by Nancy Loyan
Travis rolled his “Hog” into the smaller heated barn near the drive. Shelby upped the lights and took her first good look at the impressive machine. She determined that the high-end cycle cost more than her hybrid car and pick-up combined. Heck, the thing probably cost more than her yearly income. The red metal flake finish shone like a candy apple and the chrome glimmered as only a new bike could. Funny, she thought, just like anything that cost a lot, it was high-maintenance. No surprise that it would just break down. Weren’t these things purchased more for prestige than practicality?
“It’s a custom model. Came with all the bells and whistles: infotainment system, Bluetooth, navigation system, satellite radio, even cruise control, security system and heated seats. Damn thing still broke down. I’ve always wanted one and had a “what the hell” moment, figuring that it was now or never. Besides, I’m too old for my parents to do anything about it,” Travis explained. “So I bought it, took the driving course and even got a license. I had a week off before the school year begins at the Academy and decided to have some fun. So much for that idea.” He smirked.
“Abram used to have a “Hog,” until he wiped out and darn near killed himself. I do know a thing or two about bikes.” She walked around the cycle, analyzing it. She used to help Abram repair his used model, since finding a repair shop nearby was impossible, and the cost prohibitive on their meager budget.
She bent down and began to touch the controls, wires and belts. Travis peered down at her with a cynical expression. Of course, he wouldn’t expect a woman to know about Harleys. He just didn’t know her. She had been self-sufficient for so long that she could figure out, handle and repair most anything.
“Aha,” she said, rubbing her fingers along the spark plugs.
As he watched in amusement, she worked on his bike in concentrated silence.
After a few minutes, she rose, rubbing her now-greased fingers together.
“Why don’t you fire her up and see what happens?”
“You think that you fixed it?” he asked.
She smiled. “I know that I fixed it. It was just a loose spark plug wire.”
He stepped toward the bike, slunk his solid frame over the seat and turned the key. The bike roared to life.
“I’ll be damned,” he commented above the noise.
“You should be fine now.”
“What can I say? You’re amazing.” He shook his head.
“It was a rather easy repair. Your great adventure awaits.”
“Hey, this has been an adventure. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything. We country folk are always eager to help strangers in trouble.” She smiled, picking up his leather gloves and helmet, and handing them to him.
He took the gloves, brushing her hand slightly, though the electricity generated was more than slight. Handing him the helmet, she avoided his touch.
“I guess that I can be on my way and out of your hair. I’m sure that you were off to run important errands when I interrupted.”
“I was just going to get some feed and hay for the animals. I always stock up before winter.”
“You know, I might just stop back here to visit before I head on back to Indiana,” he said.
“To share your adventures?”
“Of course. After all, the first one began here … with you.”
“Have a safe journey.”
“Thank you.” He revved up the engine, put on his helmet and kicked up the stand.
She watched him zip out of her barn, down her drive, on to the highway, and out of her life.
So she thought …
2
That evening, a huge bouquet of flowers was delivered to her home. Shelby hadn’t received flowers since her husband’s funeral. There had to have been two-dozen yellow roses, with baby’s breath and ferns, in a cut glass vase tied with a yellow ribbon. She set the vase on her kitchen table and removed the attached envelope. Slipping the card out, she read the scribbled note,
“A beautiful yellow rose of Texas rescued me today, and I will be forever thankful. Your humble servant, Jonathan Travis Harrington III.”
Jonathan Travis Harrington III? He was a preppie. He was also charming as hell.
Travis lounged on the sofa in the log cabin his best friend from his Dartmouth graduate school days used for duck hunting, and escaping the hectic pace of downtown Chicago. The term cabin was a misnomer, though, for the abode in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, was the size of most upscale homes, and equally as swanky.
“I still can’t believe that someone as straight-laced as you, Trav, would be riding a ‘Hog’.” Paul Kelly chuckled as he sat on an ottoman by the roaring fire in the river stone hearth.
“You only live once, may as well live dangerously,” Travis replied, taking a swig of bottled ale.
“What will Penelope say when she sees it?”
“She’ll have a hissy fit,” Travis answered, honestly. Penelope was his long-term girlfriend, and recently, fiancé. The woman feared for his safety when he was around horses. A powerful motorcycle was out of the question. She was far too prim, proper, conservative, and steady for anything irregular. Her life was scheduled to the millisecond, and she was never one to take chances. Heck, they had never even had intercourse for fear of her somehow ending up pregnant before it was proper. Even her life had been planned for her. Her degree was in non-profit management so she could manage her family’s well-endowed foundation.
“I don’t get it. Why did you ask her to marry you? You both are as opposite as oil and vinegar.” Paul took a swig of his ale, and set down the empty bottle.
“It was the right thing to do. We’re not getting any younger. Our families are friends and have been pushing for this for years. We’re both in the same social circle, and it makes sense financially.”
“Whoa, buddy. You’re skipping one important thing.”
Travis met his friend’s all-too serious gaze.
“What about love?”
“Love?” Travis asked, a bit taken aback.
“Yeah, isn’t that why two people get married, at least in this century?”
“Do people really marry for love?”
“I sure hope so.”
“Is that what you’re holding out for, Paul?” Paul hadn’t had any serious girlfriends for years. Travis had considered him a bit of rich playboy and commitment-phobic.
“I am. I haven’t met “the one” yet, but one day I will and … bang … fireworks… love.”
“You can grow old waiting.”
“Or marry the wrong person and end up in divorce court.”
“You’ve been working for that big law firm too long,” Travis took another swig of ale. He rose and paced toward the picture window. The long expanse of pine forest lay before him. As he gazed at the trees, he viewed them as women: each unique and available. How would one know when, and if they would find the right one, the one that suited them? At Christmas, you just selected one, cut it down, took it home, and hoped for the best. Isn’t that what getting engaged and married was about? Hoping for the best? The forest, after all, was vast and one could spend a lifetime searching for the right fit, and never finding it. Couldn’t they?
“Hey, the big game should be on.” Paul stood and grabbed the remote to the large flat screen television mounted on the far wall.
The big game? Paul was thinking football. Travis’ mind wandered to a tall, shapely Texan with emerald eyes, a velvet voice, and natural, unaffected manner. What was her game?
Paul received an emergency telephone call from his Chicago office regarding the closing of a big deal. He had to pack, hop in his car, and head out earlier than expected.
“Sorry to cut the reunion short, good buddy,” he said before he left. He threw the cabin key at Travis. “Enjoy the facilities.”
Travis stood alone in the massive mountain cabin, with its looming overhead beams, plank floors, log walls with deer and elk antlers, duck decoys on the shelves, and r
ifles mounted over the mantle. Though the furnishings were plush and the down-filled sofas and chairs comfortable, the place made him uneasy. He wasn’t a hunter, loving animals too much to do them harm. The taxidermist stuffed deer head on a wall actually made him queasy, the glass eyes seeming to follow him and haunt him. Without Paul as a distraction, he really didn’t want to spend another minute in these surroundings. It was still morning. He could get back to Culver by nightfall, if he left soon.
* * *
Whatever possessed him to take the route that led to Shelby Shane’s farm? Travis could have avoided her place all together had he opted for the interstate instead of the scenic country roads he had taken for fun going up to Paul’s. Wasn’t he in a hurry to make it back to Culver by nightfall? The days were getting short, and he really didn’t want to be driving his motorcycle in the dark if he could help it.
Cruising on a motorcycle offered a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced. The wind whipping around him, a seemingly endless strip of highway, the open spaces of woodland and pastures, and being one with a machine made him giddy. Thoughts of seeing Shelby again added to his joy.
He remembered her farm. There was something about the whitewashed picket fencing surrounding her acreage, the variety of horses grazing the pastures and the far sight of the centuries’ old farmhouse that offered a sense of comfort. He revved up the engine and rolled into her long, winding drive. Parking, he removed his helmet and breathed in the country perfume of fresh manure, misty air, and the cool fresh breeze.
Slipping off the bike, he engaged the kickstand, carrying his helmet with him.
As he stepped up the creaking front steps, the sound of raucous dogs barking came from within the home. The pack would surely let Shelby know someone was at her door.
Within moments, footsteps could be heard and the door squeaked open, safety chain in place. When she saw him, Shelby smiled, and he took that as a positive sign.
“Oh, my,” she muttered, unlatching the chain.
She opened the door. For someone not expecting company, he thought that she looked damn good. Her faded jeans hugged her curves in all the right places, and the red flannel shirt knotted at her waist defined her slimness. Her face was fresh scrubbed, and her eyes twinkled.
“Hi, there. I said that I’d stop by on my return trip home,” Travis said. “I hope that I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all. Come on in.” Shelby flagged him into the foyer, taking his helmet and placing it on a half-round table. He took off his gloves and placed them in the pockets of his leather jacket. She took his jacket and hung it on the coat rack.
He followed her into the kitchen where the spiced scent of home cooked food caused his stomach to growl. He had been living on nachos, dip, and ale at Paul’s.
“Take a load off,” she said, the glimmer in her eyes disconcerting. “Are you hungry? I made a huge pot of vegetable chili. Cornbread’s in the oven.”
“It smells great. I don’t want to impose.” He sat at the table. He noticed the vase of yellow roses, the roses he had ordered. At least they had been delivered, and still appeared fresh.
“I may be living up North but I still believe in Southern hospitality.” She turned to retrieve china plates, soup bowls, glasses, and stainless from cupboards and drawers. She leaned over to set the table. A hint of cleavage was revealed, and he swallowed hard. This woman had an effect on him that he couldn’t understand.
“If you’re expecting company …” he began.
She met his gaze. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I thought, well, with all the food …”
“I love to cook, even if it’s just for me. I prefer fresh to frozen, prepared meals any day.” She placed her hands on her narrow hips. “Heck, I even grow my own, can and preserve.”
“I thought those arts were lost after my grandmother’s days.” Another reason to find her intriguing.
“Just call me old fashioned. The china is from my grandmother.” She turned and moved toward the stove where she ladled chili into a china soup tureen.
She brought the filled tureen and a ladle to the table.
The timer on the stove beeped.
“Oops, the cornbread.” She went to the oven, grabbed a potholder and pulled out a pan of lightly browned cornbread. She set it down on a trivet.
“That looks amazing,” Travis said. He hadn’t enjoyed a home-cooked meal in months. Penelope didn’t cook. The closest she came was calling for reservations. He was raised with a housekeeper, and wondered if that fare could actually be considered homemade.
After getting a tub of butter out of the refrigerator, she sat across from him. He wondered if she churned it as well.
“Well, I think that does it.” She fanned her cloth napkin on her lap and he followed suit.
Taking his bowl, she ladled out chili. After handing it back, she ladled her own.
“I thought that you were staying in the U.P. for a week?” she asked.
He was startled that she remembered. “I was, but my friend was called back to work. I didn’t feel like being alone.”
“I see. It may seem weird, but I like being alone. Not all the time, but enough. I think that everyone needs some time alone to think and recharge.” She began to eat.
He took a spoonful of chili. It was delightful. Hell, it was better than delightful. It was amazingly good, and highly spiced the way he preferred. The cornbread was incredible as well. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, she was there.
“Do you like it?” She tilted her head and, yes, he liked it.
“The food is fabulous. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”
“I forgot something.” She stood and went to the refrigerator. She returned with a glass pitcher and poured. “Lemonade.”
“Thanks.”
“So, let’s talk horses,” she said.
They did, and the conversation lasted through multiple bowls of chili, sliced cornbread and glasses of lemonade. Travis lost track of time, and when he looked out of the window, it was pitch black outside.
“For dessert, I have some hand-churned ice cream in the freezer,” she said.
“I’d better not. I really should be on my way. I was planning on leaving before nightfall.”
No sooner had he uttered the words than a house-shaking roar of thunder and flash of lightning erupted, igniting the night. Great. He had never ridden a bike in the dark, yet alone the rain. He had a rain suit, but was not looking forward to a damp and cold trek for hours on dark rural roads and busy highway. Traveling by Harley had to be one of the dumbest, and most impulsive things he had ever done. Served him right.
“Don’t you think you should wait it out?” she asked.
“The rain could last all night. I may as well chance it.” He sighed, standing. Heavy rain, driven by wind, was pelting the windows, as the sky erupted in flashes of blue and white. Outside sounded like canon fire. Joy!
“I know a thing or two about motoring, and this is no weather for a novice or any rider. In storms like this, riders seek shelter beneath underpasses. No one willingly rides in such dangerous conditions,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“I haven’t a choice. I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”
“That’s for me to say.” She stood firm, and her serious tone made him listen. “I’m not going to be the one responsible for your demise.”
He tried to make light of the situation. “That would be me.”
“Sit and have dessert. In the meantime, I’ll check the weather report on the Net. Deal?”
He sat. “You’re very persuasive.”
She served delicious peach ice cream and, after, checked the weather.
“I want you to know that there’s a flash flood warning, and the rain is expected to continue through tomorrow morning. There are gale force winds, and warnings issued. This is not the time to go riding.”
“Great.”
“Tell you what? This is a big house, and
I do have a guest room or two with private baths. You can have a room for the night. “
“You make this place sound like a bed and breakfast,” he mumbled.
She smiled. “I’ll include breakfast.”
“It just doesn’t seem right. I mean, I’m a stranger, and you’ve been kind enough to serve me dinner. A room? Now, I really feel like an imposition.”
“I can tell that you’re not an axe murderer.”
“I’m glad that I don’t fit the profile.”
She met his gaze. “Actually, I did look you up on the Culver site.”
“I hope that the photograph did me justice.”
“The biography was pretty impressive, too. I think that I can trust you.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“By the way, I have guns and know how to use them.” She laughed a robust and hearty laugh. He wondered for a moment if he should be the one who was scared.
“You have one on me. I don’t own a gun, and my saber is back at the Academy.”
“Follow me and I’ll show you to a room.”
He stood. This was interesting. During the height of a major thunderstorm, he was being led to a bedroom, by the most fascinating woman he had ever met. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t her bedroom, but a guest room. He was merely a houseguest, and nothing more.
Shelby walked ahead of him with a sway to her narrow hips, and a bounce in her golden hair, a view he was enjoying. He followed her up the creaking steps onto the landing and to the second floor.
A red and blue oriental runner lined the hallway floor where several rooms were located, their wood doors slightly ajar. She led him to a room at the far end of a hall. Pushing open the door, she flipped on the lights and stepped inside. He followed.
“I think that this room will suit you. It’s not as frilly as the others,” she said.
Travis surveyed the room, with its pale blue painted walls, rag rugs on the plank floor, and sturdy oak furniture with navy drapes and coverlet. It looked like the type of room a young boy would have, devoid of the posters, awards, and the messes young men created. The bed, he observed, was a small twin. Maybe she was sending him a hint?