1420135090 (R) Read Free

she’d loaded the back of the station wagon, a line of cars had formed behind the pickup driver who’d stopped to wait for her parking place. Horns were honking; tempers were flaring. Kylie did her best to hurry as she shut the tailgate and piled into the driver’s seat. Only as she shifted into reverse and checked the side mirror did she see the problem. The pickup driver, a flustered-looking old man, had gone a few inches too far before stopping. If she backed straight out, her wagon would hit his front bumper.
    With vehicles jammed in close behind him, there was no room for the old man to back up. The sensible thing would have been for him to drive ahead and give the spot to the next car. But either he hadn’t thought of that or he wasn’t willing to give up. He sat there with his hands on the wheel and his jaw set in a stubborn line.
    The honking had risen to a clamoring din. Kylie willed herself to stay calm. Maybe if she swung the wagon’s rear end hard to the right, she could back out of the parking space without hitting the truck.
    Twisting the steering wheel, she eased down on the gas pedal. Hallelujah, it was working! The wagon inched backward, missing the truck’s bumper by a finger’s breadth. Sweating beneath her fleece jacket, she pulled out of the parking place. But she was still in trouble. Her vehicle was cross-blocking the way between two rows of parked cars. To get clear, she would need to make a sharp quarter-turn, and there was barely any room.
    She steeled her nerves, checked her side mirrors and began a cautious backing-and-filling motion, working the car around in a counterclockwise direction. Some of the waiting cars had begun to honk at her, but she was almost there. One more maneuver should do it. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place and back on the road.
    But she should have known this wasn’t her lucky day. Backing up for the last time, she felt a slight bump of resistance. Then, from behind her wagon, she heard the awful crunch of twisting, folding metal.
    Kylie’s stomach lurched. She hit the brake and switched off the ignition. Legs shaking, she climbed out of the car. People had turned to look, but nobody was screaming or calling for the paramedics. It couldn’t be too bad, she told herself. She’d barely been moving. If she’d caused a fender bender, her insurance would pay for it.
    At first, she couldn’t see what she’d hit. Then, as she walked around to the back of her vehicle, there it was. Her heart dropped.
    Crumpled against the rear of her station wagon was the ruined front end of a vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

Chapter Two
    “Y ou’d better get outside, Shane! Some damn-fool woman’s backed into your bike!”
    At the bag boy’s words, Shane Taggart abandoned his cart in the coffee aisle and made a beeline for the front entrance of the store. Not the bike, a voice in his head shrilled. Anything but the bike!
    Shane had owned the 1977 Harley-Davidson Low Rider since high school—so long that, when he rode it, the lovingly maintained machine felt like part of his body. Today he’d chosen to take it on one last run before draining the tank and locking it away for the winter. Bad decision. The idiot woman had probably been gabbing on her cell phone, not paying attention when she backed out of her parking place. Whoever she was, she was damn well going to pay.
    Charging outside, he scanned the parking lot. A crowd had gathered around the spot where he’d parked the bike. Traffic was backing up. Angry drivers were yelling and blasting on their horns. Shane muttered a curse. Whatever was in the middle of that mess, it was bound to be bad.
    Steeling himself, he strode across the parking lot. The knot of people clustered around the accident parted to let him through. Shane was well known in Branding Iron, and even the meanest of its citizens knew better than to mess with his motorcycle. They were no doubt expecting a showdown. Shane was of a mind to give them