to spit rocks in his wake.
He hadn’t been on a bike since the counterfeiting bike gang down in Palm Springs five long years ago, and he felt rusty. He needed to practice, put the bike through its paces. Dust off his motorcycle skills so that when he drove up and asked old man McKaslin for a chance at a job, his cover would be flawless.
No one would see one of the top agents in his field, but a drifter on a bike who, like so many others across America, was looking for temporary work.
With the wind on his face and the sun on his back, Brody lost himself in the power and speed of the machine.
He intended to make this last case his best job. No matter what he faced.
Was it wrong to love shoes so much? Behind the wheel of her little blue pickup, Michelle McKaslin considered the three shopping bags crammed beside her on the bench seat. It was officially summer, so she needed the right shoes. The styles this summer were so cute—strappy flats and sassy mules and the softest suedes a girl just couldn’t say no to.
Even if her credit card was significantly maxed.
Well, nothing good came without sacrifice. It was a tough job, but someone had to sacrifice themselves for fashion, right?
Her cell chirped out the melodious strains of Pachebel’s Canon in D. That was the song she’d picked out for her trip down the aisle—not that she was getting married any time soon, but a girl had to hope. Besides, how could she sit through two of her older sisters’ weddings and not imagine one of her own?
She dug in her purse with one hand, keeping a good hold of the wheel because she’d already run into a fence post while she’d been searching for her phone and had the dent to prove it. She’d learned her lesson. She kept her eyes on the road and on her mirror. There was a motorcycle buzzing up behind her. A bright red one. She didn’t recognize the motorcycle or the broad-shouldered man whose face was masked by a matching red helmet. He wasn’t anyone she knew, and she knew everybody. That’s what you got for growing up in a small farming town. It was just the way it worked.
So, who was this guy? Probably someone passing through. She saw it all the time—drifters, travelers, tourists, mostly tourists. This guy looked young and fit.
Hmm, it never hurt a girl to look. She found her phone, hit the button and held it to her ear. “Hey, Jenna, talk to me.”
“I’m dying and my shift isn’t close to being over.” Jenna, her best friend since the first grade, sounded absolutely bored.
Of course she was. What other way was there to be? They were living in the middle of nowhere. In the middle of rural Montana where growing grass was news. Where exciting headlines like the current price of hay, wheat, soybeans and potatoes dominated the radio stations’ airwaves and headlined the local paper.
Her life was so uneventful it was a miracle she didn’t die of boredom. Her life was good and she was grateful, but a girl could use some excitement now and then.
“Check this.” Michelle leaned forward just enough to keep the biker in her side-view mirror.
Of course, he was passing her because she always drove the speed limit; one, she couldn’t afford a ticket and two, she felt guilty breaking the law. “There’s this really cute guy. At least, I think he’s cute. Kinda hard to tell with the helmet. He’s passing on the straight stretch like right down from my driveway and—”
“He’s not a gross scary guy, is he?” Jenna was never too sure about men she didn’t know.
With good reason, true. “But this is a daydream, Jen. We’ve got to make it good. He’s got these broad shoulders, strong arms, like he’s in command of his bike.”
“In command of the road.” Jenna sighed, picking up on the game they’d played since they were freshmen in high school. “He’s a bounty hunter, wrongly accused. A good man, but hunted.”
“That’s an old TV show,” Michelle reminded her, taking her attention completely off the road as the man and his bike swept past her window. She caught a good profile, a strong jaw and the sense of steady masculinity. “How about a spy on the run, disenchanted?”
“Or how about a star hockey player. A man of faith, a man of integrity, taking a trip across the country looking for that piece missing from his life.”
“The love of his life,” Michelle finished and they sighed together. It was a nice thought—
“Oh! No!” She saw the tan streak emerge from the tall grass along the side of the road. A deer and a fawn dashed onto the road and turned to stare at the oncoming bike and Michelle’s truck.
The phone crashed to the seat as Michelle hit the brakes and turned into the skid with both hands trying to figure out who was going to move first—the biker or the deer—and which way everyone was going to go.
A little help, please, Father, she prayed as time slowed down like a movie running too slow. Her vision narrowed. Only the road in front of her mattered. The biker had turned too fast, hit his brakes too hard and was going down. One strong leg shot out trying to break his fall, but all he was doing was wiping out right in front of her.
She aimed for the deep irrigation ditch, crossing the double yellow, bracing herself for the impact she knew was coming. She put both feet on the brake and prayed. The deer and fawn skipped safely off the road and disappeared into the field of growing alfalfa.
The man and bike fell in a graceful and final arc to the pavement and skidded. She heard the crash of metal and the revving engine rise and then cut off. Her feet on the brake didn’t seem to do any good. She was skidding toward the deep ditch and a solid wood telephone pole on the other side of it.
Then, as if angels had reached down to stop her, the truck’s brakes caught and the vehicle jerked to a stop.
Silence.
Thank you, Lord. Michelle tumbled back against her seat, grateful that her seat harness had secured her tight. The truck’s engine coughed and died. In the space between one breath and another she saw the man on the ground. He was as motionless as a rag doll sprawled on the two-lane county road.
She grabbed her phone only to hear Jenna sobbing. “Michelle? Can you hear me? Are you okay? I’m calling the police—”
“I need an ambulance,” she said in a rush. “Not for me. The motorcycle guy. Tell them to hurry.”
She ripped off her seat belt, leaped from the truck and flew across the road. Dropped to her knees at the fallen man’s side.
He was so still. All six feet of him. His black leather bomber jacket was ripped at the shoulder where blood streamed through a tear in the seam of his black T-shirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
Good. That meant he was alive. Thank God. She leaned over him, careful not to move him. “Mister? Can you hear me?”
“Seraphim for the win” came a muffled response from behind the shaded visor.
Seraphim? He was talking about angels? He must be at death’s door. Oh, please don’t die on me, mister.
“Mister, hold on. Help is coming.” She lifted his visor with her fingertips. His eyes were closed, but those
