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the wrecked motorcycle and the honking cars, which were backed up in both directions. Shane surveyed the scene, taking silent measure. Then he went into action.
    “Get in your car and stay there,” he ordered her. Then he strode down the line of vehicles, talking to each of the drivers, barking instructions. Kylie couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the sound of honking horns died into silence. At his signal, the cars began to back away slowly, out of the jammed parking lane. Within minutes the lane was clear.
    Kylie was free to pull away and go. But she could hardly drive off and leave Shane stranded with a wrecked motorcycle.
    She got out and walked around to the back. Shane was standing next to her rear bumper, scowling down at the wreck.
    “It was amazing, the way you unsnarled that traffic jam,” Kylie said.
    He gave her a black look. “It’s going to take a lot more than ‘amazing’ to fix this bike.”
    “Is there somewhere you can have it hauled? My auto club membership should cover that, at least.”
    He shook his head. “This is no job for a body shop. It could take me weeks, even months to get parts, if I can get them at all. And I don’t trust anybody to load and haul my bike but me. I’ll need to hitch a ride back to the ranch and get my pickup.”
    “I can take you. I live out that way now.”
    One dark eyebrow lifted in silent question.
    “We’re staying with Aunt Muriel now—my two children and I. She told me you were her neighbor. But I hadn’t planned on running into you so soon.” Kylie’s face went hot as she realized what she’d said. When she was a schoolgirl, being around Shane had always flustered her. But she’d never dreamed that effect would last into her thirties.
    “If I’d known you were planning to run into me, I’d have stayed home.” His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were as stormy as the dark clouds roiling across the sky. Kylie winced, catching the bitter edge in his tone.
    “I didn’t mean that literally,” she said.
    He turned away from her. “We’re wasting time. Looks like the bike might be wedged under your bumper. Once I get it clear and moved out of the way, you can drive me home.” He crouched to study the trapped front end of the bike. His hands manipulated the twisted parts—big hands, with long fingers—working hands, calloused and bruised. When she’d sat one desk away from him in American history class, Kylie had loved watching those hands—restless hands that moved and shifted as if he couldn’t wait to be somewhere else.
    He worked intently for a moment; then he twisted back to look at her. “Get in your car and start the engine. When I tell you, ease it forward till I say to stop.”
    Kylie climbed into the driver’s seat, rolled down the windows, and started the engine. She could hear the scrape of metal at the rear of the station wagon. A snowflake drifted down onto her windshield, then another.
    “Now,” he said, “take it slow. That’s it.... Stop.”
    Kylie touched the brake.
    “Okay, it’s clear,” he said. “Give me some room now. Drive up to the loading lane at the front of the store and wait for me.”
    Kylie did as he’d asked. More snowflakes were falling now, drifting like eiderdown through the gray, windless air. Was this just a flurry or had the big storm already arrived?
    The loading lane was a covered drive-up area, where shoppers, most of them elderly, could have their bags loaded into their cars. Kylie pulled into an out-of-the-way spot and turned on the radio.
    “. . . Looks like a white Christmas, folks, an honest-to-goodness blue norther. Snow’s already coming down in some spots, but the big storm front’s still out there. It’s a slow mover, taking its time. But when it gets here, we’ll be up past our knees in white stuff. You ranchers know to look out for your stock. The rest of you, get your pets under cover and don’t plan to be out on the roads. . . .”
    Glancing out the side window, she