by Cathryn Cade
She'd never owned property. It was nice.
And if she stayed ... it would be the perfect revenge on Stick Vanko.
"I'm staying," she whispered. "I am staying right here!"
She smiled to herself, a wicked grin that few had ever seen on her face, and said it again, louder so her voice rang through the quiet little house. "I'm definitely staying! And no obnoxious, scary-sexy, biker boss is going to make me change my mind."
Strangely, despite the hangover still dragging at her, and discovering the man she currently hated more than any other—and now feared a little, because geez, his eyes had been cold as a freaking glacier when he'd threatened her—was her new neighbor, she was in a better mood than she had been in months.
She'd lost her Gran, her job and possibly her common sense, but she felt like a flower that had been taken out of a constrictive pot and planted out here, open to the sun and wind and rain, her feet in the rich Palouse soil and her face lifted to the sky.
Although, with a blossom-chomping marauder living right next door. Had he really threatened to bully her into selling her place to him? And sic his biker brothers on her whenever he chose?
She swallowed, her supper suddenly uneasy in her stomach. Maybe she should carry her Ruger with her all the time, like a female homesteader back in the frontier days.
Then she snorted at herself. Right, like she'd actually shoot at a human being. And she wasn't exactly the type to wield a knife like some badass biker woman, so that left her with the civilized approach. She'd carry her phone and call the cops, if worse came to worst.
Or she could call Jack and Keys and ask their advice on how to deal with their temperamental president. Much better idea.
Jack's phone went to a message, but Keys answered, "Sara. What's up, lady?"
Sara winced. "Um … I need to ask your advice about something."
"Sure. Your new Lexus givin' you trouble?"
"No. My neighbor is—your club president."
He was silent for a moment, and she heard some kind of machinery shut down. "Okay. Talk to me."
"Well, I just wanted to ask, do you think he's … dangerous? To women, I mean?"
"Need to know what you mean by that, babe," Keys said, a new note in his deep voice. "Tell me what happened."
"He wants to buy my Gran's place," she told him, "And he kind of … threatened me with biker mayhem if I don't sell to him."
Keys grunted, the way men did while thinking. "No," he said after a few seconds. "I don't think he's any danger to you, babe. And I def-in-ite-ly know he won't be after Jack and I have a talk with him."
Sara's lunch knotted in her tummy. "Oh, no, no," she said quickly. "I don't want to cause trouble between you and your, uh, brothers."
"Babe," Keys said in a firm voice. "You did exactly the right thing, callin' me. You're Kit's, that means you're mine. You're Lindi's, that means you're Jack's. Any of the brothers make you feel uneasy, we let them know that does not fly. Doesn't matter if it's Stick or the newest prospect. Our women may not be members, but Devil's Flyers are no one-percent club where women are slapped around, or threatened with shit. And although I'm sure Stick is just messin' with you, and not in a serious way, doesn't mean that's all right. You get me?"
"I get you," she said quietly. "Thank you very much, Keys. I'm … really glad Kit has you and Remi to take care of her."
"She takes care of us, too," he said, a smile in his voice. "And you're welcome very much. Now stop worryin', 'cause we're not gonna ride in there with guns blazing and shit. We'll finesse the situation."
"Okay. That would be good."
They said goodbye, but then Kit called a moment later. "Hi, Keys had a great idea. How about if we ride over with Jack and Lindi, and bring supper with us? Then we can see your place."
"Wow," Sara said, a smile blooming. "Sure, that would be great. Oh, and ignore the pile of junk in the drive—looks like a hoarder lives here, but it's donations for the thrift store."
Kit laughed. "Gotcha. We'll see you around six-thirty."
"I can't wait," Sara said. And it was true.
Her enthusiasm renewed, she rose and cleaned up the kitchen, pausing to make a list on her phone of groceries and supplies she would need to set up house-keeping here. One way or another, she'd thwart Stick Vanko's attempts to include her property in his plans for Eastern Washington domination.
After drying her hands on the kitchen towel, Sara walked outside to hang the damp towel on the short section of black wrought iron railing beside the back steps, the way she'd seen her Gran do many times. The hot sun hit the porch just right at mid-day to dry the towel quickly.
She stood for a moment, eying the outbuildings. Her Lexus was parked in the small garage nearest the house. But the driveway also looped around this side of the garage, to another, very similar garage.
Sara wondered now why her Grandpa Joe hadn't simply enlarged it for two vehicles, instead of building a second detached unit in front. And, she wondered why the east garage was locked—she could see the padlock on the side door from here. Hmm, the lawn-mower must be in there, or something of the like.
She ducked back into the kitchen for the extra keys hanging from the old wooden wall rack. One was labeled E. Garage.
Key in hand, Sara walked across the lawn. She unlocked the side door and it swung open.
Sara stepped inside, and gasped. In the light through the door and a narrow side window, loomed a car. And not just any car. This was a vintage white Cadillac, with a convertible top, big back fins, and lots of chrome.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. "You're still here, White Lady."
She'd thought Gran sold the Caddy years ago, when she no longer drove much, except to the local grocery store. Friends from her church, or occasionally Sara, Seth or Sam had driven Gran to doctor appointments in Spokane, or to Grangeville for visits. They'd all gotten a kick out of being allowed to park their own vehicle or their parents' vehicles here and drive the Caddy.
Sara shook her head. Well, she certainly hadn't planned on this. What on earth was she going to do with a '58 Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz Convertible?
'Keep it', whispered a naughty little voice in the back of her mind. 'Drive it. Flaunt it!'
A picture popped into her head, in living color. Herself, cruising the road past the Flyers' clubhouse in the caddy, a handsome man at her side, while Stick Vanko looked on enviously.
The man at her side unfortunately did not have a face in her vision. She hadn't dated much for the last year, since her last relationship with Scott Benson, a Coeur d’Alene Realtor who talked almost exclusively about his latest listings. Before that had been that guy from the Coeur d'Alene mayor's office. Before that ... she didn't even remember.
All of which meant she needed to create her own excitement. And sitting before her in vintage, white and chrome glory was one way to do that. Sell the Caddy? Maybe. But she'd rather keep it, if possible. She turned the overhead light on, and walked to peer into the car. The keys were in the ignition, bless Gran and her old-fashioned ways.
Sara opened the driver's side door, slid in on the plump, cushy leather seats which were salmon pink leather—of course—with white trim. She closed the big, heavy door with a solid thunk. Then she stepped on the gas a few times, pressed the pedal down half-way, and turned the key. The big engine cranked a few times, and then started up with muted, powerful hum. It sounded wonderful.
She allowed herself a few moments just to sit, and pretend Gran would walk out of her house and get in beside her. Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Geez, she missed her gran and her dad. Losing family was the worst.
But she still had her mom, and her brothers. And her best friends. Sarah shut off the big car’s engine, took the keys with her, locked the garage, and headed back for the house, smiling mistily. She owned a vintage Caddy.
After a refreshing glass of iced tea, Sara went into Gran's guest room. Speaking of memories, this was where Gran had stored some old supp
lies of her son's, Sara's father. Supplies that Paul Cannon had used occasionally as a hobby, and allowed Sara to use with supervision, until her mother complained of the mess in their basement family room.
Sara's mother had actually set the tools out for a garage sale, until Sara's father, with an angry red flush on his cheekbones, had carried them out to his truck and driven them away, leaving Sara's mom to deal with the garage sale with her children's help.
One of the items in the sale had been the big, stamped leather purse he'd made his wife, with a horse head tooled on the side. Carlene Cannon carried a beige handbag and wore matching heels or flats.
Anyway, Gran had stored the things for him here. The three boxes were in a stack, neatly labeled 'Paul's leather-working tools'.
Sara opened the top box, breathing in the scent of tanned leather, and of creative possibilities.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The boxes actually contained only some tools, large paperback instructional books, and some rolled leather pieces.
But to Sara, they represented the path to creating useful leather items made beautiful with awls, stamps and chisels.
Hands on her hips, she surveyed the small bedroom. This could be her work room. She'd need to get rid of the old queen bed, which she knew from experience sagged in the middle anyway. She'd have the thrift store crew take it when they came to pick up the other things.
Then she'd need to buy a work bench, some really good lamps, some new glues, dyes and finishes, and take a class at the big leather chain store in Spokane.
Okay, first she'd have to take a good, hard look at her finances and see if she could afford all this. No, that was negative thinking. Not if, but how. Because she was going to do this. Maybe she'd even sell the Lexus, and drive the Caddy.
New place, new car, new vocation. And she'd be following in her family's traditions, which was all kinds of fun. Her family had always been pretty strait-laced, but they had a few fun quirks.
And, when her mother called, Sara told her so.
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. "You're what?" Carlene Cannon asked sharply. "You're giving up a perfectly good job with insurance and benefits to—to play with your dad's old leather kit? Sara, have you lost your mind?"
Sara rolled her eyes, setting her jaw against the hurt of these words. Her mother had always been about security and appearances. These took precedence to all else in her life, and to her, should of course rule her daughter and two son's lives as well.
And Sara had toed the line, up until now. Now, she had one foot firmly across that invisible line ... and she was considering leaping all the way into uncharted territory.
"No, mom, my mind is just fine, thank you."
"Well, I don't think so, not if you're quitting your wonderful job. You've been drinking, haven't you? You know I like Lindi, but that Kit is a bad influence on you two."
Sara growled under her breath. "Mother! I quit my job because I was treated unjustly, and in a way that I couldn't make a formal complaint. So I won't be going back. And I'm sick of working in an office, anyway. I've been doing it since I was eighteen, and I want—I need a break. So I'm taking one. And I'll be covered under a Cobra policy with medical insurance for 18 months, so you can stop worrying about that."
"What do you mean, you couldn't complain?" her mother asked. "What on earth did you do? Oh, dear Lord, just like Seth."
Right. It was her fault, of course. "I spoke up for my rights," Sara told her, past caring that her voice had risen. "I was treated unfairly, and I refused to put up with it. And maybe just for once, instead of asking me what I—or the boys—did wrong, you could ask what someone else did to us!"
This time there was a longer silence. Sara could feel the hurt emanating from her mother, and see her lips, so like Sara's own, trembling. "Well ... I'm sorry if I offended you," her mother said stiffly. "I just worry about you. That's what mothers do, which you'll know someday."
'If you ever find a good, steady man and settle down like you should'. Sara rolled her eyes, hearing the words as clearly as if they'd been uttered.
"I'm sorry too," Sara replied, rubbing her temple, behind which a headache had bloomed. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. And honestly, I'm not sure what I'm doing, or if it's the right thing, but for once ... for once that's okay with me. I have some savings, so I'll be okay for a while."
"Well, so ... you're going to make things and sell them?" her mother asked, clearly puzzled. "It's a nice way to earn a little extra money, but I don't know that you can live on it. But, I guess ... we have a big craft fair at church during the county fair next month, although it's surely too late to get a booth. And there'll be another craft sale before Christmas. Just don't make those horrible cow-girl purses with horses on them that your daddy made, because the only woman I know who carries one is Edna Brauer, and she's ninety-one years old."
Sara grinned. "Good to know, Momma. Although actually, that retro-western style is back. I saw some tooled leather purses at Macy's, with fringe even. Not really my style, though. Anyway, I'll figure something out. And if not, I'll get a job, I promise. I won't lie around Gran's house and toke up all day, listening to Janis Joplin--even though marijuana's legal here."
Her mother laughed, as Sara meant her to. "I know that, you ornery girl. I’ll just worry, but if you can sleep nights knowing that your mother cannot, then ..."
Sara snorted. "Good one. Now who's mean, Carlene? And what was that about Seth? Did he get laid off or something?"
She not only cared what he was up to, she was ready for a conversational re-direct. Her youngest brother, who had drifted from job to job after high school, had been driving a regular package delivery route in the Tri-Cities for the last year.
"Evidently. But he won't talk about it. He never calls—just sends me texts that he's all right and he'll call when he can. He's not at his apartment, either. He says he's staying with a friend."
That did not sound good. "Did he tell you his friend's name?" Sara asked. "Or his address?"
"No. And I have to tell you, Sarey, I'm worried he's, you know, drinking again."
Sara hoped that was all Seth was doing. He'd done some wild partying his senior year of high school, and narrowly escaped being arrested for ingesting more than alcohol, from what Sara had heard.
"I'm sure he's not partying too hard," she said now. "He was just a kid then. Sam did a little drinking, too, and now look at him—Mr. Clean."
"That's true. But he didn't move away until he'd settled down with Whitney, so I don't worry about him."
This was true. Sam was now the youth pastor at a Community Church in Oregon, and married to his hometown sweetheart, Whitney, who luckily was a genuinely nice person, since she was now Sara's sister-in-law.
"Seth is probably just embarrassed about losing his job," Sara said. "He'll surface as soon as he finds something else."
Her mother sighed. "I hope you're right. So ... tell me about your Gran's house. Is it all musty from being closed up? I guess I can drive up and help you clean, if you need me to."
"Nah, I'm handling that. Why not wait a few weeks and just come for a visit? You can see if there's anything of Gran's here that you want. Although, sorry, I threw away her clothes."
"Ha-ha. As if I'd wear any of your Gran's dowdy old things. I might like to look through the attic, though. There were some old chairs up there that I was thinking I could re-finish."
Sara's mother—ironically, considering her impatience with her late husband's leather crafting—had recently discovered she had a knack for turning trash into treasure. She had sold the rambling split-level Sara and her brothers had grown up in, and bought a small, but cute modular home furnished in her finds. She now kept a piece or two on consignment in touristy shops in the area, which augmented her part time work at the school district, and her life insurance from Sara's dad.
"They're all yours," Sara assured her. "And anything else you want."
"Good. Now, have you met
the neighbors? I seem to recall a single father bought the property next door. You should take him over a nice plate of cookies and say hello."
Sara choked on her iced tea, and nearly strangled. She spent the next few moments coughing, her eyes watering.
"No," she managed, wheezing. "I don't think so, mom. We've met and he's ... not very friendly."
Except with his penis—he was extremely friendly with that.
"Oh," her mother breathed, clearly disappointed. "That's too bad. Well, be good and I'll see you soon."
"Bye, mom. Soon."
Sara clicked her phone off. Then she tipped her head back on the old sofa and stared at the ceiling.
"'Take over a nice plate of cookies,'" she mumbled. "Great idea, mom. I'll lace them with rat poison. Oh, no wait—can't do that, because the rat has offspring."
She'd think of some other dirty trick to play on him. Something that wouldn't impact his home, just him. Maybe something at the clubhouse.
Geez, she hoped his kids weren't being trained in the Baby Biker Academy of Obnoxious Behavior. That would not make for good neighbors. It wasn't like she could complain to their father if they misbehaved.
He'd merely goad them to do worse.
At a little before six that evening, four motorcycles growled into Sara's lane. Keys was first, with Remi and Kit behind him on their own bikes. Jack followed with Lindi on the back of his bike.
Sara walked outside to greet them. Her friends hugged her while the guys hauled packages from the saddlebags.
"You weren't kidding about the pile of junk," Kit said, eyeing it with awe.
"That is a seriously ancient microwave," Lindi added. "Didn't know they even made them that big."
"It's vintage," Sara said. "You can have it for the BeeHive, if you want."
Lindi made an 'eeuw' face. "Not the kind of vintage I'm going for."
"Let's eat," Jack said, holding up his bag. "I got fried chicken in here and the smell's killin' me."
"Since I don't want to scare the shelter truck driver with bodies in my drive along with the junk, come on in," Sara invited with a grin.