by Ginna Gray
Of course, there was no danger of him chucking his business and responsibilities permanently. He enjoyed what he did and he believed it was important and meaningful, but thanks to Maggie, he saw life from a slightly different perspective now.
By stepping off the fast track for a while and slowing his pace, he could see things clearer, feel things more acutely, appreciate life and all its small blessings as he never had before. It was liberating and exhilarating, and at the same time it imbued him with an incredible feeling of peace and contentment. No wonder Maggie was so addicted to her vagabond life-style.
He hadn’t felt this relaxed since...since... Hell, he’d never felt this relaxed. Wyatt smiled to himself. It had taken a sprite like Maggie to teach him that life was about more than just work.
Wyatt had parked the Harley in front of a restaurant. The tantalizing aromas that wafted from the open doors as he approached the bike reminded him that it had been a long time since he’d eaten anything but his own cooking. It had been hours since breakfast, and it would take him almost an hour to get back to camp. He thought about it a moment, then stowed his purchases in the saddlebags and went inside.
He enjoyed a simple but delicious home-style meal of chicken and dumplings, whipped potatoes, homegrown squash and tomatoes and biscuits. Afterward, over several leisurely cups of coffee, he read the Wall Street Journal.
When, over an hour later, he went to the cash register to pay for his lunch, the man behind the counter glanced out the window at the Harley. “That your motorcycle out there?”
“It belongs to a friend of mine,” Wyatt said, handing the man a twenty.
“Hmm. You’re not part of that motorcycle gang, are you?”
“What motorcycle gang?”
“The one that rode through town earlier, right after you came in. You must’ve been in the men’s room when they went through, otherwise you couldn’t of missed ‘um. Make more noise than the Third Army, all them blasted machines roaring at once.”
Wyatt looked out the window, frowning. “Which way were they headed?”
“South. They come through every year about this time, on their way to Ignacio for the Iron Horse Motorcycle Rally.” The restaurant owner shook his head. “Just glad they don’t stop here overnight. Most of the bikers that come for the rally are decent folks, but not that bunch. They’re bad news, that lot. Real bad news. I’d as soon tangle with a grizzly as that leader of theirs. He’s meaner than a rabid dog.”
A knot began to form in Wyatt’s gut. “I suppose they’ll ride straight through to Ignacio, right?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The rally doesn’t start for three days. Sometimes they camp out up in the National Forest between here and Silverton for a night or two before they move on. Hey, mister! Where’re you going? Wait a minute, you forgot your change!”
“Keep it,” Wyatt yelled back, slinging his leg over the seat of the Harley. He turned the key, kick started the engine and took off, burning rubber for twenty feet.
He roared through town with no regard for the local speed limit. Heart pounding, he took the steep, hair-pin curved climb out of town as fast as he dared, passing cars and old people in their motor homes as though they were standing still.
This was crazy, he told himself. He was no doubt overreacting and was going to feel like a fool when he reached the camp. It was early yet. Those bikers were probably riding straight through. Even if they did decide to camp out overnight, the forest was enormous. There were hundreds of places to make camp without getting anywhere near Maggie.
He gritted his teeth and sped up another five miles an hour.
If only his friends could see him now, he mused with self-deprecating irony, leaning into a curve. Wyatt Sommersby, international businessman, discriminating sophisticate and scion of an old, respected and wealthy family, riding a Harley-Davidson hell-bent for leather to protect a madcap imp from a motorcycle gang. He gave a sharp bark of laughter and shook his head. They’d never believe it. He didn’t believe it.
He took a sharp U curve at a dangerous speed, almost laying the cycle on its side. Coming into the straightaway, he poured on the gas.
Luckily, there were few vehicles on the road. For the next three-quarters of an hour he drove like a maniac. The Harley purred between his legs and took the mountain passes with power to spare. Throughout the whole trip Wyatt told himself he was worrying for nothing, but by the time he turned onto the dirt track that led to the campsite, his heart was racing and the knot in his chest had doubled in size. The instant he saw the numerous tread marks in the road his worst fears were realized.
Terror filled him. He kicked the engine up another notch and raced up the track through the trees.
He was braced for raucous noise and mayhem. When the Harley roared into the clearing moments later the scene that greeted him was so unexpected he almost wrecked the cycle.
Motorcycles were parked all around the clearing surrounding the RV. A few of the gang members, including some rough-looking females, were resting on their bikes. Others stood aimlessly about, smoking and shooting the breeze, but most were gathered around the aluminum camp table set up under the RV awning.
His noisy arrival drew everyone’s attention. Heads swiveled and leather-clad bikers sprang to attention. Most of the men assumed menacing stances, but Wyatt ignored them. Through the crowd of black leather jackets around the table, he’d caught a glimpse of bright red hair.
Sending dirt and gravel spraying, he brought the bike to a halt in a sideways slide, bailed off and strode across the clearing to the table.
An unsanitary looking creature with long hair and multiple tattoos stepped into Wyatt’s path. He bared fuzzy, snuff-stained teeth and growled like an animal.
“Get out of my way, punk,” Wyatt growled right back, and shoved the guy aside without breaking stride.
The other bikers glared at him with suspicion and menace, but the look at his eyes cleared a path through the motley bunch like Moses parting the Red Sea. The last gang member stepped aside, giving him a clear view of the table. Wyatt jerked to a halt and stared.
Seated around the camp table playing cards were four of the foulest, raunchiest, meanest looking men Wyatt had ever clapped eyes on—and Maggie.
She looked like a pint-size Mississippi riverboat gambler. A small mountain of red, blue and white poker chips were stacked in front of her. Clamped between her teeth was a thin cigar. Her shirt sleeves were pushed up and held in place by what looked like frilly pink garters. She even had on a green sunshade headband.
With the stogie still clamped between her teeth, she grinned around it and winked at him. “Hi there, lover. How’s it goin’?”
Wyatt goggled. For a fraction of a second his mouth dropped. How’s it going? That was it? After he’d risked life, limb and property to race back here and save her from a gang of cutthroats, she sat there calm as you please, playing cards, and all she had to say to him was How’s it going?
On a gut level he knew that the wisest approach in a dicey situation was to remain calm and authoritative, but fear, frustration and anger boiled up and reached flash point.
“What in the name of almighty hell do you think you’re doing?” he erupted in a roar.
Maggie took the cigar out of her mouth and gave him an exasperated look. “What does it look like? We’re playing poker.”
“This you’re old man?” the gruesome looking specimen sitting next to Maggie snarled, eyeing Wyatt through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah, that’s him,” she acknowledged in a bored voice. Glancing at Wyatt, she gestured toward the vile creature and said, “This is King Kong. They call him Kong for short. He’s the leader of the Black Devils.”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out how he’d come by his moniker. The man was built like a gorilla. He had biceps the size of small trees and a hairy chest at least a yard wide. Since he wore only jeans and a leather vest covered with steel studs and chains, both physical attributes were prominently displayed.
His dirty red beard hung in scraggly strings to the middle of his chest. One cheek sported a tattoo of a tarantula. A two-inch-long safety pin pierced the other.
The guy sitting next to him was equally repulsive. Dirty blond hair, held in place by a dirtier bandanna, hung in limp strings past his shoulders. An ugly red scar slashed diagonally across his sullen, pockmarked face, bisecting one eyebrow. He wore a black leather eye patch over one eye. The other one stared at Wyatt, filled with aggression that bordered on hatred.
If looks and the stench they gave off were any indication, neither One-eye nor Kong nor any of their cohorts had bathed in weeks.
The other two men seated at the table were equally grungy and loathsome but instinctively Wyatt knew that Kong and the one-eyed man were the biggest threat.
Narrowing his eyes into slits, Kong looked Wyatt over as though trying to decide whether to break him into two pieces or three. “Humph, he don’t look like much to me. A fine chick like you needs a real man. Someone like me or Snake here,” he said, jerking his head toward the one-eyed man. “If I didn’t already have me an old lady I’d take you on, but Sheba would pull your hair out if she thought you was moving in on her man. Wouldn’t ya, doll?” he said, tipping his head back and flashing a yellow-toothed smile at the female standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders.
“Damned straight,” Sheba snarled at Maggie, and gave her gum an extra loud pop for emphasis.
One corner of Wyatt’s mouth curled. What a charming example of femininity. Sheba had purple hair, black eyeliner that looked as though it hadn’t been removed in a week, and makeup so thick it had to have been applied with a trowel. Beneath her black leather jacket she wore a red lace bra and a spandex miniskirt that barely covered her undies—if she had on undies. Judging by the rest of her, Wyatt wasn’t at all sure that she would bother with such a nicety.
The woman looked as though she was about a half a second from going for Maggie’s eyes with claws unsheathed. And the little imp, damn her, didn’t appear in the least concerned.
“Dammit, Maggie, don’t you know—”
“Hey! Hotshot! Back off!” Kong rose halfway out of the chair, his tree-trunk biceps bulging, nostrils flaring with challenge. His little piggy eyes shot fire. “You heard Irish. We’re playing cards here, so bug off.”
Beside him, One-eye jumped up, too, teeth bared. “You want me to clean his clock, Kong?”
“You and who else, scum bag?” Wyatt said, bristling as he stepped forward.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Maggie jumped up and placed both palms flat on Wyatt’s chest to hold him back. “Let’s call time-out for five minutes, Kong,” she said quickly over her shoulder to the hulking biker. “I need to talk to my old man. Okay?”
Kong frowned, but not even a lower life form such as he could resist her pixie smile. “Okay, Irish. For you, five minutes,” he granted grudgingly. “But get him in line or I’ll let Snake here cut out his liver.”
Wyatt saw red. “Maggie, get out of my wa—”
She gave him a shove and a hard look. “Inside,” she hissed. “Now.” Then, lowering her voice to an urgent murmur, “Wyatt, please. If you care anything at all about me, do as I say. I’m begging you. Please.”
Muscles worked along Wyatt’s clenched jaws. His gaze darted back and forth between Maggie’s pleading expression and the hulking Neanderthals. Snake stood in a half crouch watching him with an evil grin and look of unholy anticipation glittering in his lone reptilian eye. It was clear, even through Wyatt’s haze of anger, that the biker was spoiling for a chance to fight.
Wyatt’s self-control was strained to the limit. Against her palms, Maggie could feel the angry tension in him. His whole body quivered with it.
Breathing hard, he looked down at Maggie again. She pressed harder against his chest and gave him a speaking look, jerking her head toward the camper. After a brief hesitation, Wyatt made a sound of protest, but to her immense relief he stomped to the door and snatched it open.
He swung on Maggie the instant she closed them inside, but before he could light into her she planted her fists on her hips and launched an attack of her own.
“Would you be tellin’ me just what you thought you were doing out there?”
“Me? I was trying to protect you from that riffraff. What in bloody hell were you doing?”
She rolled her eyes and looked heavenward as though seeking guidance from a higher power. “Och, would you listen to the man. Now he thinks he’s the Terminator.
“Protect me, is it,” she scoffed, ignoring his question. With every word her brogue became broader and her agitation grew. “An’ how, pray tell, would you be after doing that?”
Wyatt looked insulted. “I’m not a helpless wimp, you know. At Harvard I was on the boxing team.”
“Ah, well, the boxing team, is it. That’s different then.” The pithy sarcasm in her voice made Wyatt’s spine stiffen, but she gave him no chance to retort.
“Sweet Mary and Joseph, are you daft, man?” She exploded. “While you’re out there dancin’ around with you oh-so-proper Marquis of Queensberry Rules, Snake will be fightin’ low-down and dirty. The man’ll gut you like a fish.”
“Thanks a lot. Your faith in me is overwhelming.”
“Och, now I’ve wounded his male pride,” she said with utter disgust, speaking to the ceiling again. “Mother Mary and Joseph! We haven’t the time for that foolish macho nonsense, man! Saints preserve us, don’t you get it? Even if by some miracle you did manage to beat Snake, there’s thirty others waitin’ in line to take his place. Would you be plannin’ to take them all on, then?”
Wyatt’s jaw took on a sullen set. “Well, I have to do something. Dammit, Maggie, we’re sitting on a powder keg here. I don’t think you know what you’re dealing with. Have you any idea how dangerous those creeps are? Or what could happen to you?”
“Of course I do. I wasn’t born under a cabbage, you know. And until you came blaring in here acting all macho and proprietary I had the situation under control. So just back off and let me handle it.”
“How? By playing poker with those animals? You call that handling the situation?”
“Yes. At least the game is diverting them from more violent pastimes—like ripping your head off.”
He couldn’t argue with that, though it was clear from the muscles working in his face that he’d like nothing more. “I still don’t like it,” he retorted finally.
“You don’t have to like it. Just bite your tongue and play along, and I think I can get them to leave. Unless, of course, you’ve a better idea.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing Wyatt’s lips thin into a hard line. His silvery eyes glittered with frustration. He knew she was right. In a fight, he’d never win against such odds.
Taking his grim silence for agreement, she gave a sharp nod. “All right then. For the rest of the afternoon, just keep quiet and let me handle things. Better yet, why don’t you stay in here.”
“Oh, no. Not on your life. If you think I’m going to let you go out there and face that bunch alone, think again.”
Maggie sighed. She should have known. “All right. All right. You can come with me, but for mercy’s sake, keep your mouth shut.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob and looked back at him. Narrowing her eyes, she shook a finger under his nose. “Now you mind what I say. You keep your tongue behind your teeth. ‘Tis not a single word I’ll be wantin’ to hear out of you. If you so much as clear your throat too loud, I swear I’ll let Snake and Kong tear you limb from gizzard. I mean it.”
“All right, I got the message,” he muttered.
When they stepped outside, Kong and Snake sneered at Wyatt and muttered a few uncomplimentary and vulgar comments about his manhood. Maggie felt him tense. She held her breath, but he kept his word and ignored the jibes.
Ever since the Black Devils had ridden into camp she’d been afraid for him. She had hoped to get rid of the gang before Wyatt returned, but fate was not that m
erciful. For all his fine manners and urban sophistication, she had known that he would spring to her defense and stir up a hornets’ nest. He hadn’t disappointed her, more’s the pity.
Men, she thought with disgust, taking her seat at the table. The ornery creatures and their damnable pride created most of the havoc in the world.
As for herself, she wasn’t all that concerned. She had always been able to talk her way out of tight spots. Spin a few tales, strike the right note, and even the most savage beast could be lulled into docility by a glib tongue—at least temporarily.
Fear for Wyatt had the hair on her nape standing on end, and her stomach felt as though it contained a swarm of butterflies, but she picked up her cards as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She smiled at Kong and the others and rubbed her hands together eagerly. “Well now, gentlemen, shall we be gettin’ on with it?” she said, cool as can be. “We have a side bet to settle, I believe.”
Sneering, Kong turned his chair backward, straddled it and picked up his hand. “This shouldn’t take long. Never saw a chick yet who knew beans about poker.”
“You got that right,” Snake agreed. “Anyways, I got me the winning hand right here,” he said, patting his vest pocket. “This is one bet I’m gonna enjoy collecting.”
“Whooee! It sounds like ole Snake’s got plans for Irish!” Kong whooped, slapping the one-eyed creep on the back. The others resumed their places amid laughter and ribald comments.
Snake pulled out his cards and laid them facedown on the table without so much as glancing at them. Tapping the hand with a dirty finger, he leered at Maggie and tossed five blue chips into the pot. “Dealer bets fifty.”
“A side bet?” Wyatt hissed in Maggie’s ear. “You never said anything about a side bet.”
She slanted him a warning look over her shoulder. “Shh! I told you to be quiet. If you’re after gettin’ out of this with your hide whole, then I’ll be needin’ me concentration.”