“Good morning,” he said, when he saw me looking at him. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Sure. You could set the table.”
He nodded and busied himself pulling plates and glasses from a cupboard.
Kyle hung over the stove. When he reached out to snag a piece of bacon from the pan, I smacked his fingers with the spatula.
“Ow!” he yelped, then glanced at Ripper. “Can’t you do something to contain her violent impulses?”
Ripper leaned back against the counter and sipped his coffee. “I like Mac’s impulses. Especially the violent ones.”
Groaning, I turned my back on the men and flipped over the bacon.
We stuffed ourselves on the hearty breakfast. While the men cleaned up the kitchen—I insisted that we leave Frank and Evelyn’s kitchen as tidy as we found it—Hector and I retreated to the yard to play with the Frisbee. He’d be riding in the jeep for much of the day and needed to stretch his legs. Hector kept me company while I picked a bagful of cherries to take with us on the road.
Returning to the house, I found the men huddled over the table, maps spread out before them as they plotted our new route to Valhalla.
“Bear’s one helluva great guy,” Kyle said as I swung open the door. “The ranch is self sufficient, and it’s way off the beaten path. Should be a safe place to hole up for a while.”
“Spent a few days at a commune just outside of Grants Pass,” Ripper said. “Good people. They have crops, fresh water, fish. We could head there instead.”
Kyle frowned. “Bear said Valhalla is—and I quote—at the ass end of nowhere. The flu took lots of people, but there are enough survivors that things are going to get sketchy once all the stores and houses are stripped clean and people burn through their supplies. I think we’d be safer on an isolated ranch than at a commune just outside of a city.”
Ripper shrugged. “Can’t argue with your logic.”
“Tell you what,” Kyle said. “We go to Valhalla first. If it doesn’t work out or if we don’t like it, then we head to the commune in Grants Pass.” Kyle, always a dealmaker, always trying to persuade people to his way of thinking. No wonder his dad encouraged him to apply to law school.
“Yeah. I’m good with that,” Ripper said.
While our clothes dried, I took another hot shower. On impulse, I pilfered several items from the basket of toiletries: perfume samples, the coconut shampoo Ripper liked, and a few orange blossom-scented bath bombs. Fingers crossed Valhalla had a good well, a deep tub, and plentiful hot water. Rather than the flimsier leggings and sneakers I wore yesterday, I dressed in sturdy jeans and boots. Ripper used the inn’s gasoline to top off our tanks. I filled the blue-and-white pitcher with water, picked a large bouquet of dahlias from the front garden, then carefully placed the flower arrangement on Frank and Evelyn’s grave. Ripper joined me, squatting down to lay his hand against the wooden marker.
“Rest easy.”
I looked away, wiping my eyes.
We loaded our bags into the jeep. I slipped the white, retro style helmet over my head, donned a pair of leather gloves, and cast a final look at the Cherry Blossom Bed & Breakfast. Our route would take us through the Mt. Hood National Forest. Just south of the mountain, we’d head east on State Highway 216 toward Maupin. From there, we’d work our way north-east toward Valhalla. After the dam blew up, we had no choice but to follow a circuitous route toward our destination. Despite taking the long way around, we hoped to arrive at Valhalla before nightfall.
I held on tight to Ripper’s waist as we wended our way on the curving road in the shadow of majestic Mt. Hood. An interesting mix of houses dotted the roadway, utilitarian manufactured homes and large, expensive houses. I did a doubletake at a sign for a dinner church. I’d heard of dinner theater, but not dinner church. We rode past enormous high-tension power lines with cows grazing underneath, another unexpected sight in a wilderness. We crossed over a dry riverbed and passed signs for the trailheads that allowed hikers to explore the national forest surrounding Mt. Hood.
Proximity diminished the mountain. With an elevation of eleven thousand feet, you’d expect Mt. Hood to tower over the landscape. Instead, the mountain played peekaboo, a giant hiding coyly behind tall trees and hills, only to pop out once again when the road curved or the trees thinned. Proximity messed with optics, too. We were at least fifteen miles from the summit—according to Ripper’s calculation—yet when I had a clear view of the mountain, I swore I’d be able to see any climber who stood atop the peak, to wave a greeting and see them wave back.
Instead of going west toward the big ski resorts, we headed east, flying past the exits for campgrounds and small lakes. Ripper veered onto Highway 216, a smaller, two-lane state highway bordered on both sides with tall trees.
I’d turned my head to look at a warning sign for a cow crossing—in the woods of all places—when movement in my peripheral vision drew my eye. An animal bounded onto the roadway in front of us. Bigger than a deer, with a hump behind its neck, it had to be an elk. Ripper braked hard. I recoiled, as if I could pull back from the brink, halt inertia, and reverse the course of a bike hurtling toward impact with the huge beast.
The bike tipped sideways, and my shoulders tensed as my body arced toward the pavement.
Crap. This is going to hurt.
Hot metal seared my inner calf. I hit the asphalt and tumbled, jeans shredded, skin scraped raw. The side mirror snapped off the bike and clipped my shoulder as it shot by.
My head thwacked the roadway, and my skull rattled inside the motorcycle helmet. My vision dimmed. Clinging to consciousness was like squeezing a fist full of sand. No matter how tightly I held on, it slipped from my grasp.
Where’s Ripper?
Brakes squealed. Doors slammed. Shouts.
Blurry. Everything was blurry, and I was dimly aware of something or somebody poking me. Sounds morphed into an unintelligible hum.
I’m cold, so freaking cold.
I groaned.
“I got you, Mac,” a deep voice rumbled.
I blinked. Ripper’s face swam into view, hovering over mine. Through numb lips, I strained to say his name, but my battered body wouldn’t cooperate. I panicked, fighting the darkness pressing in on me from all sides.
Am I dying?
“Stay with me, darlin'.”
I don’t…
Blackness.
FIVE
Ripper
Bike slid out from under me, and I launched into an uncontrollable skid, eating asphalt till I landed on my back in the tall grass on the side of the road. Took a full thirty seconds for my brain to realize that my body had stopped moving. Another thirty seconds to assess the damages. Grunting, I forced myself to sit up and take stock. Neck supported my head just fine, thank fuck. Could I wiggle my fingers and toes? Yeah. Any bones protruding from my skin? Not so far as I could tell. Jammed my pinkie, but didn’t think it was broken. Even if it was, that wouldn’t stop me from doing what I had to do. Got road rash for sure. I’d be picking gravel out of my arms and knees later, but not now. Now I had to get to Mac.
Something glinted on the road. I patted my empty shoulder holster. Shit. I lost my Colt when I slid over the pavement.
I rolled onto all fours, then braced my weight on my hands while I pushed to my feet. I swayed, fighting for control of my body. No way I’d allow myself to pass out. Took one step, then two, my knees screaming like a motherfucker. I pushed the pain out of the way. Stooped to pick up my gun and shoved it back in the holster. I’d check it for damage later. Barely glanced at my busted Shovelhead or the dying elk that had collapsed on top of its shattered legs on the side of the road. Shaking my head, I tried to clear my vision. What I saw chilled my blood. Mac sprawled on her side in the middle of the road, Kyle and Sahdev kneeling next to her.