Chapter 4
Leah
Keys clink against the small canister of pepper spray as I shove my phone into the front pocket of my favorite pullover hoodie. I flop onto the sofa as butterflies take flight in my stomach. Just as quickly, I jump to my feet, unable to sit still.
I need to be busy.
Mortified over my lack of decorum at the garage last week, I decided I needed to avoid seeing anyone, especially Emanuel-Manny, and dropped my truck off for service, depositing my extra set of keys in the after-hours drop box.
I took a stroll through Wintervale, enjoying the Halloween decorations on several of the houses, and then meandered through the heart of town to the fall market—after all, autumn is my absolute favorite time of year, with my two favorite holidays less than a month apart.
After picking out a couple of locally made two-wick tallow candles, my nose and stomach led me to the food booths.
With a bowl of chicken enchilada soup and a hot cup of cinnamon coffee to chase away the chill of fall hanging in the air, I looked for a place to sit and enjoy my supper before resuming the three-mile walk back to the campground.
That’s how I met the town’s only cab driver, Larry. He was a quirky but kindly older gentleman who shared his table when I asked if the empty seat across from him was taken.
Larry hung around, happy to share some history and stories of the town, keeping me company while I ate.
I got the feeling he was kinda lonely, too.
When I finished, he wouldn’t hear of me walking that far in “the dead of night,” as he called it, even though it was only a few minutes to seven, though if the sun had already set.
I thought it was sweet that he insisted on driving me to my camper.
He’d handed me a cute die-cut business card of a yellow cab with his number on it.
He scolded me again for walking alone and demanded I call him when I needed another ride.
He also refused to accept his fare, something I planned on making up to him today, but when I called to set up a ride, the robust storytelling voice and stern father figure from the evening before had disappeared.
The dear man had thrown his back out early this morning, and I worried about the pain and weakness I heard in his tone.
So here I am, a bundle of nerves, waiting for my truck to be delivered.
I have no idea who is delivering it. Will I be seeing the ovary exploding, sloe-eyed Emanuel-Manny again?
Gosh. I love his name. I know he prefers Manny, but there’s just something so…
decadent and sublime the way Emanuel rolls off the tongue, creating images of Latin lovers and sultry nights.
Butterflies take flight in my tummy whenever I say it out loud.
I can’t decide which is more unsettling: hoping I’ll see him again or hoping I won’t.
Heaven forbid I make a fool of myself a second time in front of him.
And why am I worrying about this anyway? Charming men like him are rarely single, and even if he is, why on earth would he be interested in me? After everything my ex put me through, you’d think I would have learned my lesson.
I have no business getting hot and bothered over a younger man—or any man, for that matter. I’m probably old enough to be his mother for crying out loud. Oh, Lordy, I’m turning into a cliché—cougar on the prowl.
So, yes, I need to be busy, but my worries seem to be multiplying, even if they are more mundane than the sexy mechanic I’ve been obsessing over the last few days.
A cold front came through last night, and I turned the furnace on before going to bed.
I had plans to fill up the dual propane tanks when I head south after I finish teaching the quilting workshop at the end of the year.
I knew one of the tanks was low, but the second one either had a leak or hadn’t been filled properly, and I found myself in a downright frosty situation when I climbed out of bed this morning.
Now, I have no furnace, refrigerator, water heater, or stove until I can get the tanks checked and refilled, on top of the fuse situation. Gah!
In the meantime, my new friend Larry still needs some TLC.
From our conversation last night, I gathered that he and I are kindred spirits with no one looking out for either of us.
Mine is self-imposed; Larry’s, I don’t know.
We never got that far in our conversation but providing him with a little care is something I can do right now, and making comfort food will help keep my mind off a certain hunky mechanic, too.
I think about what I have in the fridge and small pantry and what can easily be made over the firepit with the Dutch oven and cast-iron frying pan. A creamy chicken and dumpling soup and cherry cobbler will have to do.
A couple of hours later, a fire has been laid in the pit with a good bed of coals going and the rectangular grate in place.
I move the cobbler-filled cast-iron pan from the grate to a trivet on the end of the picnic table and then move the Dutch oven into the center and gently spoon bite-sized bits of dumpling dough into the steaming broth.
My stomach growls as the delicious homey aroma tantalizes my nose.
I settle the heavy lid back into place; my tummy will have to wait a little while longer.
Besides, an idea for a new quilt pattern has taken root while I’ve been busy.
Getting lost in a new project is exactly what I need to shift into a better headspace.
Though thoughts of Manny still hang in the periphery, the sense of panicked anticipation has lessened to a more manageable level.
Grabbing a pad of graph paper and colored pencils out of the camper, I settle into a camp chair and begin to sketch while I wait for the dumplings to do their thing.
“Smells downright good, wouldn’t you say, Tom?”
“It surely does, Clint.”
My heart jumps into my throat. The camp chair nearly tips over as I stumble to my feet.
Standing at the back of my camper are two men.
One is shorter and whipcord lean. I don’t like the sharp predatory look of his closely spaced eyes.
I cringe as he spits a brown glob of grossness on the nearest tree.
His scraggly yellow beard is stained with juices from the tobacco bulging between his cheek and gum.
Briefly, I wonder if he misses more than he hits because his clothes aren’t much better.
The other guy is bigger. His thinning hair is greasy and slicked back.
The shirt he’s wearing strains at the buttons over a belly that’s gone to fat, while his filthy jeans look one step away from trying to escape.
He’s one of those barrel-chested men who always seem to leave the top few buttons undone so they can show off their chest hair. Disgusting.
Where did they come from? And why the hell are they in my campsite? The bubbly flutter of creating something new effervescing in my chest curdles into dread as it drops into the pit of my stomach. This is not good.
I quickly glance at the road and the empty campsites surrounding mine.
In the five years since becoming a vagabond quilter, I’ve never worried about camping alone—of course, I’ve never been this isolated or camped this late in the year either.
The park ranger’s hours are down to part-time; the campground will be closing for the season at the end of the month, and I’m still struggling to find accommodations to rent until the end of the year.
“Seems having a woman who could do some rough country cooking would be an asset through the winter, especially if she was a pretty one, right, Tom?”
“This one is pretty enough, Clint, but she ain’t very welcoming now, is she?” He takes a step toward me.
Oh, shit. I take a step back and then two more, putting the firepit between them and me as I reach into the pocket of my hoodie and grasp the canister of pepper spray. It isn’t much, and I won’t be able to get both of them, but it just might allow me to get away if I have to run.
“Where’s that fancy truck?” Clint’s beady eyes rake over the site before landing back on me, sending chills down my spine.
“M-My man has it. H-He’ll be back shortly.” I don’t want them to realize I’m alone.
“Bullshit! We’ve had our eye on you, woman. Nobody’s been through here except for that old man last night.”
Oh, crap. I shudder as icy fingers of dread skate down my spine. They’ve been watching me? Only a few other people are staying until the end of the month, and I haven’t seen these two around. I wonder which site they’re staying at. Focus, Leah! Let them know someone will be here soon.
“H-He’s a mechanic in town, and he’s been really busy lately.”
I nearly collapse in relief as I hear the growl of a Cummins Turbo Diesel engine prowling along the narrow campground roads. “That sounds like my truck coming now.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder toward the road.
I don’t care if it’s Roger Rabbit driving up in my truck; I’ll fall at his feet and suck his toes if it means I won’t be alone with these two creeps anymore.
As soon as my truck pulls to a stop in the short driveway, I whirl around, rushing for the driver’s door.
I damn near burst into tears when Manny gets out.
Instead of crying, I throw myself at him, burying my face in his neck.
I want to shout when his arms automatically wrap around me and pull me into the comfort of his body.
“Leah? Are you okay?” He’s not a big guy, maybe four or five inches taller than me, but he’s sturdy and I feel safe.
I nod, but he’s glancing over my shoulder at the men and must not see it.
“Leah?” He lifts my chin, staring directly into my eyes.
I nod again. “Yeah, I am now… but I need a favor?”
“Name it, Mama.” His spearminty breath brushes over my lips. As scared as I am, or maybe because of it, that sweet moniker alongside his utter commitment is as soothing as it is hot.
My suddenly dry throat makes it hard to swallow, and my damp fingers grasp the edges of his coat. I’ll admit I cling while getting lost for a moment in his dark, serious eyes.
“Play along,” I whisper.