Chapter Twelve
REESE
The motorhome nearly flips with the speed in which Tristen jerks it to the shoulder. We bump and jostle over the rocky ground until we finally come to a complete stop safely in the brittle weeds.
“What is it?” he asks, glancing around.
“It’s a burning chemical smell.” I unbuckle my seat belt to lean over him to check the dashboard. “Don’t you smell it?”
He sniffs over and over again. “Maybe? Something faint?”
“I’ve smelled it a lot in the shop. It’s not a good sign.”
I bang on the dashboard, and the temperature gauge unsticks and swings from normal to hot. A delayed warning chime sounds, and the check engine light illuminates.
“Oh, shoot. Pop the hood.” I jump out of the motorhome and lift the hood, releasing a puff of white smoke. Coughing, I fan the air. “Believe me now?”
He leans out the window. “It was fine before. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Once it cools down, I’ll check the transmission fluid.”
Of course, luck isn’t on our side. I groan when the dipstick comes out squeaky clean. Hoping it’s a fluke, I check one more time, but I get the same result despite the fluid level being full when I checked yesterday.
“Uh . . . I think we have a leak.”
“Can you fix it?”
Easier said than done.
I enter the motorhome through the RV door and unzip my suitcase. Transmission fluid I brought, thank goodness, but depending on the source of the leak, I might not have that specific spare part.
“I have to find the leak first. It’s going to take time. Come on outside and give me a hand. It could be anything from a worn seal to a faulty torque converter. If it’s not an obvious fix, we might have to delay the drive until I can figure it out.”
“Delay?” His voice cracks with panic.
“It’s not the most ideal, but it is the safest option. You don’t want this thing to catch fire while we are cruising down the road.”
“Whatever you need to do. You’re the expert.”
I wink at him, appreciating his confidence.
Lifting my loose hair into my usual high bun, my brain clicks into work mode, and an imaginary checklist forms in my head. I lean into the hood, checking the radiator lines and behind the grill, but there’s no sign of a leak. I let my head drop in frustration.
Throughout each check, the heat of Tristen’s gaze tickles between my shoulder blades. Unable to take it any longer, I spin around and pin him with a stare of my own.
“What is it?” I snap.
“I’ve never seen you in action before.”
“Well . . . stop it. You’re making me nervous.”
A slow grin pulls at his beard, and his blue eyes twinkle with satisfaction.
“Focus, Tristen.” I clap my hands together with each word. “Exploding motorhome.”
But maybe I say it a little more for me than him.
Lowering myself to the ground, I crawl underneath, wincing as the rocks dig into my spine.
Ignoring the pain, I continue down my checklist. Transmission lines, good.
Pan gasket, good. Input and output seal, good.
I pause when I get to the bell housing, noticing a dark red droplet dangling above me.
Frowning, I know I have to peek inside, but there’s a chance I’ll be showered in red transmission fluid.
I shift away before I start prying the cover with a flathead.
“I think I found something with the torque converter. It—” I shriek as liquid pours out next to my shoulder. Ah, man. It got on my white t-shirt too. That’s the thing with this job. I’m always ruining my clean clothes.
“Reese?” Tristen drops into a push-up position, fear etched on his features. His hand curls around my ankle as if he’s about to yank me out. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little transmission leak. Give me a second to put everything back the way it was. I think I know what the issue is, but I’ll need to take it completely apart to verify.
” I grunt through the words as I wiggle back out.
“Then I might need to call one of the auto shops to weld the cracks shut.”
Tristen sucks in a breath and kneels beside me. “Reese, you’re bleeding.”
“Whaaat?” I try to sit up but he presses me into the dirt.
“It’s your shoulder. What do I do?” His question comes out frantic and high-pitched. “Call for an ambulance? What’s the number for 911?”
“Shoulder?” I turn my head to the red fluid stain and burst out laughing.
“This isn’t funny.” His hands pat at his chest and his jeans pockets. “Where is my stinkin’ phone?”
“Stop, Tris . . . it’s transmission fluid. I’m fine.” I bite my lip, holding in another laugh at the pure terror in his eyes. “I’m not bleeding.”
“Fluid?” He sinks onto the dirt next to me and puts his head between his knees. “Lord, I think I’m going to be sick.”
I sit up and throw my arms around him, resting my cheek on his hunched back. “You are so sweet though.”
Head still down, he nods.
“And the number to 911 is 911.”
He groans in response.
I start to pull away, and he covers my arms with his, holding me to him. My heart clenches as a soothing warmth fills me, and I lower that invisible shield I always keep between us. I close my eyes and hold him, touched that he crumbled at the mere thought of me injured.
Tristen may drive me crazy most days, but he’s also one of the most caring and protective men I know. Even when I was in the hospital, he refused to leave my side. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and he was always there, holding my hand in his.
Honestly, I’ve done nothing to deserve this sweet man.
“You okay?” I ask after a moment, my chin resting on his shoulder.
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the death of me one of these days.”
“Don’t worry—today is not that day. I won’t let it.”
He squeezes my arm before letting me go.
Standing, I offer a hand and pull him to his feet.
“The good news is that the motorhome is probably cooled off by now. I can add the transmission fluid I brought so we can drive to the next exit. I really don’t want to pay to be towed if we don’t have to. It’ll cut into my decor fund.”
He’s still quiet, standing at my side with his hands in his pockets and a far-off look in his eye. I twist the cap off the container and pour in the fluid. “So, do you want to know how I stole all your coasters?”
He blinks, the haze in his eyes clearing.
“Your Uncle Ted was in on the heist. After I cleaned out the coasters from behind the bar, he’d leave me a new box in the alleyway.”
“Ah-ha! I knew you had an accomplice,” he accuses. “Betrayed by my own family.”
“You almost caught me once. I had to time it just right. A few times I sent in decoys to distract you. Kitty and Myrtle would tell you stories and keep you from entering the bar before I was done.”
“You turned members of the neighborhood watch into thieves?” He shakes his head. “You’re diabolical.”
“Why, thank you.” Grinning, I tap on the bottom of the bottle, making sure every last drop gets added. “It might be my best prank ever.”
“But . . . where did you store them all?”
Arms crossed, he rests his hip against the front bumper, more relaxed and like his old self again.
“Oooh. That’s a story for a different day.” I point at the gray clouds rolling in from the east. “Besides, I want to get off the highway before we’re caught in the rain.”
We hop back into the motorhome. Tristen takes a deep breath and turns the key.
It cranks only once this time before the engine roars under the hood.
Putting it into gear, he eases back onto Highway 87, and we chug past the sprawling dry grasslands with the Sangre de Cristo mountains in the distance.
With a collective sigh, we finally turn at the first exit sign into a rundown town.
Well, I’m not sure if we can call it a town.
A few businesses are sprinkled down the road, spaced out every half mile.
The sign on the only auto shop declares it closed for the holiday weekend. Desperate, I peer in through the darkened glass, but nobody is around. For a split second, I consider driving to the next town, but after spotting a red puddle under the motorhome, I decide not to risk it.
“What does that mean?” Tristen asks when I relay the bad news.
“It means we won’t be able to have anyone look at it until at least Tuesday. I left them a message explaining our situation.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“I’ll search for the closest campground or hotel.” I pull out my phone and type it in. “Since we’re stuck here until this is fixed, we should stop by the Super Save Discount Food we passed and grab a few essentials. Who knows if we’ll see another grocery store in this town.”
It’s a tiny shop but still more than what’s offered in Rocosa. We divide and conquer and meet at the checkout. I do a double take when a coffee machine slides by on the conveyor belt.
“It’s worth it to keep the peace,” Tristen says and swipes his card before I can argue.
Starving, I munch on a bag of trail mix as we ease back onto the dirt road searching for a place to stay for the night.
Tristen holds out a hand, his fingers wiggling expectantly.
If it had been Des, I’d be irritated at sharing when he could have purchased his own snack.
But I don’t think twice before offering the trail mix to Tristen.
I’m heaving another big handful in my mouth when he swerves at the faded campground sign.
“Look, Shady Trails Campground. That doesn’t sound so bad,” he says through a mouthful of food.
The turn signal clicks loudly as we turn into the empty parking lot. With a wide arc, he pulls into one of the oversized spots in front of the lone white building with a yellow registration sign.
“I’ll check us in. Can you update Des on our status?” I ask and grab my wallet.
“On it.”