01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin (4 page)

“Okay then,” he said. But he
didn’t sound like he’d given up.

She climbed into her truck. “See
you.” But she wouldn’t. That felt … bad. She ducked her head and
squeezed her eyes shut as she turned the key in the ignition. How
could a guy she’d only seen twice make her feel so … so out of
control when she was around him and so desolate knowing he was not
for her? She
knew
who she was. She was the kind a mother
left without even a goodbye. Boyfriend, ditto. The love she’d
thought was forever. She was the one a father stayed on the road to
avoid. But she wasn’t an easy lay for Mr. Movie-star Biker. She
eased the truck toward the road and turned out.

She glanced to her rearview
mirror and saw him standing in the road, feet apart, hands shoved
into his jeans pockets. His disheveled black hair, three-day
stubble, and leather jacket all spelled trouble with a capital T.
So why was something inside practical Maggie O’Brian telling her to
put the truck in park and see if he’d walk up the road to her?

Lord! She was getting desperate
in her old age. That man had “love ’em and leave ’em” written all
over him. With her history, he was emotional suicide.

She pushed her foot down on the
gas pedal a little too hard. The horses shifted in the back.

Well, that was that. Tris didn’t
even know her last name.

He watched her trailer disappear
around a bend. Was he crazy? She didn’t like him. They had nothing
in common. She was into horses and he was into machines. She was
way beyond not his type. It was almost comical. But he didn’t feel
like laughing. And that was frightening.

He should just go. Twenty miles
back to Fallon. Another sixty to Reno. Then what? He strained to
find the light feeling he’d had driving out here.

He was stupid. And weak. Weak
because he was sorry to disappoint his mother.
Real man there,
Tris
. Weak because he wanted to go after that girl who was
connected to horses in some way that made her sure of her purpose,
the way he couldn’t manage for himself. She was something all
right. He was nothing. The shadows of lethargy seethed inside him,
waiting.

He chewed his lip. As long as he
was already disgusted with himself, he might as well go after
Maggie. He had no idea where she lived. Jake and the old waitress
probably did, but he’d come off like a stalker. They’d never tell
him. Maybe someone at the sale barn would give him information if
he pretended to have business with her.

At least he knew one place she’d be.
Back here tonight to load the rest of her horses.

*****

Jason peeled off five crisp
hundred-dollar bills and waved them in the Mexican stable hand’s
face. Kid’s eyes looked like they might pop. “You call the minute
Tremaine heads out. And watch which way he turns.” He needed the
kid for the direction and the timing. Couldn’t cover Highway 50
both ways. He hated depending on somebody else.

The kid nodded. Looked around to
see if any of his friends could see his haul. They were screened by
a line of old cottonwood trees from the rest of the stable
yard.

Jason let his eyes go dead. That
always scared regular people shitless. Keep the kid in line.
Tremaine had been asking after a girl named Maggie at the ranch,
according to this wetback boy. Tremaine was waiting for her there
now. She was supposed to come back tonight. Had some horses to get
to LA. The kid said she was from Austin, where Tremaine looked this
ranch up on his cell phone. So Tremaine had come here after the
girl. Man was following his dick. Looked like she’d ditched him.
That meant Tremaine would head east to Austin after that girl
tonight when she didn’t show. Jason would bet his life on it.

Death was better than what lay
in store from the old woman if he was wrong.

He swallowed. Okay. Okay. He
wasn’t wrong. But a lot depended on this kid. He narrowed his eyes.
“You fail me, boy, I’ll come after that five hundred. You won’t
live through how I take it back.”

The kid’s eyes widened. “N-no
sir, I’ll, uh, I’ll call for sure.”

Jason turned his back before the
kid wet his pants, and got into his rental car. Time to get in
position. He’d get the old woman what she wanted, or die
trying.

CHAPTER THREE

Heading west, Maggie blinked
against the lights from an oncoming car, the first she’d seen in a
while. There was a reason this stretch of Highway 50 was called
“the loneliest road in America.” She was later than she’d planned
getting back to pick up the remaining horses. Of course, Elroy had
been drunk. And she’d had to get him some food, all while he
screamed at her, and put him to bed. How much longer could she face
that shack or his alcoholic rages? But she had to. Couldn’t just
leave him to die like somebody who didn’t have a daughter. That
would be abandoning him, and she’d be just like her mama. She had
to fight that.

Now she was empty, exhausted by
trying to keep her anger from destroying her.
He was broke by
Mama leaving us,
she said, like a mantra.
He can’t make it
out of the bottle right now.
She’d been saying that since she
was eight. If he couldn’t quit after the doc said he had cirrhosis,
he never would. Time to face facts.

She was so tired the white line
grew mesmerizing. Dillon would be long abed. She’d wake him and his
boys up by clattering in and loading horses. But those were the
breaks. She’d said she’d be back tonight and she would. A promise
was a promise for Maggie O’Brian.

When had that big rig come up
behind her?
Little too close, asshole.
She shook her head
and turned up the radio as she hit the accelerator. The country
station 105.5 was playing Chris Young. Best baritone in country
music. Only right now that voice reminded her of somebody else. The
song was about a husband and wife so eager to make love they bailed
on a night out at a fancy restaurant. Listening to it felt like
looking in the window at the candy store, knowing you didn’t have
money to buy.

A single headlight flared ahead.
Motorcycle. That broke her out of her trance. Cycles had her full
attention today.

Behind her, the big rig swung
out of their lane. Was he
passing
?

Things started to move either
too fast or too slow. Didn’t the trucker see the cycle? Side by
side like this, the truck and her rig formed an impenetrable
barrier. The cycle had nowhere to go but to swerve off the road at
high speed. She glanced to the semi.

It wasn’t there. Had she
imagined it starting to pass? She glanced to her rearview mirror.
Not there. The cycle came on full speed. But something was wrong.
She could still hear the semi’s engine. Acting on instinct, she
jammed her foot down on her brake pedal, swerving to the right. No
horses to worry about in the back. Then the roar of the semi’s
engine and the whine of the cycle both cut out, leaving only the
squeal of her brakes. Right before her eyes, the semi popped into
view in the left lane, now slowing. The cycle swerved, the
handlebars jerking out of the rider’s hands, as though with a mind
of their own. But it was too late. The cycle clipped the inside
corner of the big rig. The sickening crunch of metal was audible
even over her Ford’s squealing brakes. Two objects flew almost over
her hood in an arc of spokes and.…

Oh, God. The other flying object
had a helmet on. Her truck swerved as she struggled with control.
The big rig’s engine roared to life and it barreled away into the
night. The semi driver
must
have felt the impact. The smell
of burning rubber and brake lining filled her nostrils. Her chest
hit the steering wheel as her truck screeched to a stop.

For a long minute she just sat
there, trying to get her breath. Her sternum hurt. But it was kind
of a vague feeling. The highway was empty. The semi was only fading
red taillights in the distance. Her breath came fast and uneven.
How had she not seen that truck? And why didn’t the driver stop to
help? Help.…

The guy on the motorcycle.…
Nobody could have lived through that. Could they?

What to do? No cell coverage out
here. She craned around to check the highway. No lights in either
direction.
Oh, boy
. She was going to have to get out and
look for the rider. Hands shaking, she pulled her rig slowly off to
the shoulder. She swallowed past a lump in her throat and got out
of the cab into the cool air of the high desert night. She had to
steady herself with a palm on the side of her Ford. Her knees were
wobbly. She took a couple of panicky breaths.

Get hold of yourself. You
weren’t the one hit, for God’s sake.

No moon. The usual blanket of
stars had been shaken across the black sky, but they didn’t shed
much light. The hulking shadows of tumbleweeds and creosote bushes
lined the road. Flashlight. She’d need a flashlight. She leaned
back into her truck and popped the glove compartment. The
flashlight felt solid in her hand. She flipped it on and began
walking back, swinging the beam. It wouldn’t be him. It
couldn’t.

Skid marks. Plenty from her
Ford. None from the semi or the cycle. The bike had swerved only at
the last minute. Hadn’t the rider seen the rig swing out? The
driver of the semi hadn’t braked at all. She’d heard only the
engine cutting out, not brakes. Hadn’t she?

Low moaning drifted up toward
her. She swallowed.
Moaning is good. At least the rider isn’t
dead
. She cast her light down the shallow embankment. It caught
a twisted mass of black and silver metal. The cycle’s front wheel
was canted at the wrong angle. It spun almost silently.

She stalked ahead, determined to
be angry at being put in this situation, not weak or timid. She
really,
really
didn’t want to see what that lump was in the
sagebrush just beyond the bike. The flashlight stuttered over
leather, helmet, jeans, boots.
Uh-oh.
One leg had an odd
angle in it.

I won’t think about that.
She breathed in and out through her mouth. She glanced up the
highway in both directions again. Not a headlight in sight.

Damn, damn, damn!
She
stumbled over the edge of the asphalt, sliding down the sandy dirt.
As she got closer, she quit fighting her instincts. It would be her
beautiful biker guy. She knew it. She shone her light onto the
figure.

Did I have to be right?
He blinked against the light, the green of his eyes startling. They
were swimming right now. He raised one hand ineffectually to
block—what? Her? Did he think she was the one who’d hit him and was
coming to finish the job? One leg was clearly bent at an unnatural
angle below the knee. Was that something white poking out of his
jeans?
Bad. Very,
very
bad.
She battled her rising
gorge.
Damn it, Maggie! You’re strong.
Anger helped. Damn
the asshole driver of that big rig. And damn her motorcycle guy for
being in this situation.

His cheek was scraped. Blood
dripped toward his jawline. Lip split, chin scraped too. “It’s
Maggie,” she said stupidly. “That truck hit you.”
Understatement
of the year.

“Truck?”

Of course he’d hit his head with
a fall like that. Probably just as well he didn’t remember. She
wasn’t even sure
she
remembered exactly what happened. Had
she been asleep at the wheel? Is that why she didn’t see the semi?
She pushed through sagebrush and knelt in the dirt. This close she
could smell the rich, metallic scent of blood. “You … you need an
ambulance. I’ll … I’ll.…” What? What would she do with no cell
phone coverage and no cars in sight? Leave him alone to get help?
It was a good half hour into Fallon, even if she drove like a bat
out of hell. The ambulance had to muster out and then a half an
hour back here, maybe more. Time to stabilize and load him. The
little Fallon hospital had closed. Damn for-profit chain probably
wasn’t making enough money in such a small town. They’d have to
take him into Washoe Med in Reno. Sixty miles on from Fallon. Two
and a half, three hours, any way you figured.

A trucker’s CB could radio
ahead. That’d save half an hour. If one magically appeared.
Loneliest road in America, after all. If one did appear she might
not be able to flag it down.

She turned back to the injured
man. Wait for someone? Or try it herself? Awful choice. He could
bleed to death. Could he die of shock? Or get paralyzed if she
tried to move him. “You, uh, you feel any pain in your back or your
neck?”

“Just …” His voice was a croak.
He cleared his throat and started again. “Just the leg.”

“Well, at least you can feel
your extremities. Could be worse.” Better to make light of it.
“Let’s get this helmet off.” She released the chinstrap and gently
lifted the helmet. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. His eyes
closed slowly and reopened, as if he couldn’t quite get it together
to blink.

She tossed the helmet behind
her. “Look, I can go for an ambulance. I figure you’re only alone
out here for a little over an hour max. Maybe three hours total to
get you to the ER. Or …” She almost couldn’t offer it. “If we can
get you into the truck, I can take you. Maybe an hour and fifteen
total to the ER.” She shrugged helplessly.

“Gee, what should I choose?” he
said, lips tight. He seemed more aware now.

“We could screw you up worse
trying to get you into my truck.”
Truth in advertising
.

“In ten minutes, I’ll start to
feel this,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t wanna be alone.
Call me chicken.”

“I wouldn’t call you that.” He
must know how painful getting to the truck would be. She looked up
to the road. How the hell would she get him up the embankment?
“Okay. How about I get my loading ramp? You roll on it and I drag
you up the embankment?”