In Roared Flint. Jan Hudson

       Four

      Pedaling in high heels was murder, and no matter how much she wrestled with it, the tail of Julie’s bedraggled wedding dress kept getting caught in the spokes. She hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile, and already she was exhausted from trying to make headway on the decrepit bike. Only stubborn determination kept her herding the rickety thing down the lane in the fastfading light. At best, she had only a half hour before dark. She had to get home to her babies, who were sure to be upset and frightened, and to her family, who was bound to be frantic by now. And to Rob, of course.

      Another boom of thunder struck, reverberating through the dense woods. The wind plucked at the yards of material tucked around her. She slapped away flapping fabric as the air grew chill and the tops of tall trees swished and swayed. When the first big splats of rain hit, she groaned. Oh, no. Please, no.

      The tempo of the pelting raindrops increased. The sky darkened until she could barely see where she was going, and the drops rapidly escalated until they became a hard downpour.

      Behind her a motor roared to life.

      Her heart caught.

      She pedaled faster, but as the dirt road turned to mud, the going got tougher. She could hear the engine of the Harley coming closer and see the headlight cutting through the torrent.

      The rain plastered her hair to her head, rivulets of water ran off her chin, and her dress had turned into a sodden anchor when Flint pulled aside.

      “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled over the howl of the storm.

      “I’m going home,” she yelled back, never taking her eyes off the road.

      “You can’t get home on that thing and in this storm. You’re going to break your fool neck. Come get on with me, and let’s get out of the rain.”

      “Stick it in your ear, Flint Durham! I’m going home.”

      Julie pumped the pedals with everything she had, but she wasn’t gaining much ground. The bike grew more and more wobbly, and she had to fight to keep it straight. Her arms and legs quivered from the strain. She knew that she couldn’t go on much longer, but she’d rather eat liver than admit it to Flint.

      Suddenly she hit a hole. The jolt snatched the handlebars from her grip. The bicycle went one way; she went another. With a teeth-jarring splat, she belly flopped into a puddle. She spat, sputtered and cursed, then rolled over onto her back. As she lay spread-eagle in the middle of the oozing mud, she squinted at the sky and conceded defeat to the evil rain god that pummeled her. Dejected, disgusted, she closed her eyes and let the weather do its worst. She couldn’t get any more soaked, and she was too damned exhausted to care.