a word about it since then. Anyone else know?” he asked quietly, glancing back towards the Sheriff.
“No, not yet. Let me handle it and don’t speak a word to anyone in jail, not one word.”
“I can do that,” he replied.
“We’re okay,” she whispered. “Just follow my lead.”
“So, about this chair,” he said, speaking up as Sheriff Johnson walked up. “She’s ready to go. This way is forward, backward like this, and the steering is smooth. Watch out, though. She’s quick!”
Kate took off fast and navigated the off-road trail, winding next to the river with ease.
“You have to try this, babe,” she called out, laughing.
“Okay! Hold my pistol, Ken.”
“Really? Wait. Really…are you sure, sir?”
“Yep. Just don’t drop it.”
“See. I told you, Ken,” said Kate, smiling. “He trusts you now.”
“Then why not just let me go? I told him I would be happy to work for the town.”
“He could let you go now and probably wouldn’t mind, but it’s about perception. He needs to be both respected and feared by the citizens of this town. Your little stunt is a compromise. He ordered the best architect he could find and the best materials for the ramps. But you have to earn it. Show the people what they need to see to toe the line. That’s what the hangings did.”
* * * *
“This is the chair—exactly what I wanted! Good job, Ken,” said Sheriff Johnson, patting him on the shoulder, “and thanks for watching my gun.”
“Now, good to my word I’ll give you time to inspect the jump ramps and take the bike for a spin.”
“Sure, that sounds great. But why would you let me hold your gun, sir?”
“Well, I didn’t want it digging into my side,” he responded, taking the magazine out of his vest pocket and slamming it back into the pistol.
“You didn’t think I was going to give you a loaded weapon, did you?”
“No, sir. I guess not.”
* * * *
Ken rode the motorcycle—a modified 1995 Yamaha YZ 450—around the courthouse, gauging the handling and acceleration. He was given a 30-minute meeting with the architect, who proceeded to weigh him and the bike to determine the amount of gas needed to jump the bike, but not fully loaded. She handwrote the speed needed to mathematically clear the roof of the courthouse.
“Okay, Ken,” said the architect. “You want to hit the center of the ramp at 82 miles per hour, according to my calculations. We have the speedometer dialed in, and the top speed of the stock bike is 80 mph. The mechanic was able to boost that top speed to 94, but this is a dirt bike, as you know, and it’s going to be hard to control. So, on Saturday morning we will do some practice run-ups, making sure you can hit the 82 mph before you hit the front ramp. The landing ramp is over 200 feet long. Overkill, in my opinion, but that’s what the Sheriff wants. We have stacked hay bales at the end of the ramp, should you make it that far. Have you jumped before?”
“Yes, ma’am, but never anything like this.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“We’ll have Doc Walters and his group waiting at the landing ramp, in case they are needed,” the architect added. “Any questions?”
“Where do I start?” asked Ken.
“See that American flag hanging above the bank there? You will start right under the flag, giving you enough time to get into fifth gear at the launch, with about five seconds to spare.”
“What about the wind speed—if it’s gusty or something else?” asked Ken.
“That’s the only thing I can’t calculate precisely. See, this is a rain-or-shine jump. The Sheriff has been adamant about that from the beginning. I’ll be praying for a good day.”
“Me too,” replied Ken, thanking her for her hard work.
Ken was both excited and nervous about his jump in just two days’ time. His ribs hurt as he turned the bike in a large circle with sprint starts and stops. The finger splints would have to be removed Saturday morning for practice, as his grip on the handlebars had to be tight. Kate flagged him down as he was test-riding the motorcycle.
“Hey, Kate,” he said, lifting the visor of his helmet and killing the engine. “What do you know?”
Kate had never been at a loss for words, until now.
“We have a problem, Ken,” she started.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What Judge Lowry knows about us. He remembers you talking about me when you worked at the courthouse.”
“That was a long time ago. Does it really matter?”
“Yes, and it’s the only thing right now that does,” Kate replied. “I never told him about us. I kept meaning to gauge his response before he could hang you or put you in the fight with Richard and the other guy. Then everything worked out, and you were given a stunt that you have a good likelihood of completing, in my opinion, and I thought we could just keep the secret between you and me. Both you and I have a lot to lose if he finds out.”
“Don’t you think he will eventually anyway? This is a small town, and people talk.”
“I understand that,” said Kate, “but I’ve been dating Sheriff Johnson for three years now. Even through the City Council election, nobody put it together…except for Judge Lowry.”
“But they will know when I jump,” Ken replied. “I mean, surely they will recognize me.”
“Nope. You’ll never take your helmet off, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t announce your name or have you run for office after. You will just be a close ally of his and mine who works behind the scenes, moving forward.
