Felt the weight of another man's life, another man's love, collecting dust in the desert heat. The sun touched the horizon. The sky turned amber and rose in purple. Jackson walked back to his bike, checked the fuel, nearly full. Checked the tire pressure.
Good. Started the engine and listened to it purr like a satisfied cat. Beatrice emerged from the diner carrying a small canvas bag. She'd added a leather jacket all worn at the elbows, the kind that had seen better days, but refused to quit. She walked with purpose, with the kind of dignity that doesn't ask for pity or offer explanations.
A woman in her 70s stood in the doorway watching, gray hair, worried eyes. Be honey, you sure about this? The woman called. I'm sure, Iris. I'll be back in a few hours.
You don't even know this man. I know enough. Beatatrice kept walking. Lock up if I'm not back by 9:00. You ever ride passenger?
Jackson asked when she reached the bike. Not in 30 years. My husband used to take me before the Parkinsons. Before everything else, she looked at the Road King like it might bite her. Before I got old.
It'll come back to you like riding a bicycle. I never liked bicycles much. Then it'll be better than that. She almost smiled. Almost.
Jackson swung his leg over the settled into the seat. Beatatrice hesitated then climbed on behind him. She was light, lighter than he expected. Lighter than seemed right for a woman who'd lived 70s something years. He felt her hands grip his jacket at the waist.
Tentative unsure. Hold on tighter than that, Jackson said. Put your arms around my ribs and lean with me in the turns. Don't fight it. The bike knows what it's doing.
Her grip tightened. He felt her arms circle his torso, felt the tremor in her hands through the leather. "Ready? " he asked. "No," a pause. "But let's go anyway. " Jackson kicked the bike into gear, felt it surge beneath them like a living thing waking up.
Pointed them toward the highway toward Boulder City, toward whatever waited in the fading light. They hit Highway 95 and Jackson opened the throttle. The world condensed to motion and wind. And the white line disappearing beneath them like miles of regret being left behind. The Harley roared a sound older than America's wars, as primal as thunder, as honest as hunger.
Beatric's grip tightened around Jackson's waist. Through the mirrors, he could see her face, eyes closed. Not from fear, from something else. Memory, maybe, or prayer, or both. The desert stretched on both sides like a held breath.
Sage and sand and silence broken only by their passage. The sun melted into the mountains, bleeding orange and red across the sky like a wound that wouldn't heal. Jackson pushed the bike to 90, then 95. The speedometer needle climbed toward 100. Behind him, Beatatric didn't flinch.
In fact, and Jackson felt this through her grip through the way her body moved with the bike. Instead of against it, she relaxed like she'd done this before. Like muscle memory was older and deeper than Parkinson's, older than fear, older than the years that had tried to break her. The highway curved and Jackson leaned. Beatric leaned with him.
Perfect synchronicity. Two strangers moving as one. 20 minutes in, she spoke. Her voice barely audible over the wind. You ride like Douglas.
Jackson didn't respond. Didn't ask who Douglas was. Knew it was the husband. Knew it was a compliment and an elegy all at once. 25 minutes 30.
The sky darkened from amber to violet to deep blue. Stars emerged like distant promises nobody could keep. Jackson saw the lights of Boulder City ahead. A constellation of human stubbornness against the empty dark. Proof that people still tried, still built, still hoped.
He slowed as they entered town. 50, 40, 35. The bike's growl softened to a purr. The pharmacy, Beatatric said, on Highway 93 next to the hardware store. Jackson found it, pulled into the lot, killed the engine.
The silence rushed back in like water filling a hole, like the world remembering how to breathe. Beatric climbed off, stumbled slightly. Jackson steadied her with one hand. "I'm okay," she said. But she wasn't.
The tremor had spread from her hands to her arms. The ride, the adrenaline, the fear, all of it catching up at once. I'll wait here," Jackson said. She nodded, walked toward the pharmacy. Each step measured controlled, refusing to hurry even though her body was betraying her.
Refusing to show weakness, even though weakness was all she had left, Jackson watched her go, watched her pull open the glass door, disappear inside under fluorescent lights. He sat on his bike in the empty parking lot, and wondered what the hell he was doing. He should be in Carson City by now. Should be at the clubhouse with Gideon and the rest of the brothers. Should be anywhere but here helping a stranger he'd known for less than an hour.
But Diane's voice whispered in his head. That same voice from the hospital bed, weak but determined. Promise me you'll help people when you can. Promise me you won't become someone who just rides past. He'd broken a lot of promises in his life, but not that one.
Not anymore. 15 minutes passed. Then 20. Jackson started to worry. Started thinking about going in.
Started imagining worst case scenarios. Then Beatatrice emerged. She held a white paper bag clutched to her chest like it contained something precious. Her walk was steadier, the tremor less pronounced. She'd taken the medication inside.
He realized couldn't wait even to get back. Couldn't risk the ride home without it. She approached the bike, stood there looking at him. Really looking. "Thank you," she said.
And in those two words, Jackson heard everything she wasn't saying. Heard the fear, the relief, the grudging trust, the surprise that a tattooed stranger on a Harley had turned out to be exactly what she needed. "You need to get back," she nodded. "Then let's ride. " The return trip was different. Beatatrice held on from the start, firm, confident.
She leaned into the curves without hesitation. Once on a long, straight stretch under a sky full of stars, Jackson felt her grip loosen slightly, felt her right hand lift just for a moment, palm out to the wind. Freedom. That's what it was. The simple pure freedom of not being sick, not being scared, not being alone.
They pulled into the gravel lot behind Holloway's rest as full dark settled over the desert. The diner's lights glowed warm through the windows. The old Harley soft tail sat where they'd left it. Waiting, patient, a monument to better days. Jackson killed the engine.
Beatatric climbed off with more grace than she'd climbed on. She pulled off her leather jacket, ran a hand through her short gray hair. "You hungry? " she asked? Jackson realized he was. Hadn't eaten since breakfast in Carson City a lifetime ago.
"Could eat. " "Come on then. Least I can do is feed you. " The diner was nearly empty. The woman from before Iris stood behind the counter. She looked up as they entered. Her eyes went from Beatatric to Jackson and back again, reading the story written in the road dust and the relief.
Be Honey, you okay? You were gone so long I was about to call the sheriff. I'm fine, Iris. Just had to make a run to Boulder City. Beatric gestured at Jackson.
Jackson Reeves, meet Iris Brennan. She's worked here longer than I've owned the place. Jackson nodded. Iris nodded back. A cautious, measuring nod that said she was reserving judgment, but leaning toward approval.
"Sit anywhere you like," Beatatric said. "I'll bring you something to eat. " "You don't have to. I'm going to, so sit. " There was steel in her voice. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. Jackson sat at the counter.
He watched Beatatrice move behind it with the efficiency of someone who'd done this 10,000 times. Watched her pour coffee, two cups, both black. Watched her hands. The tremor was still there, but softer now, the medication working, buying her a few more hours of normal. She set a cup in front of him.
Steam rose in lazy spirals. I'm not much of a cook anymore, she said. But I can manage a decent burger. Listen to me. That okay?
That's fine. She disappeared into the kitchen. Iris wiped down the counter, shooting glances at Jackson when she thought he wasn't looking. You're not from around here, Iris said. Not quite a question.
Carson City. Long way to come for dinner. Wasn't planning on dinner. Was just passing through. Funny how that works out sometimes.
Iris leaned on the counter, lowered her voice. I've known Bee for 20 years since she and Douglas bought this place. Never seen her let a stranger help her before. Never seen her get on a motorcycle since Douglas died. She paused.