Beatric said second door on the right. Got it. Thank you again. Sleep well, Jackson Reeves. He climbed the narrow stairs, found the room.
It was small single bed nightstand, dresser, one window, looking out over the desert. Clean like she'd promised. Simple, honest. Jackson sat on the bed, took off his boots, lay back, and stared at the ceiling. He thought about Diane, about the promise he'd made, about Beatatric standing in the gravel beside a dead motorcycle asking, "Can you ride? " He thought about Douglas, a pilot who came home from war and bought a diner, who rode a Harley into the desert on Sundays looking for quiet, looking for peace, looking for a way to be someone other than what the war had made him.
He thought about all the broken things in the world, all the things that couldn't be fixed, and the few that could. Jackson closed his eyes, listened to the desert wind, listened to the old building settle and creek, listened to the sound of his own breathing. For the first time in six years, he fell asleep without seeing Dian's face in those last moments, without hearing the screech of tires and breaking glass, without counting the days he'd lost. He slept and dreamed of motorcycles and open roads and second chances that might actually mean something. When Jackson woke, dawn was breaking over the desert.
Light crept through the thin curtains, painting the small room in shades of gold and amber. He checked his phone. 6:45. He'd slept 8 hours straight. Hadn't done that since before Diane died.
He dressed, pulled on his boots, splashed water on his face from the bathroom sink. The water pressure was terrible, just like Beatatrice had warned. But the water was clean and cold and honest. Downstairs, the diner was just opening. Early morning light streamed through the windows.
Iris was setting up the coffee station. Beatatrice was nowhere in sight. "Coffee? " Iris asked. "Please," she poured a cup. "Black, steam rising.
Bees out back. Been there since 6. " Jackson took his coffee and walked through the kitchen, pushed open the back door. Beatatric stood beside Douglas's Harley. She wasn't trying to start it. Just standing there with one hand on the handlebar, looking at it the way you'd look at an old friend you'd neglected for too long.
"Morning," Jackson said softly. She turned. Her eyes were clearer this morning. The medication working, buying her time. Morning.
You sleep okay? Better than I have in years. Good. She looked back at the bike. I was thinking about what you said yesterday about this not making it to Boulder City.
About it being too far gone. I said it needed work. Didn't say it was too far gone. There's a difference. Beatric ran her hand along the tank, leaving tracks in the dust.
What would it take to make it run again? Jackson sat down his coffee, approached the bike like a doctor examining a patient, crouched beside it, checked the tires cracked but not blown, the chain rusty but intact. The fuel line brittle but replaceable. Carburetor needs rebuilding. New spark plugs, fuel filter battery for sure, oil change, brake fluid, probably a dozen other small things.
He looked up at her. Why? Because I want to ride it again. Her voice was firm. Decided one more time.
I want to feel what Douglas felt. I want to She stopped, started again. I want to remember what it was like before everything got hard. Before I got sick, before I was alone. Jackson understood.
God help him. He understood completely. I can fix it, he said. If you want me to. You'd do that?
I would. Why? You don't owe me anything. You already helped me more than I had any right to ask. Jackson looked at the old Harley at 9 years of dust and rust and neglect.
At something beautiful that had been loved and then forgotten because remembering hurt too much. Maybe I'm not doing it for you, he said. Maybe I'm doing it for me. Maybe I need to know I can still fix broken things. Beatric studied his face.
Because of your wife. Because of a lot of things. She nodded slowly. How long would it take? A week?
Maybe less. If the parts come quick and nothing seized up too bad, I'd need to order some things. Need a workspace. Tools. There's a garage behind the storage shed.
Douglas used to work on the bike there. Tools are still inside. Everything's still there. I couldn't. Her voice caught.
I couldn't bring myself to touch any of it. I'd have to stay. Can't fix it. And ride back and forth to Carson City every day. The room's yours as long as you need it.
I'll pay rent and for the parts. We can work that out. Beatrice extended her hand. Deal. Jackson took it.
Her grip was steady this morning. The medication buying her hours of normal. Hours of being who she used to be. Deal. They shook.
Two people making a bargain over a broken motorcycle and unspoken wounds. And the hope that some things could still be made whole. I need to make some calls, Jackson said. Get the parts ordered. Use the phone in the office.
It's quieter there. The office was small, cluttered. Photos on the walls. Beatatrice and Douglas on their wedding day. Douglas in his flight suit.
The diner when it was new. A life in pictures. Jackson called Gideon first. Gave him the list of parts. Gideon promised to have everything shipped overnight to Dusty Ridge.
You're really doing this. Gideon. I'm really doing this. How long you planning to stay? However long it takes.
Silence. Then Tommy says to tell you the club's doing fine. Says to take your time. Says, "We've got your back. " Tell him thanks. And boss, whatever you're finding out there, don't let it go.
You sound like yourself again. Like the old Jackson, the one from before. After Gideon Jackson called Natalie, his daughter, 35 years old, a cardiologist in Portland, Oregon. They hadn't spoken in 8 months, hadn't really talked in 8 years. The phone rang four times.
He was about to hang up when she answered. Dad, her voice. Christ, her voice. So much like Diane's, it hurt to hear it. Hey, sweetheart.
Silence then. Is everything okay? You never call. Is someone did something happen? Everything's fine.
I just I wanted you to know I'm going to be out of touch for a week or so working on a project. What kind of project? Fixing a motorcycle for someone who needs it. More silence. Processing.
Are you in some kind of trouble? No, nothing like that. Just helping someone out. That doesn't sound like you. The words came out before she could stop them.
Then I'm sorry. I didn't mean No, you're right. It doesn't sound like me. Maybe I'm trying to be different. He heard Natalie take a breath.
Let it out slow. Where are you, T? Little town in Nevada. Dusty Ridge, middle of nowhere. Never heard of it.
Most people haven't. It's the kind of place that's dying slow. But there's a woman here who needs help, and I'm going to help her. Another pause, longer this time. Dad, are you really okay?
Jackson looked out the office window. Saw Beatrice in the diner setting up for breakfast. Saw the old Harley waiting in the morning light. Saw the desert stretching away forever empty and honest and unforgiving. I think I might be, he said.