Page 2 of Outlaw Heartstrings

“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You think he’ll be open?

Maybe I should get Dechamps to take the bike to another shop?

” Tightness in Irish’s chest needed a hard breath to break through.

“Folks don’t want strangers around on holidays, man.

I can sleep next to the bike. Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s why I’ve got a bedroll.”

“Oh, yeah. Grass Creek’s not too big, but Dolph’ll get you rollin’ again sooner than a larger shop.

Champ takin’ the bike to the next town wouldn’t be a problem, but you’d have to go all the way to Cody to get to another shop.

Next town won’t help you none.” Ricky unfastened his seat belt and slouched against the door.

“As to sleepin’ in the shop, Momma’d have my head if I let that happen.

You won’t be any trouble, and she digs helpin’ out.

We’ve got a guest room I guarantee she’s airing out right now, probably changing the sheets. ”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble.” The wavering illusion Ricky had pointed out on the horizon evolved into the shape of a decent-sized wrecker. “I’d be obliged. I can pay.”

“No need. The room would go unused otherwise, and my ole lady wasn’t kidding when she said there’s always extra food in the pot.

Woman don’t know how to cook small, which was a blessing when we were raising our boy, but now that it’s just a handful of us, means lots of days of leftovers.

” Ricky straightened his oversized frame, leaning towards the door as his fingers curled around the handle.

“It’ll be a blessing to me, you eatin’ some of whatever she’s got cooked for supper.

Excellent in the kitchen, but there’s only so many days a man can stand the same meal on a plate. ”

Irish grinned and slipped out of the truck on his side, meeting Ricky at the front of the vehicle.

Seemed like the stories of western rural hospitality weren’t stories at all, but reality.

The openness and willingness to help were in contradiction to where he’d grown up, and already he knew which he liked better.

They stood and waited as the wrecker worked through a three-point turn, angling back towards the bike until Irish grew a little nervous of the proximity, but the vehicle stopped with a solid yard of distance between the back of the bed and the bike.

“Not his first time. He’ll take care of your girl.” Ricky’s hand landed on Irish’s shoulder in a surprise grip that felt oddly reminiscent of one his brothers back home delivered often.

Brothers. Strange how he hadn’t thought of them too much on this whole trip.

Too focused on the end goal. Which meant he also hadn’t been really present as he’d rolled through Wyoming, featuring some of the prettiest vistas in the country.

He didn’t remember running over anything that would have damaged the tire, and didn’t remember any tell-tale bulges in the sidewalls, but if he were honest with himself, either could have happened and he might not have registered it.

“Irish.” He extended his hand towards the man who’d exited the cab of the wrecker. Dechamps was the polar opposite of Ricky: short where Ricky was tall, broad versus a runner’s build. He shook his head. “I appreciate you comin’ all the way out here on my behalf.”

“Hold that thought.” Dechamps paused next to a row of controls and used them to adjust the angle of the truck bed, extending it by those few feet and then tipping until the edge of the metal kissed the asphalt of the shoulder.

“Tow’s a tow, but it’s not often I get a chance to stretch my skills.

Bikes are challenging, but probably the most fun I get to have legally.

” He grabbed a narrow ramp from the tool area behind the cab and notched one end into a slot in the bed before making his way to Irish.

Dechamps’s grip and handshake were strong without being overpowering.

“I’ve had ample experience, though, with this old reprobate and his buddies.

Least a coupla times a month he’ll haul me out of bed for a roadside pickup for one of his club. ”

Irish spun to look at Ricky in a new light, surprised when the man sported an embarrassed grin. “You ride?”

“I might.” He spread his hands wide with an exaggerated shrug. “Surprise?”

“No wonder you didn’t flinch at picking me up.” Irish approached him with a hand outstretched, gripping Ricky’s thumb this time and folding their clenched fists between their chests as he pulled him in for a back-pounding clench. “Thanks, man.”

It explained a lot. The references to ole lady and old man as Ricky and his wife sparred on the radio, the approving nod he’d given Irish when he’d folded his vest instead of wearing it inside a cage.

“Momma’d kill me if she knew I violated the code, man.” Ricky chuckled, then sobered. “No room in my home for any beefs. Wanna throw that out there now, man. Legends MC is an open book, mostly, but just in case.”

“My club is a small one, nestled down in the North Carolina hills. Doubt we’d have any issues, and I can guarantee you that I personally do not. You saw my vest. Are the Liars & Fools known to you?”

“Nope, not a bit. Which is why I didn’t introduce myself sooner. Wasn’t an issue.” Ricky’s shoulder lifted in an easy shrug as he turned to face Dechamps. “Better grab your bag and stuff before Champs gets her loaded up. Easier to get to now.”

With a grunt, Irish moved and knelt next to the bike.

He rummaged through the saddlebag that held his personals, the other side used for tools, oil, and other supplies needed for a long trip like this.

He had a cheap gym bag strapped over the top of his bedroll, and it was the work of moments to release it.

Ditty bag shoved inside, he stood and dug in his pocket, pulling out the small wad of keys.

Irish stripped off the ring holding the keys for the bike and handed it over to Dechamps, who had walked closer.

“Where were you going?” Dechamps tied a tag to the keys before dropping them into his coat pocket, then wiggled the handlebars to ensure the forks weren’t locked.

Irish hadn’t even thought to do that before he’d walked away from the bike earlier, much less lock the saddlebags.

Need to find my focus. “Before you—” Dechamps leaned down and whistled low.

“Had an epic blowout. There’s hardly anything left of the tire, man. That had to be a thrill.”

“You could call it that.” Irish’s laugh sounded more like a chainsaw than humor. “Bozeman. That’s where I’m headed.”

“Bozeman, huh?” Ricky stepped up beside Irish. “Got family up that way?”

Memories swamped Irish.

He gripped Lyon’s hand tightly, blood making the hold tenuous, requiring Irish reseat their connection every few seconds. “Hold on, brother. Help’s coming.”

He watched as the light faded from his best friend’s eyes, leaving them clouded and wrong. Life and the essence of what made Lyon leaking out of him sure as the red spilled to the highway.

He shook the visions off, those monsters that had haunted him for nearly a year, wishing for the familiar weight of his vest.

“Visiting a friend.” The words sounded choked to his own ears.

Lyon’s mother didn’t even come to pick up the body, asking just for an urn to be shipped to her.

That had bugged Irish, because at least Lyon had family.

Not everybody does. She should have done better by him.

It had taken Irish weeks to weasel the information out for where she’d laid the last part of Lyon to rest. This trip wasn’t penance, but he’d hoped it would help lay to rest the demons that rode him so hard.

“You have a hard arrival date? We could get you a cage to take up if Christmas was the goal.” Ricky made a face. “Gonna be snow tonight anyway. That alone will make riding through those hills between here and there chancy.”

“No one’s expecting me. Won’t matter when I show up, except to me.

I just wanted to be there before New Year’s.

” That night would mark a full year since Lyon passed.

It was the marker in Irish’s life, things tidily divided into before and after categories.

“So no rush if it does snow. I can get a motel.”

“Nothing along those lines until Cody, kind of like the bike shop situation. I’m telling you, Marilyn will be pissed as hell at me if I don’t bring you home now.” Ricky pulled a grimace, then grinned to show he wasn’t being too serious.

Dechamps laughed as he brought the bike upright, using the toe of a boot to lift the kickstand. “You do not want to piss off Marilyn. Better to just roll with it, Irish.”

“Yeah, okay. Wouldn’t want to be the reason Ricky here caught grief from Marilyn.” Irish rolled his shoulders, again wishing for the familiar caress of leather. “Ready to load her up?” He slapped a hand against the seat. “She won’t give you any trouble, promise. Hester’s a good girl.”

“Me and Hester are gonna get along just fine.” It was a straight shot from where the bike sat to the ramp, and Dechamps started muscling the bike into place.

Irish and Ricky each leaned in, hands on the seat and frame as they shoved the bike upward.

They paused and held it into place when the rear wheel had cleared the ramp, Dechamps making quick work of securing the straps Irish hadn’t even noticed him spreading out.

Kickstand down and heeled over, the bike looked odd on the sloped surface.

He waited next to it as Dechamps jumped off the side and used the hydraulic controllers to bring the bed back to level, sliding it into place with a heavy metallic thump.

“Give Hester a good shake. See if you can move her at all.” Irish did as asked, finding the bike was solidly strapped down. He suspected Dechamps’s instructions had been to allay any fears he might have, and he appreciated the unspoken understanding.