Laura Drake - Her Road Home

“Can you recommend a hotel in Widow’s Grove?” She thumbed open the bottle of pills and, after reading the label, popped two and dry swallowed them.

He looked over his shoulder, then back to the mirror. “Are you looking for a room, or a bed-and-breakfast for a king’s ransom?”

She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. “Do I look like a B-and-B kind of girl to you?”

He shot her an assessing glance. “I’ve got just the place.”

They rode two miles to the turnoff in silence, then slowed at the main street of town. The view made her forget the pain.

Wow. This is how to treat cottage architecture with respect.

Neat Victorian facades lined both sides of the street. She recognized Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles, among others. Each house sported gingerbread scrollwork, and intricate spandrels above porches displayed traditional strong colors: green, maroon, yellow, or blue.

Sam looked around as they drove through downtown, wishing she had access to her camera. On the right, they passed a yellow, single-story adobe building with leggy wildflowers in the yard. The sign over the door said Santa Inez County Grange Building. From its look, she thought it probably housed the county library.

They idled at a four-way stop where a tall flagpole graced the center of the intersection. She couldn’t read the weathered bronze plaque on the concrete base, but imagined it stood in memory of the founding of the town, or of its brave departed soldiers.

She glanced up the cross street lined with beautiful bed-and-breakfast hotels. Although the architecture had a Victorian flavor, they were spanking new. It reminded her of Main Street in Disneyland, everything so perfect and “in period” that it flirted with parody.

Nestled between them were antiques stores, art galleries and souvenir shops. The rain-drenched streets were deserted. They rolled through the intersection, past an empty coffee shop. White wrought iron tables dotted the patio, and a flock of small sparrows, looking as bedraggled as she felt, took shelter under the bright umbrellas. The entire town seemed like a carnival after hours—without the crowds it seemed pointless and lonely.

A half mile farther, the cab pulled in a graveled drive just past a sign for Raven’s Rest, a cluster of tiny wooden cabins, their heyday probably dating to the ’60s. Huge pines hovered over them, branches resting on moss-covered roofs. Each cabin had a small porch with a rusting metal chair that had once been white.

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean and safe.”

“No, this is good.” She unbuckled the belt, and bent carefully to retrieve her saddlebags.

She paid the driver from her dwindling wad of bills. “Can you tell me how far I am from Pinelli’s Repair?

“It’s less than a mile from here. Just turn left at Hollister. Nick’s is a block down.”

“Thanks.”

The taxi backed out, then pulled onto the road. The rain began again, this time more of a cold, soaking mist. The office seemed a distant island in a vast sea of wet gravel. She almost sighed, but caught herself in time. She trudged, helmet and suitcase banging her leg, the pain in her ribs and shoulder pounding.

A buzzer sounded as she opened the creaking door and squeezed into a tiny office. Grumbling emanated from the recesses of the cabin, something to do with idiots out in bad weather. The curtain behind the desk whisked aside, and Sam faced...well, the first thing that came to mind was...a troll.

Old and stooped, the man had scraggly gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail. He wore a misshapen moth-eaten cardigan over a white shirt tinged yellow. A pair of Marine spit-shined wing tips peeked from under sagging pants at least a size too large. It took Sam several seconds to make out his words, as he was in need of an entire set of teeth.

“Lordy, whaddya have here?”

She could’ve asked the same question. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Well, you’re in luck, missy. I have one left.” Faded blue eyes twinkled beneath grizzled eyebrows. “Forty-five dollars a night. No wild parties, no men and no room service.”

Sam barked a surprised laugh, then winced. Reaching for her credit card, she said, “And here I had my heart set on champagne and cabana boys.”

He turned the register for her to sign. “You look a bit like a drowned rat, but I guess you’ll do.”

“Do you know where I can get something to eat nearby?”

“The Farm House Café, just up the street. Not fancy, but good home cooking.” He pushed the key across the desk. “You can have our executive suite.”

“The Jacuzzi’s fired up, right?” She opened the door, and his laughter followed her into the drizzle.

Luckily, he’d put her in a cabin close to the office. She put down her stuff and unlocked the door. A frayed chenille spread covered the swaybacked iron bed, and an old-fashioned radiator squatted under the window. Inside, she dropped the bags and crossed to the tiny bathroom. The pitted stainless steel hardware gleamed in the stark light of a bare lightbulb.

Sam turned the shower on full force and gingerly peeled off the sling and her damp clothes while waiting for the water to heat. She glanced into the mirror, flecked with black spots, and winced. A lump and an angry red impression of the bike’s handlebar stretched from just below her sternum to her side. A purple goose egg rode her left collarbone. Damn. That was going to hurt for real tomorrow. She stepped into the hot shower, letting the stinging spray do its magic on her aching body.

Oh, heaven. Now if only the leprechaun at the front desk would just grant me room service...

Ten minutes later, when her body had stopped screaming demands and her bones felt soft and liquid, she stepped out of the shower. She wrapped the thin hotel towel around herself and walked the few steps to the bed.

She was hungry, but knew she was in no shape to walk anywhere tonight.

Lifting the covers, she gently burrowed in, shivering at the chilled touch of fresh sheets. She carefully rolled onto her uninjured side, creating a comfortable nest.

It looked like she’d be here awhile, and that suited her fine. The siren call of the open road had pulled her this far, but her travel account had reached warning levels. She’d need to find a job, but she was too tired to think about that now.

Her body relaxed and her exhausted brain drifted to the refrains of her road song and the sound of rain, dripping from the pines onto the roof.

Maybe this time she’d gone far enough, fast enough, to outrun her own guilty shadow. She sure hoped so, because she’d flat run out. Run out of time. Run out of money. And she’d run out of land to feed her restless front tire.

CHAPTER TWO

SAM JERKED AWAKE and in her panic, forgot. The ninja dagger plunged. She froze, panting in shallow rabbit breaths. Her heart slammed her ribs, which set them to throbbing.

Morning light slanted onto the bed through the white curtains. The nightmare seemed to drift on the dust motes. In the dream the cellar walls had transitioned to dirt. The rough cave opening had been only a darker shadow. Something had waited. Something that hammered her with soul-withering terror.

It’s not real. It is not real. She knew the mantra would calm her, if she kept at it long enough.

Her nightmares weren’t normal. She knew that. They washed her nights in an ugliness that lingered, the residue clinging to the inside of her skull. It leached out, leaving greasy stains on each new day.

When her lungs no longer begged for oxygen, she tried to roll onto her back and reach for the amber plastic pill bottle. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Her ribs’ painful response was only the high soprano in the operatic chorus of her body’s pain. Waiting until the wailing quieted to a whimper, she tried again. Slowly. That worked better. She swallowed the pills, grateful for the little white dots that promised relief.