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agreed. “It’s probably one of the last ones.”
    â€œThat’s what we think, too. Can’t get parts no ways.”
    â€œI might could help you out there,” she said. “I’ve got good sources all over the place.”
    â€œWell.” Junior scratched between the folds of his expansive belly. “Parts is one thing. Findin’ somebody that knows how to put ’em back together right is somethin’ else.”
    â€œThat’s true.” Quinn went in for the kill. “What you boys need is a crackerjack Harley mechanic with lots of experience rebuilding vintage bikes.”
    â€œAin’t likely to find that ‘round here.”
    â€œNot ‘til now.” Quinn smiled at them.
    â€œYou a mechanic?” Junior sounded dubious.
    â€œYes sir, I am—one of the best, too.”
    â€œI’ll be.”
    â€œI’m staying up here for a couple of weeks. Maybe we can work out some kind of a deal.”
    â€œDeal?” That got Big Boy’s attention. His eyes shrunk to an almost normal circumference. He glared at Quinn like she had suggested something lewd.
    Junior wasn’t far behind him. “We don’t have money for that right now.”
    â€œWell, lucky for you, I’m not talking about money.” Quinn pulled the fishing tournament flier out of her pocket and held it out to Junior. “You boys familiar with this contest?”
    Junior nodded, but didn’t say anything. Big Boy was silent, too.
    â€œI was thinking about entering,” Quinn explained. “But I don’t have a boat or any gear.”
    Junior raised an eyebrow. “Kinda hard to enter without a boat.”
    â€œYes sir, it is.” Quinn waved a hand toward the warehouse full of salvage. “That’s why I thought maybe you boys could fix me up with everything I need to compete.”
    â€œYou ever done any tournament fishing?” Junior handed the flier back to her.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œYou ever done any other kind of fishing?”
    Quinn shook her head. “Only for compliments.”
    Junior looked confused.
    â€œThat would be a ‘no,’” Quinn explained.
    â€œHow come you want to start out this way? Why not just get a rod and see if you like it?”
    Quinn knew she’d really never to be able to explain it to him. She barely understood it herself. Viv’s dire predictions of catastropheand mayhem were still careening around inside her head like bumper cars—slamming into her impressive collection of all the other “girls can’t do that” pronouncements people had been hurling her way since childhood.
    Another round of applause roared up from the TV. Monty Hall was trying to tempt someone to trade what lay behind door number two for a big box on the stage.
    â€œGood things can come in small packages,” he said. The crowd seemed to agree with him.
    â€œTrade! Trade! Trade!” they bellowed.
    Door number two could be concealing the Big Deal of the Day. Or it could be hiding a Holstein and a milking stool. It was a crap-shoot. You just never knew.
    Junior was still staring at Quinn, waiting for her explanation.
    She pointed at the TV. “I’m like that woman right there,” she explained. “All my life, I’ve wanted to be brave enough to go for the Big Deal, and not settle for what everybody told me was good enough.”
    Junior looked at the TV, then back at Quinn.
    â€œYou think bass fishing is the Big Deal?” he asked.
    They all knew that no woman had ever won one of these high-profile tournaments.
    Quinn shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    He huffed. “Well if that ain’t the damnedest thing I ever heard.”
    His brother nodded his agreement.
    â€œWe can’t pay you to fix the bike.” Junior wanted to be sure to drive this point home.
    â€œI understand that. I’m offering to rebuild it for free, at my own