Wild Heart Mountain: Wild Riders MC #1-3

Chapter 1 Danni

DANNI

Why the heck I thought driving my vintage car to the mountains was a good idea I’ll never know.

I’ll add it to the list of poor decisions I’ve made this year, which quite frankly is getting embarrassingly long and growing longer by the minute.

If those rain clouds are anything to go by, I’ve booked a mountain retreat on the one summer weekend when it’s going to rain.

The road evens out, and I take Gertie back to third. We’re in fourth for one glorious moment before the next corner looms, and I’m shifting down through third and into second. My foot aches from pressing the clutch, and Mom’s voice rings in my ears.

I didn’t bring you up to change your own gears. Why didn’t you get an automatic?

I’m shifting through to second when it happens. There’s a clicking noise that I’ve been ignoring for the last several miles, ever since I started up the mountain road, and now it gets louder as I experience a momentary loss of power.

I steer Gertie around the corner, but there’s a looseness about her that worries me. My Caddy shouldn’t coast like that.

Then the puttering starts.

“Oh no. Come on, girl.” I’m still twenty minutes out from my vacation cottage, and there’s nothing but a valley below and mountains above. “You can make this.”

She can’t. Gertie gives a final shudder before losing power. I manage to tuck her into the gravel at the side of the road as best I can before she dies completely.

“Not again.”

I pull on the hand break, one of those old-fashioned stick ones, as steam wafts up from under the hood. At least, I hope it’s steam. Steam I can deal with.

Gertie’s been overheating ever since I spent an entire two months’ wages to put down the deposit on her. I’ll be paying off Gertie for the next five years, but the thrill of owning a piece of America’s Golden Age was too good to pass up. Despite being covered in rust and prone to overheating.

All I have to do is wait till she cools down and top off the water. I carry a spare gallon in the trunk for just such occasions.

I get out of the car, and an acrid stench hits my nostrils. The distinctive smell of smoke. Smoke is a different story. Smoke is a problem I don’t know how to fix.

Make sure you get roadside insurance. You’ll need it with that thing.

Mom’s words of encouragement pop into my head. It’s the first thing she said when she saw the car, her arms folded across her chest in the way she does when I’ve disappointed her, which is often these days.

She couldn’t understand why I spent so much on such an old car. I didn’t try to explain the vintage aesthetic to her. I love anything from the fifties, and I’ve always wanted to travel across the States in a big old American car.

I’m aware of the irony. Now that I’m with said big ole American car, I’ve broken down on the side of a mountain, and I didn’t get roadside insurance because I spent all my money on the car. Yup, living the dream.

I raise the hood and peer into the engine, just in case there’s a big red button that says ‘push this and the car will be fixed.’

Nope. Nothing like that. Just lots of grease-covered engine bits that all seem like they’re in the right places to me.

Maybe there’s someone at the vacation cabin who can come out and fetch me. I check my phone. There are no bars, which means no service up here. Of course there’s not. I’m stranded on the side of the road with a beautiful but useless car.

You should have got the Kia Hybrid like your sister.

“Shut up Mom.”