by Nancy Cupp
HOLD ON
N a n c y C u p p
Second Edition (first published as Crossroads)
Copyright (c)Nancy Cupp 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. People or events are not meant to represent any real people or real events, similarities are unintentional.
Cover Design by Jay Schlie
Get Your Free E-Book
Meet Blaize from the Louisiana Bayou. She is a beautiful young woman, the daughter of a fisherman who depends on the swamp to feed his large family.
The devastated bayou is experiencing a level of poverty that has nearly destroyed the community. But Blaize has a chance to win an athletic scholarship that could catapult her out of the hurricane ravished, oil slicked swamp.
She finds it hard to focus on her goals because others have already decided who she is, and what she will become. An attack from her own brother forces a decision that will change everything.
Will she be able to overcome the stereotype that keeps her in the swamp? Is the bayou hell or haven? Find out in Blaize, an introduction to Driving in Traffick, the second book in the Margret Malone series.
To get your free copy visit:
www.cloverluck.lpagesco/opt-in-landing-page/
You will receive a free copy of the novella, Blaize, delivered to your in box. This novella can be read on your computer, or transferred to your e-reader. I’d love to keep in touch to let you know when other books will be available, as well as sending more free content from time to time. There will be no spam, and you can opt-out at any time.
Thanks Mom and Dad for all you do. Thanks to every one who tolerated me in the process of creating this book. A special thank you to Jay Schlie for creating my cover and being patient while I learned what the heck I was doing.
1
Night Shift
Twisting and holding on as their ATV’s snaked across the wide prairie from the Tioga Road into the rugged back country, two men balanced fragile cargo. Their machines, muffled as much as they could be, traveled with headlights off using bright moonlight and an occasional flashlight beam to penetrate the thick, snarled grass.
Jagged rocks, more frequent as they neared their destination, slowed them, grabbing at heavily treaded tires. A solid wall of shadowy pines stood as a barrier to the forest. The men made sure to keep well apart, it wouldn’t do to leave a trail.
An undulating rock ledge rose on their left, funneling them into a clearing, where they parked. The taller man drilled the light of his flashlight through the dark. Their eyes followed the small spot of light as it bounced off tree branches, the rough ground, a wall of granite, then a large round rock. Zig-zagging, the light found a nearly identical boulder, then dipped between the markers to find a narrow, black void.
The opening yawned like the toothless grin of an old man. Grasses and brambles formed a grizzly beard, covering the mouth. Now a forgotten place, centuries earlier a nation depended on it for shelter and storage.
The men worked to unload, using only gestures, tolerating each other only enough to get the work done. With a coil of rope slung over one shoulder, the short man easily lifted his end of the crate, impatiently waiting as his partner struggled to balance the other end. They felt their way with their feet, scrambling on the rough ground in the dark.
At the mouth of the cavern they slid the box on the ground, see-sawing it, until it was inside. Wiggling in on their bellies, they took a moment to pick their path through the rocky rubble. Dank smells filled the air in sharp contrast to the fresh pine outside. The floor dropped sharply downward into the bowels of the cave. High pitched squeaks bounced off jagged projections as bats dipped and swirled in the unseen recesses of the vaulted ceiling.
Their work done, the men surveyed the area, looking for tracks, misplaced plants, or pinecones revealing their trespass. The tall man drew a few squiggly lines on a piece of paper, then folded and stuffed it in his pocket.
They left taking separate routes. Neither had spoken a word. Nothing showed they’d been there, only the faint smell of burnt gas and oil lingered in the air. The sun rose, glinting on mica infused granite, warming a bear as she snuffled looking for grubs and berries. She scratched the dirt, sniffing to catch the scent, weighing the danger. Satisfied, she ambled into the thick forest to browse.
2
Margret Malone
Margret Malone pushed a lock of mousey brown hair behind her ear and adjusted her glasses. She sucked oil and salt from her fingers, wiped them on her sweat pants, then turned the page of her novel. She reached for another chip, and finding the bag empty, looked up from her book to peer inside.
She shook the container and looked in again in case one more chip was caught in a wrinkle. She ran her finger around inside, poking into corners, and licked it clean again. Satisfied it was empty, she crumpled and tossed it in the general direction of the garbage can. It bounced off the rim and landed on the carpet.
Margret sighed, glancing as her grandfather clock struck four o’clock. The afternoon was gone. Reluctantly, she laid her book on a teetering stack and got up to finish the housework she’d started that morning.
Gathering cleaning supplies from under the sink in the tiny bathroom Margret bumped her elbow on the cabinet. As she leaned over to brush the toilet bowl clean her butt banged into the door, slamming it shut. “Oh for heaven sakes, this bathroom is so darn small, or I’m way too big,” she grumbled.
“Margret! Margret, are you home?”
“In here Robin,” Margret called to her roommate. She poked her head out of the bathroom, toilet brush in hand.
“You’re dripping.”
“Yuck, the more I clean the more mess I make! How was your day?”
“It was great! I met Ron when I finished my run. He was done with his workout too, so we went for pizza. We’re going dancing tonight.”
“All that after you did your half of the cleaning this morning. I gain five pounds just thinking about pizza.”
“Well…”
“Where do you get all your energy? I’m beat just doing weekend chores.”
“Maggie, you know I love you, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you gotta get your nose out of those books. Get out in the sun and get some exercise.” Robin picked up the crumpled wrapper on the floor. “And quit eating junk.”
“I had fruit, a banana or something—just this week.”
“Maggie.”
“I know.” Margret watched her best friend since the fourth grade disappear into her room.
“What should I wear—a dress? How about my purple sweater and jeans?”
“You could wear a gunny sack and still look good,” mumbled Margret.
Robin zipped into the bathroom. Tall and slender, Robin was a natural beauty. Her love of exercise was the one thing she and Margret didn’t share. As little girls, they were never apart. It seemed they always had some kind of secret, or joke, things that made them giggle.
Margret’s father, an English Professor at Carlson College, encouraged her to read. By the age of nine she’d read most of the classics and was hopelessly in love with books.
“What are you doing next week for your vacation?” Robin called on her way back to her room. “Please tell me you’re not staying home to read for two weeks.”
“No…”
“Go somewhere, get a suntan, maybe you’ll meet somebody. Want to come with us tonight? Ron won’t mind.”
“I’d be a third wheel—no thanks,
you go have fun.”
“Come on Maggie, you don’t have to work at the bookstore tomorrow, you’re on vacation!”
“Um—no thanks, I have shopping to do.”
“Shopping?”
“For my trip, I’m going to—” Margret glanced around the room, her eyes catching a glimpse of her book, “Yosemite National Park.”
“Really,” said Robin, “how long have you been planning this?”
“For a while—it’s in California.” Margret turned the book face down.
“Okay, well—I hope you have fun. You aren’t camping are you? I mean, there’s bears and stuff in parks. How are you getting there? Flying?”
“Um—yeah, flying, or by train. It’s cheaper.”
“You really haven’t thought much about this trip have you? Please tell me you’ll be careful. I’d come with if I could, but I can’t get time off work. I have to go to Chicago for that seminar.”
Robin emerged from her room in a stunning blue dress that flowed around her trim figure and matched her eyes. She gave her shiny chestnut hair a twist and pinned it up with a sparkling clip. “Is this one of those trips that you take by reading a book?”
Margret rubbed at a spot on her worn green sweatshirt, and hiked up her baggy pink sweat pants. “Of course not, I’m really going—I’ll be back in two weeks.”
3
Joyce Hart
Beep, beep, beep! The alarm jarred Joyce into semi-consciousness. With one eye open, she tried to focus on the clock imbedded in the wall above her head. Upside down, from her view point, she read six o’clock. She drifted off again, until the next barrage, seven minutes later.
Joyce stretched her arm over her head fumbling to plug-in her twelve-volt saucepan. She’d set it up with eggs and water the night before,—six hours ago. She let the snooze go off again. Seven more minutes of sleep.
She was wake enough to think about the usual questions. Am I loaded or empty? Picking up or dropping off? What time zone—shoot, what state is it?
With a deep breath, the smell of diesel fuel and stale urine assaulted her nostrils. Joyce had been an over-the-road truck driver for seven years, but every morning she still had to orient herself to her surroundings, and the day ahead. A refer unit on the truck next to her sounded a warning tone, then belched smelly diesel fumes, as it roared to life.
Fully awake now, Joyce reached for an empty peanut butter jar she’d use to relieve her full bladder. When she finished, she screwed the lid back on the full jar, and set it aside. She didn’t like to dump it out the window, to splatter on the pavement. She’d dump it in the grass, behind the truck, when no one was looking.
Joyce peeked out of the curtains to get her bearings. Harsh light glared from a familiar sign, telling her she was at a Pilot truck-stop. I gotta get fuel before I leave, and the right front inside tire needs air. I hope there isn’t a nail in it, she thought.
Making some mental calculations, she figured out local time, realizing she’d get stuck in traffic. She peeked out the window again, checking to see if she’d be able to get out of her parking spot. Another truck had her pinned in the night before, the driver desperate for a spot. If enough other drivers got going first, she’d be able to get out.
Her eggs were bumping around in boiling water. The sound brought her attention to the need for coffee. Joyce removed the eggs from the pot with a plastic spoon and poured the hot water into her somewhat clean, super-size mug. She added instant coffee, and took a sip, burning her tongue.
“Damn, why do I do that?”
The jeans she’d been wearing for a week felt stiff when she pulled them on, and she needed a shower. She could’ve gotten one, using the points on her loyalty card—if she’d been at the right truck-stop. She shrugged it off, there was no time this morning anyway.
By seven-fifteen Joyce had eaten her eggs and was done with her pre-trip inspection. She squeezed the big eighteen-wheeler out of the parking spot with only inches between her rig and a beautifully painted Kenworth.
She had to wait in line to get fuel. She tried the air hose on her low tire when it was her turn, but found the nozzle had been run over, making it useless. She had to circle around again, twice, trying two different air hoses before she found one that worked.
A half-hour later a sea of brake lights lit the road as traffic slowed to a crawl. Joyce backed off the fuel and felt the Jake-brake catch hold, prepared to sit in traffic for a while. A few fat raindrops hit the windshield, and soon traffic was at a standstill, with rain pelting down.
“It’s gonna be one of those days, Lucille,” Joyce sighed. She was aware of how weird it was to talk to the truck and give it a name and personality. Her solitary life made such things necessary and normal. “So much for being on time, but maybe we’ll still get loaded anyway.”
When she’d been driving for almost eight hours, it was time for a break. The US Department of Transportation rules state that a driver must take a thirty minute break after eight hours of driving. She down shifted to enter the rest area south of Denver, easing the truck into an empty spot.
She shut off the engine and stretched her tired arms and hands. The Qualcom had been beeping for the last hour, so she reached over to see what her messages were.
One was the usual safety message of the day, “Always get out and look when backing or GOAL.” and the other one was information on her next load. Joyce wrote down all the important information and sent back a message accepting the load.
She smiled. This’ll be a nice run! I’ll deliver in Pueblo in about an hour and by the time they unload, I’ll have just enough time to get back to Colorado Springs to park for the night. I can get through Denver to pick-up right away in the morning, and it’ll be great driving all the way to Sacramento. Joyce loved mountain scenery, and the pay would be good.
4
Riding the Bus
Margret juggled her packages and bags on the crowded bus so she could get out her list. She’d been up late the night before going through her new book about back packing in the Sierra Nevadas. “Oh man!” She groaned to no one in particular “I’ve spent all day and a small fortune shopping for this stuff, and I still don’t have everything they recommend. I haven’t even gotten my food yet.”
“Well, you’re taking up two seats on this bus, and only paid for one,” complained one passenger, “That’s the trouble with you young folks, you take up too much space with all your junk. I should complain.”
“I heard you,” said the driver, “always complaining about something.”
“Well—I never,” she settled back in her seat. Other passengers laughed at the exchange.
When Margret got to her stop, she pushed, pulled and jostled, excusing herself over and over, on the way out. Several people helped, handing her packages forward. Although embarrassed, she was grateful for the help. She thanked the driver as she stepped off with her pile of stuff.
By the time she had dragged everything up the stairs to her apartment Margret was exhausted. She found a note from Robin reminding her that she wouldn’t be home for several days.
At least I won’t have to worry about spreading this stuff out. I need to get organized. The book says it all has to fit in this backpack, thought Margret, holding up a shapeless purple bag on a black frame. What have I gotten myself into?
Margret went to the kitchen to find something for supper. Rummaging around in the fridge, she pulled out a jar of olives, two slices of leftover pizza, and some salsa. From the cabinet she took chips, half of a bag of Oreo cookies and some peanut butter. She dipped four Oreos in peanut butter and ate them with two olives.
After her feast she felt sleepy. I just need a short nap before I start packing. She stepped over the pile of camping gear, and wandered to the couch to lie down. The comforting tick of her clock lulled her to sleep.
It was nine-thirty-seven when she opened one eye and checked the time. As she lay there gathering her thoughts, her mind wandered to her travel plans and all she sti
ll had to do.
Hummm…I still need to pack, buy groceries, and get tickets… Get tickets! Oh my gosh, she thought, I still don’t have plane tickets!
Margret dove for her computer. She searched for the best prices and times, then settled on one that would work. She worked on connections from the airport to the park—a rental car would be the most convenient, and would allow her to sight see a little.
A shuttle bus ran to the park, but wrestling all that baggage would be a hassle. She was going to have to pay a huge price for making a last minute decision to travel, but rationalized the choice as being spontaneous.
Her grandfather had left her a small inheritance. He’d always encouraged her to try new things, to expand her horizons.
This is expanding all right, she thought. There had always been a little tension between her father and grandfather. Gramps, an adventuresome type, loved his only son, but he was disappointed his offspring would rather read than hike.
Her father tried to please his dad, but he just couldn’t get the hang of the outdoor life. It was like he had a clumsy gene, the one that Margret had inherited.
One quick read through the restrictions on luggage before hitting the buy button and the plans would be set. Margret’s shoulders sagged as she read. The weight restriction for checked baggage was way less than the pile on her floor would be. And the size dimensions for carry-on bags excluded her back pack.
Surveying the heap of equipment in her living room, Margret wondered if she could ever pull off the trip. She was sorting through excuses to explain the failure when she thought about the train.
Margret navigated to the Great Northern train site on her computer and started the search. An hour and a half later she concluded that even though the train would get her luggage there, train schedules would take her on a long route out of the way.
Margret considered this. It would allow her to do a lot of reading while she traveled. But the plan was to hike to Half Dome in Yosemite National Park.