Rolling Thunder

Chapter 2

The first training session with Rocket had been an unmitigated disaster. But what stood out in her mind was Evan. Yeah, she’d noticed him going by on his bike, tattooed, muscled arms stretched out on the handlebars. The ultimate biker profile, except he didn’t have a ponytail to whip out behind him. Now that she’d seen him up close, she noticed his dark hair was shaved on the sides to create a sort of faux-hawk. There was a scar on his cheekbone, marring an otherwise perfect face. He was handsome in an almost boyish way, with a sparkle in his eye that set her at ease. Yet she could sense there was a lurking intensity. He was not harmless, nor a boy. She had to focus and stop thinking about him. To save her farm, she needed a miracle. Not a dangerous horse or a handsome biker.

When the day was finally drawing to a close, she walked through the barn the way her Gram Kay had taught her. She checked to be sure everything was tidy and put away, the horses were content. Stall doors were latched properly. The horses on pasture were grazing happily. Before the day was done, she could do at least this one thing right.

She smiled to herself as she passed the short leather riding crop hanging from a nail on the wall. The small, sewn leather bat was in the shape of a hand. She couldn’t remember for sure if her grandmother or Canyon Bill had seen it at the farm supply store and bought it as a joke. It was nicknamed the Daniels Family Ass-Whacker, and it hung in the barn as a threat to anyone stepping out of bounds that they might get a playful whack on the rear. Many a good laugh had been had over the Ass-Whacker, but her momentary smile faded. Canyon Bill was long gone, and her grandmother was dead. She was all alone, making a mess of things.

The farm that had once teemed with life—kids taking riding lessons and tourists on trail rides—now was desolate. The barn roof sagged and leaked; the beams beneath were beginning to rot.

She could still feel the grit on her skin in uncomfortable places from her earlier wild ride. The last stop of the day was up her long driveway to the mailbox. There was never good news there. Sure enough, a single envelope from the bank stared back at her. Maybe it was fitting justice for her to lose the farm she didn’t deserve to the bank. Her body ached from the fall. But the envelope from the bank held a different kind of pain. It was a stark warning that if she didn’t make her mortgage payment by the twenty-first of the month, they would initiate foreclosure proceedings.

As Evan pulled it open,the breaker box creaked in protest, or maybe it was the sound of an animal living inside it. Straw and fluff fell out of a tangle of wires. Most of the homes in this area of Florida didn’t date back very far, but the tropical climate aged them quickly if they weren’t maintained with love and care. He replaced the panel and mapped out the circuits to each room. Today he was running additional feeds for new outlets and fixtures to improve the lighting inside the house. Normally, work calmed him. Seeing the exposed bones of the house as he ran wires through, matching feeds to circuit breaker: it was always the same. It was predictable and not subject to opinion, and for some reason, that was soothing.

The unease he felt now was like finding mice in the wiring. Like a little animal, it crawled up and down the back of his neck, occasionally nibbling, occasionally gnawing, causing his steady new life to flicker and short. He’d tried to outrun it, blasting down State Road 31 on his motorcycle, the wind pummeling his face with familiar fists. He’d tried to drown it out, throttling the bike into a scream, and yet there it remained.

Dan said there were TV people sniffing around. They wanted to make a reality show. Dan was ready to jump in without thinking. Evan’s seed money could only get them so far. They’d made a profit on the first three houses, but then disaster had struck, literally. They’d taken a chance on a pricier purchase only to have it destroyed by Hurricane Ian before they’d had time to renovate or sell it. It was a huge financial blow, and the money they needed to snap up promising houses to flip was dwindling fast. Without a current project of their own, Evan and Dan had been helping Dan’s neighbor on Matlacha try to salvage their house after Hurricane Ian. The local news broadcasted a clip of it as a feel good segment. The reporter had interviewed Dan, and apparently, a scout from the Home Improvement Network had noticed that he was funny and looked good on camera.

Evan heard the hippie van before he saw it. It came up the road emitting a unique combination of rattle and purr. How the thing still ran was a mystery, but run it did. It was painted sky blue, another project Dan had done with some artist girlfriend. It was a VW microbus with racks installed to hold surfboards. It had a mattress in the back because Dan slept in it from time to time on surfing trips. The surf wasn’t as good on the gulf coast of Florida. On this side of the state, Dan usually used his kiteboard. When the conditions were right, Dan would often load his van up with surfboards and friends and drive across the state for a week. The nomadic, colorful life of Dan’s parrot-head parents had rubbed off on him enough to instill a lifetime love for coastal and island life. Dan’s family had settled down in Evan’s hometown of Homestead, one of the last mainland stops before the keys. It was cheaper than the keys, but close enough to make for easy pilgrimages. And so, Dan and Evan had become childhood friends. Despite how differently they’d turned out, the bond was still there.

Evan waited in the doorway as Dan leaped out of the van, producing beers from a cooler in the back. That was one good thing about the van. You never knew what he might have back there.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s gonna be great,” Dan said, ever happy-go-lucky. He picked right up in the middle of the conversation they’d started over text. “You won’t believe the money they’re offering us up front. It’ll really make up for the one we lost to Ian,” he said, referring to the hurricane that had singlehandedly destroyed their funds.

Evan shook his head, dubious. “Until they find out who I am. You think they aren”t going to look into us?”

“You covered your tracks pretty well.”

“Not well enough for national TV, Dan.”

“Yeah, but we’re not talking about prime time. We’re talking about the Home Improvement Network. We’re not gonna be rock stars.”

Dan had a familiar spark about him; Evan knew it well. He wasn’t going to be talked out of this.

“And I owe you. You put up all the cash to start this, and we lost most of it on that house that Ian ate. But if I get the TV deal, we’ll be okay. I want to make it even.”

Evan swallowed hard. This was an angle he wasn’t prepared to argue. He hated to deny anybody their shot at honor. He knew too well how losing that opportunity could eat at a man’s soul. He also knew that what cash they had left was all sunk into this house that he was rewiring today. It would still take time and more cash to finish it and put it on the market. In the meantime, they were dead in the water. They couldn’t move forward. Unless he went along with Dan’s idea to get involved with the Home Improvement Channel.

Dan wore board shorts, flip-flops, and no shirt. Today, he produced a Ziplock bag of cookies he said a girl had baked for him. Yet he was preparing to do carpentry work. He didn’t look at all like he was capable of that sort of thing, but Evan knew differently.

“Pot cookies or regular cookies?” Dan laughed.

“Just plain old cookies, man. Quit looking for a conspiracy everywhere.” Evan took one. Dan arrived at a makeshift workbench made up of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. He deposited the Ziplock bag of cookies and a beer and picked up his circular saw.

“Being suspicious of your baked goods is not buying into a conspiracy theory. That’s just common sense. I’m almost done with the lighting in the front room. Let me know if you need a hand.”

“Yup!” Dan said around a cookie in his mouth as he donned dark blue safety glasses. But still he was going to start work in flip-flops. “Be here tomorrow at ten to talk to the TV people with me,” he added.

The next day, at the appointed hour, Evan came rumbling into Dan’s driveway on his Indian, wearing ripped jeans, a black Hog’s Breath Saloon shirt that he’d cut the sleeves off years ago, and his old black boots with cracks in the leather and worn-down heels. He steeled himself the whole ride over for the sight of a film crew, something he hoped never to deal with again in his life. Instead, it was just a couple of stiffs in suits with reams of paperwork and a black SUV.

Evan was as much a paradox as Florida itself. The super-rich built Spanish-style mansions on the waterfront or sprawling equine estates. The snowbirds took over the inland with their middle-class, deed-restricted communities of little cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre lots. You could drive through Florida seeing only these things and think that was all there was. But if you looked closer at the forgotten lands bordering the swamps, you’d see another world. Garbage-strewn trailers and small, dilapidated dwellings decorated with Confederate flags, haunted by dangerous rednecks who kept pet alligators in their backyard ponds. For all its glitzy facade, Florida, just like Evan, had dangerous secrets hiding in plain sight.

Dan stood in front of his cottage on the scrap of gravel and oyster shell that passed for a front lawn. Barefoot this time, he still wore board shorts and a half-buttoned tropical-print shirt. So much of Matlacha had been destroyed by Ian, along with Dan and Evan’s investment property. But Dan’s little teal cottage with purple shutters had survived unscathed. Anywhere else, this ridiculous brightly colored bungalow would stand out like a sore thumb, but in colorful, artsy Matlacha, it fit right in. The same went for Dan. It was only a one-bedroom cottage, but currently Dan still had one neighbor staying with him whose home had been destroyed. That was Dan in a nutshell. He would give a stranger the shirt off his back if they needed it. Or take in residents of Matlacha to sleep on air mattresses in his small living room because the hurricane had taken their homes.

Evan swung off his bike with a jingle of his boot chains, aware of how different he and Dan were.

“Christ, man! Are you trying to look like an ex-con?” Dan asked sarcastically.

“I’m trying to look like someone who doesn’t belong on TV, because I don’t. And if they see that now, all the better. Maybe they just sign you for the show and I’ll work behind the scenes.”

The suits were a slick-looking man and a prim, coifed woman. She had the artificial pout of lip filler, a look Evan hated. He hated everything about Hollywood and all it represented, except the chance for redemption. And nobody hated money.

Evan hung back a step and let Dan do the schmoozing, something he was famously good at. People loved Dan, loved selling him houses, and equally loved buying houses from him. Dan made people feel comfortable. He made them feel special. But soon enough, the focus turned to Evan.

“This is my business partner, Evan Holton,” Dan said.

Evan stood, hands shoved in his pockets. He kept his shades down to soften the mad-dog glare that had become a life-saving habit in prison. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Evan hoped they would see the error of their ways and offer this deal exclusively to Dan. Then he could go back to his solitary life.

“I like your look, Evan,” said duck-lips. “It’s very popular right now since that biker show did so well.” The words sank like lead shot into his stomach. So much for hoping they wouldn’t want him involved.

“I’m glad you think I’m hip,” he said, deadpan.

To his greater shock, the other suit laughed, genuinely amused. Evan wasn’t trying to be funny.

“Perhaps we could go indoors and look at some paperwork,” he said.

“This house has so much character,” duck-lips continued. “I think we could use it in the title sequence. I’m thinking we’ll have Dan standing out front with a surfboard. Evan, maybe you could drive in on your motorcycle and just pull up next to him. You two are an interesting contradiction. We can play off that.”

“It’s something really unique,” chimed in the other stiff. “The network was originally interested in making this about flipping houses, but they’re worried about PR flipping houses for profit in a hurricane-ravaged region. It’s not a great look.”

Dan perked up, surprising Evan. This wasn’t good news. Why did Dan look like they’d just dropped him a line?

“I’ve been thinking about that very thing,” Dan said, his enthusiasm catching everyone’s attention. “We started flipping houses as a business before the hurricane. Even we lost a big project to Ian. What if instead of flipping vacant houses, we rebuilt the ones that can be salvaged to get people back into their homes? People are struggling to get the insurance companies to pay, but you guys probably have a team of lawyers that could make it happen. There are so many house-flipping shows. We could do something different. We can save people’s homes for them by renovating after the damage. That would look great for the channel.”

Evan sat back, admiring Dan’s logic. And for the first time, he felt really good about the whole project. This was something he could get behind. The network could pull strings and finance projects that otherwise he and Dan could never afford to do. This would be a chance at something special, something that mattered. It would matter a hell of a lot to the people sleeping in Dan’s living room if they could rebuild their house.

Evan looked at Duckie, and even she looked impressed with the idea.

“That’s a really interesting spin on it. It’s not what the executives were planning to do with this show, but they might really like it. I’ll have to take it to a team meeting and see what they say. Let’s wrap this up, and we’ll circle back.”

As the suits packed up and left, Evan watched them go with a new hope that this might really happen. This was more than just an honest living, this was a chance to make a real difference in people’s lives. His life had begun like a runaway train that derailed, flinging him out into the middle of a wasteland he thought he’d never escape. All he ever wanted was a life he could hang his figurative hat on and stand proud. This could finally be it.

The network must have been equally taken with the idea, because word came back the very next day that they would figure out the details and they wanted to film a pilot as soon as possible, while the hurricane was still fresh in people’s minds. It felt a little bit like trying to profit off disaster, but people really did need the help. Evan and Dan had been trying to help Dan’s neighbor in their spare time, but they constantly felt the pressure of having to make their own living on top of it. What if they could do both?

Kayla steppedout onto her porch with a cup of coffee to watch the farm wake up. The cool morning air was a refreshing respite from the otherwise near-constant heat, and it gave her a moment to pause and look over the farm while she sipped her coffee. From somewhere came the eerie trill of a sandhill crane. The mornings and the evenings were often so magical at the farm that she could almost forget all the tragedy. The cool morning was thanks to spring, which happened here in name only. Soon enough, the unrelenting summer monsoons would return. Her property bordered on the wild, swampy lands that farther south became the Everglades proper. As if resentful that humans had transformed the land into farms, Mother Nature reclaimed it yearly with sheet flooding and violent summer rainstorms. The extra water welcomed gators in rut that were on the move in search of a mate. Any morning there might be a huge new prehistoric beast floating in the pond behind the house.

A black blur of a dog came flying around the side of the house, drawing a smile to Kayla’s lips. The skinny black lab mix had started visiting her a few weeks prior. Thinking the dog might be abandoned, Kayla had tried unsuccessfully to catch her. Instead, the dog just came and went, stealing small inedible items and creating random havoc. She’d been desperately thin the first time Kayla saw her. Someone must be feeding her now, though, because her ribs were showing less and less.

Some days, like today, the dog followed her around all day as if she lived there. She took lazy swims in the pond while Kayla rode horses. Once, she’d even trotted alongside Kayla on a group trail ride down to the end of the road through the orange grove.

This morning, Kayla managed to sit Rocket without triggering another wild ride. The previous day’s explosion didn’t seem to change the mare’s attitude much. It was just another day’s work for Rocket. This time, Kayla rode through a small bolt and calmed her into walking loops for a half an hour until the horse was thoroughly bored. For now, that was a victory. Kayla was starting to understand Rocket a little better. Running barrels was an adrenaline-fueled rodeo game that consisted of galloping a cloverleaf pattern, skidding around three barrels, and racing back to the end of the arena for the fastest time. Rocket associated a rider with running for her life without necessarily understanding the rules. Any slight movement from the rider that Rocket couldn’t immediately understand would trigger her to bolt forward wildly. More than anything, Rocket was a confused, nervous wreck. Kayla could totally identify. She spent the training session walking about and desensitizing Rocket to small movements of her hands or legs. The slightest motion, however unintentional, was interpreted as spurs or the reins being whipped against her flanks, even though Kayla neither wore spurs nor moved the reins at all. The mare’s full name was Red Bottle Rocket, and it was suitable. The horse had tons of natural speed without a spur ever touching her. Her teenaged rider, in an effort to show off to her friends, had probably ridden too rough and turned Rocket into a shell-shocked bolting machine.

After thirty minutes, Kayla had finally been able to let the reins all the way out, and Rocket was walking with her neck stretched out calmly for the first time. Kayla leaned down and rubbed her neck.

“I get it, girlfriend,” she said softly. Growing up the way she had, being subjected to harsh circumstances beyond her control was something Kayla understood all too well. Rocket was a kindred spirit, and Kayla would do her best to not only help Rocket feel safe in her own skin, but convince her owners to treat her more fairly.

Both she and Rocket were soaked with sweat after their session, at least partly from nerves. Rocket was accustomed to living on pasture, so after rinsing her off, Kayla released her into the two acres of grass above the riding arena and went to check on the rest of her charges. The pasture abutted her neighbor’s land, and Kayla walked to the fence line. The fence on this side was in good shape, and there was even a sturdy little gate that opened to the neighbor’s property.

José Morales and his family had lived next door as long as Kayla could remember, and they’d always been like extended family. They’d held the truck and trailer for her after her grandmother had died. Seeing José out near an outbuilding, she let herself through the gate and went to talk to him.

“Kayla! How are you?” he said.

“I’m good, thanks. How are you?” He smiled warmly at her from under a cowboy hat.

“Sofia is getting married,” he beamed. “We will have a big party. You should come. You are too thin. Let Maria feed you.” The Morales parties were legendary, and if she didn’t attend, she would be up all night listening to the festivities anyway.

“I’d love to. When is it?”

“Good! Next Friday.” He paused, satisfied she would attend, then changed the subject. “Do you need to borrow my horse?”

“Tomorrow, I do. If it’s okay?”

“Of course. Maria cannot ride him when he is too fresh. Please tire him out for me.”

Morales had a beautiful palomino horse named Monty he had bought for his wife, but they were only occasional riders, and Monty had grown fat and feisty following the herd of sheep around the Moraleses’ farm.

“Thanks, Mr. Morales.” He smiled at her again. She was an adult now, but she had always called him Mr. Morales as a child, and he hadn’t corrected her. She looked forward to the day when she had enough horses of her own that she didn’t have to borrow one from the neighbor when someone booked a trail ride with an extra person.

“You are here, take him now. I know where to find him if I need him,” he said, and walked over to a gate that led into his sheep pasture. He whistled, and the horse lifted his head, galloping up to do a sliding stop at the gate with bright eyes. He was gold colored with a pale blond mane and tail. His mane was beautiful and long and hung down to his shoulder. He flipped his head expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah, but I have no sugar for you this time,” Morales muttered to the horse. “Go with Kayla and make yourself useful.” She took the halter off the fence and slipped it over the horse’s head, buckling it easily.

“Thanks again,” she said, and headed back across to her place with Monty in tow. She put him in a stall for the night. He didn’t need any more grass, anyway, and this way, he wouldn’t look for a low part of the old fence to go back home.

In total, she had Rocket for training, Monty on loan, and two gentle draft cross horses named Bonnie and Clyde. They were retired from a therapeutic riding program after they’d become sour of carrying children around the arena in endless circles. They were happy and safe enough to do her guided trail rides. Because they were workhorses, they were heavier-boned than typical riding horses and strong enough to carry big husbands or overweight tourists. The story was that they’d once been a harness team for the Amish. They were intensely bonded, which made them good trail horses as wherever one went, the other would always follow. They were also “air plants,” so not only did she feed them nothing, but she also had to take them off the pasture for a part of every day because they were getting too round. They were in the barn for the night for this very reason. She checked that all the water buckets were full and clean. The horses stomped and rustled contentedly. She made her way slowly down the aisle, touching Bonnie’s velvet nose as she reached out to greet Kayla. Because she and Clyde were so bonded, they shared a single stall, which opened in the back onto a small dirt lot by the barn for extra room. As soon as Kayla stopped to pet Bonnie, Clyde tried to move up to see her as well. Bonnie pinned her ears and shot him a dirty look.

“Don’t be a bitch, Bonnie. There’s only one boss mare around here, and it’s me,” Kayla said, pushing her away so that Clyde could come forward to be petted. Clyde still watched Bonnie warily as he pushed his head forward. Bonnie sent Kayla a baleful glare. Bonnie was sweet until someone called her on her bullying of Clyde, and then she developed an impressive resting-bitch face. Kayla had been mediating their marital disputes for about a year now.

Little rocks of muscle tension ached mercilessly in her back, and she rolled her shoulders as she walked. She glanced up as she neared the stoop to the side door of the little blue house she called home. A dark form hulking at her gate seemed to leap suddenly out at her. She pulled up short, gasping.

But it wasn’t Trent, the man she dreaded. He wouldn’t wait at the gate anyway. It was Evan, the biker who’d spooked her horse.

To her surprise, the nameless little black dog bounded happily up the driveway, putting her paws up on the gate so he could ruffle her head. Kayla had yet to be able to touch her. If she tried, the dog would duck away.

“Hey, Trouble,” he said quietly. The dog’s tail wagged furiously. The dog retreated a half step from the gate and leaped straight up in a move better suited to Tigger. He grinned a little at the dog, then leveled Kayla with a long, dark stare.

“You stole my dog,” he said.

“That’s your dog? She practically lives here. I want child support.”

He laughed heartily, and she smiled at his contagious good humor.

“Maybe you should contain her better. She shows up here all the time. It’s a wonder one of these yahoos hasn’t run her over in the road yet.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be contained,” he shot back, eyes unwavering.

In response, her blood stirred and her mind went blank.

“Well since you’re here, why don’t you take her home? And feed her more,” she finally stammered.

He shrugged a little. “Okay. For the record, someone dumped her off a few weeks ago and she took up residence on my porch. I do feed her.”

He rattled the padlock on her gate suggestively. She squared her shoulders and walked up to the gate. She unclipped her keys from a belt loop and reached for the lock. He didn’t back off to give her personal space, and that little damaged part of her hackled and wanted to turn and run.

She glanced up at him, seeing his eyes clearly for the first time under the plain black ball cap he wore. He met her gaze and held it, giving her the distinct yet impossible impression that he saw more than he should, like he was touching her without moving. Goose bumps rose on her arms in stark contrast to the ever-muggy heat, but there was something strangely comforting about him.

But comfort could be even more frightening than danger, and she had an overwhelming urge not to unlock her gate. The wiggling dog reminded her that she had to, so she turned the key and pulled the chain back.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“To pick you up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. Then I figured I could at least buy you a beer since I almost got you killed.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. But maybe some other time. I’m exhausted right now, and I smell like a horse.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and she felt like the ground was shifting under her feet.

“You smell fine to me.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No. Just no. I only go to the feed store or the vet in this shape.”

“Then I’ll take the dog home and pick you up on my way back. Want to take a ride?”

“I’ve been riding all day.”

“On the motorcycle.”

“Oh.”

They stared at each other for a moment. What the hell was going on? He wasn’t taking no for an answer. And…despite her resolve to avoid him…now that he was here, she didn’t want him to go. The only thing she had planned for the evening was to incessantly reread the foreclosure notices and fret that she couldn’t make the payment in time. A little distraction and a lot of alcohol suddenly sounded great. Her twisted teenaged years, controlled almost entirely by Trent, hadn’t allowed her to date like a normal young person or have any freedom to make her own decisions. Since she’d made her break, she’d stayed mostly isolated out here on the farm. The interest of a great-looking guy who gave her butterflies was novel enough to inspire impulsive and foolish decisions.

“Okay. I guess I could go for a drink.”

With that same infectious, boyish smirk, he said, “Usually, girls are a little more excited about getting to go for a ride on my bike.”

“I’ll just bet they are.”

He laughed again, not exactly the response she was going for. She wondered how his face could transform so completely when he laughed, while other times, he looked so dangerous. He swung the gate open six inches and slapped his leg.

“C’mon, Trouble.”

The dog shot through the gate, launching into the cab of his truck, which sat with the driver’s door wide open. She sat behind the wheel, tongue lolling, looking perfectly pleased with herself.

Kayla found herself grabbing the chain and snapping the padlock back into place. She needed the cold metal between her and him.

“Half hour?” he asked nonchalantly as he sauntered back to the truck.

“Okay.”

He looked at the dog.

“Scoot over. You can’t drive.” With a theatrical face like her feelings were hurt, the dog moved down enough for him to get in.