strokes. Red, red, red. “It’s not perfect, but I don’t foresee any problems—at least, not as long as the gas gauge on this thing is working.”
Owen cleared his throat, a faint but definite sound. “Perhaps you’d better fill up along the way.”
Mill Springs, 50 Miles.
The hand-painted sign greeted her from the side of the road, part of an advertisement for Hillside Gas & Food. Beneath it perched a more precarious seasonal sign declaring Hunters Welcome.
Meanwhile, no signs of further interest in the Taurus, no random acts of stupid motorists in her path, no signs of construction on roads turned classically wretched at the state line…another hour and she’d be there. Not bad, considering the state of the car—and that she’d turned off the interstate to travel quieter roads as soon as the opportunity arose. She’d also taken advantage of another short break to apply a metallic-blue eye shadow and pull her almost nonexistent bangs aside with a tiny plastic barrette, and to play with her long-buried accent. I’m Baw-nie Miller ….
The hilly Pennsylvania woods unrolled before her, full of waxing fall color; the number of dead deer by the road reminded her that it was indeed the whitetail’s most active season. Just another of the memories she’d put behind her that now flooded back full force, erasing the intervening years as if she hadn’t crawled out of this place on pure grit and desperation. Foolish to have brought the camera…she needed no pictures of this area.
But she snarled back at those memories. This trip wasn’t about the past, no matter what Owen might think. It was about the present, and a woman in danger. It wasabout the way Kimmer had changed her life so she was the one who could deal with such situations—instead of running from them.
It was about the way she needed to put gas in this game little car.
As promised, the entrance for Hillside Gas & Food appeared just beyond the next curve, although the sign over the gas pumps had taken some wear and now read Hillside Gas & Foo. The pumps themselves were old enough that they didn’t take credit cards; gas purchase was purely via honor system. Kimmer filled the nearly empty tank and pulled the car away from the pumps and off to the side. She checked to see that her little red barrette hadn’t slipped, took a deep breath that somehow felt necessary, and headed for the store.
Bells announced her arrival. She found an older man behind the counter, thinning white hair in a halfhearted comb-over, cheeks red from the same rosaceae that had roughened his nose. He nodded when she told him “Fifteen dollars,” and went to wander briefly through the store, trying to decide between caffeine in Frappuccino or caffeine in Mountain Dew, smiling slightly at the man’s instant curiosity and his following gaze. A little bored, a little nosy…harmless combination. Just enough of a proprietary nature to let her know he owned the place.
The glass-front shelves held plenty of dairy and plenty of beer, but nothing so esoteric as her favorite cold coffee; she grabbed the soda instead. A few desultory cans of soup caught her eye; she snagged one, hefting it thoughtfully. Lunch? Peanut butter crackers would be easier to eat on the road….
Reluctantly, she decide to return the soup to theshelf—but the door bells jangled and when she glanced up at the new customers, surprise rooted her to the spot.
Two of them. Tall and blond and sturdy. Kimmer snapped off an inward curse, and not a nice one. The very people she was trying to avoid on this road. And as Ryobe Carlsen held the door for his cousin Carolyne, he said with straight-man humor, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some good foo.”
The man at the counter gave a hearty but insincere laugh. “Gotta get that sign fixed one of these days.”
Kimmer eased back slightly. She would just stay here and examine the soup can until they left, head bent, body language small and
Owen cleared his throat, a faint but definite sound. “Perhaps you’d better fill up along the way.”
Mill Springs, 50 Miles.
The hand-painted sign greeted her from the side of the road, part of an advertisement for Hillside Gas & Food. Beneath it perched a more precarious seasonal sign declaring Hunters Welcome.
Meanwhile, no signs of further interest in the Taurus, no random acts of stupid motorists in her path, no signs of construction on roads turned classically wretched at the state line…another hour and she’d be there. Not bad, considering the state of the car—and that she’d turned off the interstate to travel quieter roads as soon as the opportunity arose. She’d also taken advantage of another short break to apply a metallic-blue eye shadow and pull her almost nonexistent bangs aside with a tiny plastic barrette, and to play with her long-buried accent. I’m Baw-nie Miller ….
The hilly Pennsylvania woods unrolled before her, full of waxing fall color; the number of dead deer by the road reminded her that it was indeed the whitetail’s most active season. Just another of the memories she’d put behind her that now flooded back full force, erasing the intervening years as if she hadn’t crawled out of this place on pure grit and desperation. Foolish to have brought the camera…she needed no pictures of this area.
But she snarled back at those memories. This trip wasn’t about the past, no matter what Owen might think. It was about the present, and a woman in danger. It wasabout the way Kimmer had changed her life so she was the one who could deal with such situations—instead of running from them.
It was about the way she needed to put gas in this game little car.
As promised, the entrance for Hillside Gas & Food appeared just beyond the next curve, although the sign over the gas pumps had taken some wear and now read Hillside Gas & Foo. The pumps themselves were old enough that they didn’t take credit cards; gas purchase was purely via honor system. Kimmer filled the nearly empty tank and pulled the car away from the pumps and off to the side. She checked to see that her little red barrette hadn’t slipped, took a deep breath that somehow felt necessary, and headed for the store.
Bells announced her arrival. She found an older man behind the counter, thinning white hair in a halfhearted comb-over, cheeks red from the same rosaceae that had roughened his nose. He nodded when she told him “Fifteen dollars,” and went to wander briefly through the store, trying to decide between caffeine in Frappuccino or caffeine in Mountain Dew, smiling slightly at the man’s instant curiosity and his following gaze. A little bored, a little nosy…harmless combination. Just enough of a proprietary nature to let her know he owned the place.
The glass-front shelves held plenty of dairy and plenty of beer, but nothing so esoteric as her favorite cold coffee; she grabbed the soda instead. A few desultory cans of soup caught her eye; she snagged one, hefting it thoughtfully. Lunch? Peanut butter crackers would be easier to eat on the road….
Reluctantly, she decide to return the soup to theshelf—but the door bells jangled and when she glanced up at the new customers, surprise rooted her to the spot.
Two of them. Tall and blond and sturdy. Kimmer snapped off an inward curse, and not a nice one. The very people she was trying to avoid on this road. And as Ryobe Carlsen held the door for his cousin Carolyne, he said with straight-man humor, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for some good foo.”
The man at the counter gave a hearty but insincere laugh. “Gotta get that sign fixed one of these days.”
Kimmer eased back slightly. She would just stay here and examine the soup can until they left, head bent, body language small and
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