Stroke of Midnight (14 page)

What he was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with the fans that only swirled dead, dry air. The long, yellow strips of flypaper that were polka-dotted with insects didn't bother him, no more than the ever-present dank smell around them did. Hell, the guys he was riding with gave BO funk a new definition. Maybe it was the eerie fact that they had the place all to themselves. The guitar on his back suddenly felt too heavy.

Rider pulled out a Marlboro and slowly lit it. He watched the ember fire red on a hard inhale, and tapped the back of his pack, offering the group's leader one. He glanced at the bartender when Snake accepted it and just put it behind his ear, then he glanced over to the bus driver and noted his dejected expression. He could tell by the look on the man's face that the bus was fried and nobody was coming for a tow tonight. It was the way the bus driver slowly hung up the receiver and passed the telephone back to the bartender.

Both men seemed to be in their late forties. Their crew-cut hair was just too neat and conservative, restricted, their faces puffed red from the incessant heat. Their shoulders slumped like life had kicked their butts; their guts hung over too-tight pants. One had on a blue-gray uniform soaked with sweat, the other had on a butcher's apron over a sleeveless T-shirt, sweat making the thin white fabric stick to his portly build. Watching them made the heat in the joint unbearable. They reminded him too much of his father. Trapped. How did men allow crap like this to happen to them? he wondered. Maybe that's what was making the crew edgy, seeing the possible future in these two old dudes and looking around a place that held only the remnants of its heyday. Maybe it was because one of their own had recommended it from that memory.

Rider took his time, choosing his words carefully. Snake was the leader and had to make the decision to leave, or else it would be taken as a sign of disrespect that wouldn't be tolerated. He could tell everybody else was feeling it, too.

They all watched Snake's massive back expand slowly and contract the same way, stretching his black leather vest to the limit and making the medallions on his breast pocket catch the setting sun in prisms. Their leader was leaning on his forearms, studying his drink like it might divine the future. His ragged black ponytail attracted gnats, which he swatted away intermittently like a bored bull, making his huge bicep flex. No, he wasn't gonna mess with Snake, if they'd taken a wrong turn.

Crazy Pete's eyes held a quiet desperation. Pete could never sit still, and his narrow weasel face was almost covered by his greasy, matted brown hair. It irked Rider the way he kept raking his fingers through it, like that would solve their problem. They needed food, gas, liquor, and willing women—not to be trapped in a bar like bugs on sticky paper. This was no way to run a road trip.

Rider only shook his head, watching Razor whip himself up into what was sure to be a trademark Razor tirade. It was in his bloodshot blue eyes. But no matter how skinny the dude was, Razor had him by two inches, was made of stone, kept a bowie knife on his hip, and had done prison… Bull's Eye was normally cool, but, carried a gun at all times, and was one cock-strong bastard when provoked. He had to wait it out. This was why he normally rolled solo; he didn't have to deal with democratic decisions. Rider had a nose for trouble and for tracking opportunity. He smelled both in the offing here. Group consensus sucked.

The other guys had fallen in and had taken up a post at the bar. Fifteen in all; that was a lot of testosterone to defuse and a lot of bikes to refuel. Rider slowly removed his sunglasses and stuffed them into his vest breast pocket.

"So, Snake, man," Rider said after a while, finally growing impatient, "your boy said this was the place to pull over. I know Oklahoma is a dust bowl, but this is ridiculous. We need fuel and…" The fact that Snake hadn't looked up made him let his argument rest.

Snake calmly pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, put it in his mouth, struck a wooden match on the bar, sucked hard on it, and hailed the bartender. "You all got grub here?"

The bartender shook his head and simply refilled Snake's drink. "Just liquor." He glanced at the bus driver who was edging toward the door. "No fuel either."

Snake nodded and stood. An inaudible sigh of relief swept through the group as money was slammed onto the bar and everyone stretched their legs, downed the last of their drinks, and rolled their shoulders.

"We ride," was all Snake said.

Progress.

Then something happened that should never have happened. A fragile female figure entered the doorway, her chin held high and her gaze darting nervously around the tavern. The last of the sun hit her light-blue calico dress, framing her petite form like a halo. The rays fired her caramel skin, warming it with reds and gold, and the hued light shone off her long, dark brunette braids. She moved with the trepidation of a doe that needed water so desperately that she'd take a risk, even though she knew danger was lurking near. Her light lavender scent wafted in on a breeze and was the only life in the place.

When she saw him this time, she couldn't pull her gaze away. Even beneath the grime, this one was different. He was bronzed strength from head to toe in a filthy pair of jeans slung low, no shirt on beneath a black leather vest. But his eyes… Liquid hazel set in a ruggedly handsome face. In their depths she saw honor. No, she couldn't let this one die.

Rider immediately cringed. The girl at the door had glanced at him and then gone up to the bar, literally stepped around a pack of wolves, ignoring the fact that the blood had drained from the bus driver's face, and hailed the bartender. The group behind him stopped. Snake stopped and cocked his head to the side like a hunting dog. Oh… no…

"Sir," she said in a soft but urgent tone, "Mrs. Parker is diabetic, and she needs water and something, anything, to eat to keep from passing out. I know you don't actually serve customers food here… but maybe you just have a piece of bread?"

"We got us an Indian Florence Nightingale in the joint," Crazy Pete said, chuckling and rounding Rider. "I got beef jerky she can eat. Ask her—"

Rider's hand hit Crazy Pete's shoulder. Some insane place in his brain made him grab the back of Crazy Pete's vest to keep him from moving forward. Then his brain didn't consult his mouth at all when he looked at Crazy Pete hard and spoke. "Leave the kid alone," Rider said quietly. "Let the man get her some water and something for the old lady on the bus. We got things to do."

Outraged, Pete snatched himself from Rider's hold and spun on him. "Back off, man! What's wrong with you? Nobody touches me. Especially not for some black Indian tail. Are you crazy?"

Razor had already approached the young woman, had reached out and touched her cheek, and laughed as Rider and Pete pushed each other back and squared off. The young woman jerked her head away from the offending touch, fury and fear glittering in her eyes. The pending fist-fight was temporarily defused as Rider and Pete looked at Razor.

The bartender had moved back. He'd apparently seen how quick lightning could strike his establishment. Snake gave him a hard glare that was a warning not to be so foolish as to pull a shotgun from behind the bar. Bull's Eye flanked Snake and shook his head, conveying that to make a sudden move would not be advisable. But that obviously wasn't the man's intention. The bartender kept cleaning the glass that was in his hand, unfazed, simply moving out of harm's way.

However, the bus driver was determined to die a hero. He'd pushed the girl behind him. The others formed an immediate horseshoe circle behind Rider, Pete, Razor, Bull's Eye, and Snake. The bus driver and the girl were huddled against a wall. Nerves were pulled wire-tight, hair trigger. The bus driver had hidden the girl behind his back. One false move and the joint was gonna blow.

"I wasn't tryin' ta hurt her," Razor said, attempting to peek behind the bus driver. "I just wanted to touch her hair to see if it was as soft as it looked, being she's an angel and all. Y'all ever had exotic fare?" he asked the group, glancing at them and laughing.

"We don't want no trouble," the bus driver said, new beads of sweat forming and rolling down his temples. "Our bus just got stuck, and I've got elderly folks who just need to get to Vegas. That's all."

Rider stepped forward and put a hand on Razor's shoulder. "The man needs a mechanic. My rate is twenty-five dollars an hour," he said, making himself smile, which made the men around him relax and chuckle.

"Always got an angle, don't you, Rider? But I like how you think," Razor said, and then grudgingly conceded with a sly smile. "Bet if these folks are on the way to Vegas…"

New worry wrapped tension around Rider's spinal column and constricted it. "Yeah," he said, peering at the frightened young woman. "I might be able to get that tin can started, if these folks would be good enough to pass the hat?" He gave the bus driver a look filled with meaning. It was a strong suggestion to keep the wolves at bay using money as bait. Then he sighed theatrically when the bus driver nodded fast. "The man said there were a bunch of old folks on there—you know, the old dolls will travel across the country with one roll of quarters, man. They're nuts, like my mother. I ain't gonna do time for chump change. We've got a race to do, where the
real
money is."

Snake nodded and glanced at his squad. Bull's Eye sat on a stool. It made the others stand down, and then he looked at the bus driver. "Give Rider here enough to gas up the choppers, and we'll call it even. Your bus will get fixed, and we'll be on our way."

Rider could feel his shoulders drop two inches in relief. He eyed the girl and tried to send her a message to just stand still. No sudden moves.

"Uh… sure," the bus driver said fast, and began pulling the girl out of the bar behind him.

But she stopped, looked a little too long at Rider, and then dropped her gaze. "Mrs. Parker still needs—"

"Get the girl some water and something to eat for the old lady, for chrissake," Rider said, his nerves about to snap. He banged his fist on the bar, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. "I'm an artist under the hood and can't concentrate with all this crap." He looked at the girl, signaling her with his eyes that now would be a good time to leave. "I wish she'd just get on that bus and shut up. Geeze Louise. Can a man get a drink while he works?"

She nodded and scooted out the door with the bus driver. Her eyes said it all:
Thank you
.

Rider downed another drink as soon as the bartender had poured it, and he waited impatiently for him to return from the back room with some bread, an apple, and a beer pitcher filled with ice water. The men around him just grumbled and sat down hard on stools and waited. Nothing else was said as more drinks were poured and consumed.

"Money is money," Rider said, falsely complaining as they eyed him. "I'll come back with two hundred, then we're history."

Snake only nodded and slowly sipped his drink.

She accepted the outstretched tray with deep appreciation, and couldn't help again noticing the hazel eyes that glanced at hers, then looked away. They were more than kind eyes set in a ruggedly handsome face; they were gentle—albeit in a dirty face with a scruffy beard. She smiled and looked up at the dark blond hair caught in a long pony-tail, as the one who had shown some mercy turned and walked away without a word, like he was angry.

He was tall, maybe six two, if her judgment was correct. The sun had burned his bare shoulders but had graciously turned his arms and face to a dark golden hue. He was indeed a part of the light, looked like he lived in it. She watched him pull his guitar off his back and set it down with care, leaning it against the front wheel of the bus. She glimpsed him from the corner of her eye, and let her gaze travel past the black leather vest he wore, studied the multicolored embroidered snake on it briefly, and then assessed the way his jeans hugged his narrow hips, hugged his behind as though it were cut stone beneath them, and then considered his hard, muscled thighs beneath the fabric and the pair of dusty black cowboy boots that were on his feet. All he needed was a hat, and he'd look like a rogue sheriff. What in the world was this man with a good heart doing riding with that mangy gang?

She smiled wider and then swallowed it away, taking the tray onto the bus for Mrs. Parker. Maybe her mother had been wrong? Maybe she shouldn't be frightened of every strange man she might meet along the way to her grandmother's house, visions, dreams, and superstitions notwithstanding. She was, after all, eighteen, and there was so much of the world she hadn't yet seen. So she'd had one bad experience. Her family's concept of being a cloistered healer was truly no way to live. If her grandmother could just fix one little mistake made in misguided passion…

Aghast that she'd actually gone into the tavern on a mission of mercy, the other passengers immediately bombarded her with questions. Each spoke in hushed tones.

"They're animals, Tara," one lady said, her whisper fervent. "They could have harmed you, or worse."

"They're not all bad," Tara said quietly, helping the lady she'd come to know on the ride as Mrs. Parker take a sip of water.

"Don't go back out there," an elderly man said, reaching past his seatmate. "You were just lucky."

Tara nodded. "We all were. But we have to pay the one fixing the bus."

"What!" another male passenger said too loudly, making the other passengers become even more nervous. "How much? We shouldn't have to pay. The bus company should."

Tara released her breath with strained patience while calmly cutting a piece of apple for her seatmate and placing it into her aged, shaking hand. "That's true, but we must deal with our circumstances."

"The girl is right," Mrs. Parker said. "If Tara hadn't been brave…"

"Perish the thought," another lady murmured and began digging in her bag for money. "Give him this." The action made others around her begin looking into their purses and wallets as well.

Tara stared at the crisp hundred-dollar bill and folded it away in her palm.