Page 1 of Outlaw Heartstrings

Irish

“Sonufa…”

Liam Connor, also known as Irish, braked and cautiously steered the bike towards the narrow shoulder of the small Wyoming county highway, glad to see it wasn’t too steeply sloped, at least. The racketing thuds bouncing the bike underneath his ass were in counterpoint to the thumping of his racing heart.

Nothing like a blowout at highway speeds to get the adrenaline flowing.

Once safely on the side of the road, he took a moment to balance the bike between his thighs, noting the way his body trembled.

“Just watch…next, it’ll be no cell service,” he grumbled as he thumbed the kill switch and heeled down the kickstand.

This entire trip had seemed fraught with issues.

Between pop-up rainstorms and a tank of bad gas, he wasn’t as close to his destination as he’d planned.

Longer routes chosen had something to do with it, but he’d found the closer he drew to Bozeman, the easier it was to take another break or chase twisty curves.

Now with a blown back tire? At minimum, he was looking at a wrecker and a shop visit before he’d be able to get back on the road.

Eyeing the dark clouds scudding along the horizon, Irish wondered if snow might be the next hurdle.

He’d known making this trip so close to Christmas would be a crapshoot on weather conditions, but he wasn’t going back on his promise of making this trip before New Year. This one would mark two years without Lyon.

“No backing out now. Not if I can help it.” Hooah .

Swinging off the bike, he studied the sloping angle it leaned on the stand and shook his head. The back tire was shredded, and turning to look back the way he’d come showed the lane littered with bits of rubber.

At least it was the rear. Coulda been worse.

Irish yanked his phone from the front pocket of his vest and unlocked it, glaring at the words replacing the normal bars.

“Called it.”

He tried to remember the name of the last town he’d rolled through.

Masters or Anders or something like that , he thought.

At least twenty minutes ago, which meant more than twenty miles in his rearview.

Hell of a long way to hoof it. A quick dig into his side bag surfaced the compact atlas he always carried, a holdover from before smartphones.

Bending and folding the pages, he homed in on the area where he stood.

Probably . Within thirty miles or so. Give or take a handful of miles.

Based on the timeline in his head, the closest town of any size on the map was about ten miles ahead. An extended walk for the few remaining hours of daylight. “Won’t be the first forced nighttime hike,” he muttered, refolding the map. “Just gotta plan ahead.”

Water bottle in hand, he pocketed the bike’s key and gave the tank a pat. “Be back soon, girl.”

He’d made it about a mile up the road when he heard the rumble of a truck engine. Glancing over his shoulder back in the direction he’d come, Irish saw an older pickup already slowing down and pulling to the shoulder.The driver was a hulking shadow figure, easily taking up half the cab.

Irish reversed direction and strode towards the truck as the driver door opened and the tallest man he’d ever seen poured out. The broad smile splitting an unkempt beard looked genuine, though, and his gut said this man wasn’t a danger. Yeah, like my gut’s always right. Not.

“Hey,” he said with a smile and outstretched hand. “Liam Connor…Irish. Am I ever glad to see a friendly face on this stretch of road.”

“Richard DeShed. Friends call me Ricky.” The hand that clasped his was warm and dry, calloused fingers strong as they wrapped around his without hesitation.

“That your bike back a ways?” Two pumps up and down and Richard “call me Ricky” released his grip to hook a thumb over his shoulder. “Looked like the tire blew on ya.”

“Yeah, was a wild ride for half a heartbeat. She’s never let me down, though, got me safe to the side of the road. You know a wrecker service around here that loads bikes? My phone’s got no service, so I couldn’t search or call anyone.”

“This stretch of the road is too far between towers. There’s like a fifteen-mile stretch that goes by fast if you’re rollin’, but probably feels like a bitchslap from the universe when you’re needing help.

” Ricky tipped his head towards the truck.

“Climb in. I got folks we can get to help. Where ya headed?”

By the time Irish had opened the passenger door, Ricky was already sprawled in the seat behind the steering wheel. He’d unhooked a microphone from underneath the dash and was fiddling with dials on the front of a familiar black box.

“CB radio, huh? Guess that makes sense out here.” Out of habit, Irish removed his vest and folded it to drape across a knee as he took a seat on the bench seat. “Not really something that works on a bike.”

That earned him another beard-splitting grin.

“My ole lady thinks I’m nuts for holding on to this dinosaur, but she’ll be singing a different tune tonight.

” He clicked the button on the mic. “Dechamps, you on this channel, bud?” He released the button for a beat, and the static from the speakers filled the space between them.

Another soft click, then, “Champ, get your ass off the can and get on the radio. Got a job for you, man.”

More static, and then a voice sounding far away spoke. “Is that Sir Sheds a Lot? Man, I wouldn’t get off the can for you. Good thing I’m standing in the office, then, isn’t it? What ya need?”

“Bike on the side of the road out past the Neals. Shredded back tire. Bring your ramps and straps, man. Let’s get this loaded up.” Ricky pulled his leg into the truck and slammed the door. “We’re up the road a couple miles, but I’ll beat you back to it. We’ll wait.”

“What kind of bike? Little one, we can just lift it up won’t need nothin’ special. Talk to me.” Dechamps’s question didn’t keep Ricky from starting the truck and wheeling them in a U-turn.

“Bring the ramps, man. Cruiser, so probably a grand and change when it comes to the weight.” Ricky glanced at Irish, who nodded; that was a good estimate if the bike was full of fuel. Ricky keyed the mic again and asked, “ETA?”

“Give me ten minutes to gather everything, then another fifteen for the drive. See you soon.”

“Ask him if he takes credit.” Irish didn’t have the kind of cash on him for a wrecker bill. “And if he knows a shop he can take the bike to that’ll have a back tire.”

“Irish here wants to know if you take credit, Champ. We’ll be taking the bike to Dolph’s shop. Call him before you get out of town, let him know what we’re doin’.”

“I’ll call Dolph now. Reassure your boy. Yeah, I take credit. I take chickens in trade sometimes, too, so credit is cool.” Dechamps’s voice was filled with amusement, evident even over the tinny speaker for the radio. “Cool is good.”

“See you in a few. Out.” Ricky offered Irish another wide smile as they rolled up the highway.

“Sorted. If Dolph don’t have the right kind of tire, we’ll figure that out too.

” He reached down and tweaked one of the knobs on the radio, then lifted the mic again.

“Momma, you got your ears on?” The button unclicked.

“Told you she thinks this is ridiculous. She’s gonna eat those words tonight.

We need the radio since we’re stuck on this stretch of the highway for a bit.

” He lifted the mic to his mouth. “Momma, gimme some lovin’.

This is your Ricky Dicky giving you a ringy dingy.

” The hand holding the mic dropped to his thigh.

“She loves that shit. Silly talkin’ makes her happy. ”

The radio clattered, and another burst of static came over the speakers, then a melodic female voice. “Mr. Ricky, Ms. Marilyn says to cut that out on the public radio.”

“Told ya, she loves it.” He lifted the mic, the coiled wire stretching.

“Ellen, darlin’, tell Momma I’m in need of her dulcet tones.

” Tongue out, Ricky laughed. “Ellen’s our daughter-in-law.

She won’t pass on the specific message, but guarantee you Momma’s in hearing range anyway.

She gonna try and give me some shit, you just watch. ”

There was a longer pause, then the radio crackled loudly. “Richard Trinity DeShed, you need to stop this nonsense now.” This voice was deeper, older, and the speaker clearly exasperated. “I’ll talk to you when you get home, you old codger.”

“Loves it. Told ya.” They’d gotten to where the bike was parked, and Ricky effortlessly swung wide in another U-turn to pull in behind Irish’s bike. He keyed the mic with a laugh. “Momma, I’m bringing home a wandering soul. Set another place for supper, would ya?”

“Lord, Ricky, why didn’t you lead with that? Who is it? Hi, stranger, I forget sometimes the CB has no privacy. You’re welcome here, of course.”

“His name is Liam Connor, and he had a blowout on his bike. Man’s lucky to be alive. Probably need some cherry pie to help settle his nerves.” Ricky gave Irish a grin and a wink. “Poor fella’s phone won’t work out here, so I found him walking up the road. He’s plum give out, Momma.”

“And pie is a salve for all ills, I know. I’ll be ready. You know we’ve always got extra in the pot. You’ve a good heart, Ricky.”

“I try, Momma. Love you bunches, woman. Out.” Ricky pointed up the road.

“Think I see Champs headin’ this way. We’ll get things buttoned up and then head home.

You need to get anything from the bike? Dolph’s shop’s secure.

He’s got cameras inside and out, but it’s late for him to work on it tonight.

You’ll bunk up at my house, and we’ll head over first thing in the morning. ”