Page 2 of Rolling Thunder

“I’m glad you think it’s funny. My life flashed before my eyes.”

“Mine did too, actually. I thought she was going to go over backward and fall on me. I guess I missed the part where I almost got trampled. Thanks…I guess.”

She repositioned herself up against the stout post of the arena fence, glancing around in a way that he recognized. She was waiting for the world to stop spinning so she could get on with it.

“Evan Holton. I live down the street,” he said as a belated introduction.

“I’m Kayla,” she said softly. He stood and offered her a hand. Instead, she shot him a cautious look and grabbed the rail of the fence and pulled herself up. “Thanks. I have to catch the horse.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, unaccustomed to the rebuff.

She ducked back through the fence rails to where the horse was still trotting this way and that, tail held high, nostrils flaring.

Evan watched her approach the horse with deceptive calm. She moved casually, and didn’t make direct eye contact with the animal. When the horse started, she feinted slightly to cut her off and the horse froze, drawing back. She spoke softly to the horse, a steady murmur of calming nonsense. She continued to walk slowly, her shoulder angled at the horse now. The horse stood still, quivering and blowing her nostrils, but allowed Kayla to pick up the dangling reins. Kayla looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a half smile and a little wave. He took the hint and headed back toward his motorcycle. If she was intriguing before, now she was a mystery begging to be solved.

In the few minutes he had been near her, he could tell she wasn’t like any other girl he’d ever known. With a smear of dirt on her cheek and no makeup he could notice, she was breathtaking in a naturally delicate way that he had never seen before. She was a badass, dusting herself off and going to catch the rogue horse as if nothing had happened. But most of all, he couldn’t shake the wary look in her eyes. Or the desire that had unfurled inside him to see her smile or hear her laugh, feel her skin under his fingertips as he brushed that dirt off her cheek. He would have none of it, of course. Surely once there was space between them she would become just the neighbor he liked to catch a glimpse of again.

CHAPTER 2

The first training session with Rocket had been an unmitigated disaster. But what stood out in her mind was Evan. Yeah, she’d noticed him going by on his bike, tattooed, muscled arms stretched out on the handlebars. The ultimate biker profile, except he didn’t have a ponytail to whip out behind him. Now that she’d seen him up close, she noticed his dark hair was shaved on the sides to create a sort of faux-hawk. There was a scar on his cheekbone, marring an otherwise perfect face. He was handsome in an almost boyish way, with a sparkle in his eye that set her at ease. Yet she could sense there was a lurking intensity. He was not harmless, nor a boy. She had to focus and stop thinking about him. To save her farm, she needed a miracle. Not a dangerous horse or a handsome biker.

When the day was finally drawing to a close, she walked through the barn the way her Gram Kay had taught her. She checked to be sure everything was tidy and put away, the horses were content. Stall doors were latched properly. The horses on pasture were grazing happily. Before the day was done, she could do at least this one thing right.

She smiled to herself as she passed the short leather riding crop hanging from a nail on the wall. The small, sewn leather bat was in the shape of a hand. She couldn’t remember for sure if her grandmother or Canyon Bill had seen it at the farm supply store and bought it as a joke. It was nicknamed the Daniels Family Ass-Whacker, and it hung in the barn as a threat to anyone stepping out of bounds that they might get a playful whack on the rear. Many a good laugh had been had over the Ass-Whacker, but her momentary smile faded. Canyon Bill was long gone, and her grandmother was dead. She was all alone, making a mess of things.

The farm that had once teemed with life—kids taking riding lessons and tourists on trail rides—now was desolate. The barn roof sagged and leaked; the beams beneath were beginning to rot.

She could still feel the grit on her skin in uncomfortable places from her earlier wild ride. The last stop of the day was up her long driveway to the mailbox. There was never good news there. Sure enough, a single envelope from the bank stared back at her. Maybe it was fitting justice for her to lose the farm she didn’t deserve to the bank. Her body ached from the fall. But the envelope from the bank held a different kind of pain. It was a stark warning that if she didn’t make her mortgage payment by the twenty-first of the month, they would initiate foreclosure proceedings.

As Evan pulled it open, the breaker box creaked in protest, or maybe it was the sound of an animal living inside it. Straw and fluff fell out of a tangle of wires. Most of the homes in this area of Florida didn’t date back very far, but the tropical climate aged them quickly if they weren’t maintained with love and care. He replaced the panel and mapped out the circuits to each room. Today he was running additional feeds for new outlets and fixtures to improve the lighting inside the house. Normally, work calmed him. Seeing the exposed bones of the house as he ran wires through, matching feeds to circuit breaker: it was always the same. It was predictable and not subject to opinion, and for some reason, that was soothing.

The unease he felt now was like finding mice in the wiring. Like a little animal, it crawled up and down the back of his neck, occasionally nibbling, occasionally gnawing, causing his steady new life to flicker and short. He’d tried to outrun it, blasting down State Road 31 on his motorcycle, the wind pummeling his face with familiar fists. He’d tried to drown it out, throttling the bike into a scream, and yet there it remained.

Dan said there were TV people sniffing around. They wanted to make a reality show. Dan was ready to jump in without thinking. Evan’s seed money could only get them so far. They’d made a profit on the first three houses, but then disaster had struck, literally. They’d taken a chance on a pricier purchase only to have it destroyed by Hurricane Ian before they’d had time to renovate or sell it. It was a huge financial blow, and the money they needed to snap up promising houses to flip was dwindling fast. Without a current project of their own, Evan and Dan had been helping Dan’s neighbor on Matlacha try to salvage their house after Hurricane Ian. The local news broadcasted a clip of it as a feel good segment. The reporter had interviewed Dan, and apparently, a scout from the Home Improvement Network had noticed that he was funny and looked good on camera.

Evan heard the hippie van before he saw it. It came up the road emitting a unique combination of rattle and purr. How the thing still ran was a mystery, but run it did. It was painted sky blue, another project Dan had done with some artist girlfriend. It was a VW microbus with racks installed to hold surfboards. It had a mattress in the back because Dan slept in it from time to time on surfing trips. The surf wasn’t as good on the gulf coast of Florida. On this side of the state, Dan usually used his kiteboard. When the conditions were right, Dan would often load his van up with surfboards and friends and drive across the state for a week. The nomadic, colorful life of Dan’s parrot-head parents had rubbed off on him enough to instill a lifetime love for coastal and island life. Dan’s family had settled down in Evan’s hometown of Homestead, one of the last mainland stops before the keys. It was cheaper than the keys, but close enough to make for easy pilgrimages. And so, Dan and Evan had become childhood friends. Despite how differently they’d turned out, the bond was still there.

Evan waited in the doorway as Dan leaped out of the van, producing beers from a cooler in the back. That was one good thing about the van. You never knew what he might have back there.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s gonna be great,” Dan said, ever happy-go-lucky. He picked right up in the middle of the conversation they’d started over text. “You won’t believe the money they’re offering us up front. It’ll really make up for the one we lost to Ian,” he said, referring to the hurricane that had singlehandedly destroyed their funds.

Evan shook his head, dubious. “Until they find out who I am. You think they aren't going to look into us?”

“You covered your tracks pretty well.”

“Not well enough for national TV, Dan.”

“Yeah, but we’re not talking about prime time. We’re talking about the Home Improvement Network. We’re not gonna be rock stars.”

Dan had a familiar spark about him; Evan knew it well. He wasn’t going to be talked out of this.

“And I owe you. You put up all the cash to start this, and we lost most of it on that house that Ian ate. But if I get the TV deal, we’ll be okay. I want to make it even.”

Evan swallowed hard. This was an angle he wasn’t prepared to argue. He hated to deny anybody their shot at honor. He knew too well how losing that opportunity could eat at a man’s soul. He also knew that what cash they had left was all sunk into this house that he was rewiring today. It would still take time and more cash to finish it and put it on the market. In the meantime, they were dead in the water. They couldn’t move forward. Unless he went along with Dan’s idea to get involved with the Home Improvement Channel.

Dan wore board shorts, flip-flops, and no shirt. Today, he produced a Ziplock bag of cookies he said a girl had baked for him. Yet he was preparing to do carpentry work. He didn’t look at all like he was capable of that sort of thing, but Evan knew differently.

“Pot cookies or regular cookies?” Dan laughed.

“Just plain old cookies, man. Quit looking for a conspiracy everywhere.” Evan took one. Dan arrived at a makeshift workbench made up of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. He deposited the Ziplock bag of cookies and a beer and picked up his circular saw.

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