And quietly whispered, “Not yet.”
Frank kept thinking about Maggie.
He thought about her on the road.
He thought about her while stopping for fuel.
He thought about her that evening when the four riders reached their destination outside Reno and the others started teasing him.
“You've been quiet,” said Rosa, the silver-haired woman.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re never quiet when you’re tired.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
Frank ignored her.
The four riders belonged to no formal club anymore, though people in Nevada still recognized the old leather vests they wore. Years earlier, they had ridden together as part of a loose brotherhood of veterans, mechanics, truckers, and road wanderers who believed a person should never be left stranded.
They called themselves the Iron Road Riders.
Not because they were dangerous.
Because they fixed things.
Bikes.
Broken gates.
Flat tires.
Sometimes broken people.
Frank had spent thirty years on the road and believed he could read a person within five minutes.
Maggie had taken less than five minutes to read him.
That bothered him.
The next morning, he called her.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Carter’s Garage.”
“It’s Frank.”
“I know.”
“You remember me?”
“You're the man who rode a dying transmission fifty miles because you were too stubborn to admit something was wrong.”
A laugh came through the phone.
“I wanted to make sure you're still alive.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“What do you want?”
Frank hesitated.
“I was wondering if you needed anything.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You need parts?”
“No.”
“Food?”
“No.”
“Money?”
Silence.
Then Maggie said quietly, “Especially no.”
Frank understood.
“All right.”
Another silence.
Then Maggie said, “But if you're coming through this way again, bring that old blue bike you mentioned.”
“Why?”
“I heard the valve tapping when you started it.”
Frank stared at the phone.
“How did you hear that?”
“Your motorcycle told me.”
He smiled.
“Friday.”
“Bring it.”
Friday arrived with a windstorm.
Frank and Rosa rode into Carter’s Garage just after noon.
Maggie was repairing a rancher's pickup.
She looked at the motorcycles.
“You're late.”
“By what?”
“Two days.”
Rosa laughed.
Frank shook his head.
Maggie finished the pickup, charged the rancher half of what he expected, and then turned to Frank's bike.
Three hours later, she had replaced the faulty valve spring.
Frank held out his wallet.
Maggie slapped his hand away.
“You're getting predictable.”
“So are you.”
“What?”
“Fixing everything for free.”
Maggie stopped.
For a moment, her expression changed.
Then she said, “Some things cost more than money.”
Frank looked around the garage.
There were fewer tools than he remembered.
Several shelves were half empty.
A light fixture had been disconnected.
The old compressor rattled every time it started.
“Business slow?”
“Business is business.”
“That wasn't an answer.”
“It was the answer you're getting.”
Rosa watched them silently.
Then her eyes moved toward the kitchen door.
A white envelope was lying on the table.
Frank noticed it too.
Maggie followed his gaze.
“Don't.”
He looked back at her.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Frank nodded slowly.
“All right.”
He did not push.
But when they left, Rosa rode beside him for several miles before speaking.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Foreclosure?”
Frank nodded.
“Looks like it.”
“How bad?”