Page 8 of Love Me Dangerous

The driver turns on the floor heat. His pant legs are wet. I remember handing off the girl to a man. Was it him? Why didn’t he stay to talk to the police? My neck prickles. Maybe he’s got illegal contraband in this rig. He doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself, either.

His question rattles through my mind.You got drugs in here?

He takes an offramp and slows around a long curve to merge onto another highway, this one heading east toward a rugged mountain range. For an instant, I think he’s going to pull over and get out of me what he wants or ditch me without my pack, but he accelerates.

“Get yourself one of them blankets,” he says while checking the rearview mirror. Without taking my eyes off him, I reach into the backseat. A couple of wool horse blankets are stacked there, stiff with dust, but I’m not about to get choosy. I lay one of them over my lap and flex my toes.

The highway crosses the broad valley and then ascends a gentle grade, the rugged mountains dominating the view.

“How long were you back there?” the driver asks.

We pass a green mileage sign. A place called Finn River is forty-eight miles ahead, and the Montana State Line is sixty-four miles. From my very brief geography lesson thanks to the Kamloops Public Library, I’m guessing we’re at the south end of Idaho’s panhandle region, where the Bitterroot Mountains divide the state line.

When I don’t answer, the man gives me a sideways glance and nods once, like he’s acknowledging this silent conversation. He flips on the radio. For the next forty miles, he taps his chapped fingers on the steering wheel and focuses on the driving. The cab warms and the mountains rise, the details of the dusky purple pinnacles and high basins splotchy with snow coming into focus.

We’re nearing the town when the man turns off on a narrow, paved road lined with tall Ponderosa spaced so evenly it’s like they were planted that way. My ears pop, thanks to the elevation. A lake comes into view to the north. It’s so big it wraps around the shoulder of a high plain, bright in the sunlight. The small buildings of a town hug the southeast shore. To my surprise, ski lifts cut through the thick trees on the mountain behind it. They look out of place against the bald slopes, but it’s a reminder of the coming winter and my need to be long gone before it hits.

The driver slows to merge onto Morning Star Road, which turns to dirt. I memorize the name and orientation so I will know my way out of here when it’s time. The road’s been recently graded, but the man drives slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world. My fists tighten, and my breathing quickens. Where are we going?

The man acts as calm as before, impossible to read. We pass a few modest homes, one with a handsome cobblestone chimney on the left side, another with a large machine shop set back from the road.

Then we turn left, the horse trailer rattling over a series of washboards, and continue up a long gravel road with 10 MPH speed limit signs and faded PRIVATE PROPERTY placards stapled to the trees. I’m watching the driver while also preparing to run if I don’t like our destination. The loss of my backpack would be a heavy blow, but I’m not about to stick around if this guy plans to manipulate me.

The sparse forest gives way to a split rail fence surrounding a brown ranch-style home with a wraparound porch. The man turns up the driveway, which forks to a large barn and, behind it, a fenced corral. As we crest the short rise, his truck engine a throaty purr, the view opens up to sparse forest and meadow. Framing the horizon are the steep and snowy Bitterroots.

He parks the cab alongside the barn entrance and turns off the engine.

“You feel like giving us a hand?” He jerks his chin toward the trailer. “Pretty sure they’re still riled up back there.”

From the house, a woman in faded jeans and a black sweatshirt heads our way, her short, wavy hair whipping about her rosy cheeks inthe breeze. Her face is lined from a life spent outside, her stride confident. Two brown dogs lope after her, tails wagging.

The warning bells in my brain have quieted a little, but I’m not letting my guard down yet. I’ve been fooled by false first impressions before.

“Oh!” the woman says when the man opens his door to greet her and she notices me sitting in the passenger seat. Her tone is more curious than surprised.

“This fella needed a lift,” the man says, eyeing me before climbing down. He greets the dogs, who circle his shins in excitement.

I stay put, thinking through my options. The man has left my pack untouched. Is it a test? I could easily wrestle it free and leap out of my side of the truck. I’m quick enough to outrun him.

“There was an accident on the ten. It’s all over the news, Henry,” the woman says. “A car drove off the road?”

How far is this place from Finn River? Five miles?

Henry pulls the woman into a gentle hug, and she wraps her arms around his middle. They hold each other like that, his denim shirt expanding as he inhales a deep breath and then sighs.

Watching them makes my chest ache, so I fixate on my knees and run my palms down the tops of my thighs.

The couple part and Henry shoots me a steady gaze. “There’s a hot meal and a bed over the barn if you can stay a bit.”

I haven’t slept since an afternoon snooze on the tour bus almost twenty-four hours ago. I’m wet, and the breeze that cut in when the door opened has made me shiver. My belly rumbles. It’s a tight ache that will soon bring on a pounding headache.

The woman’s patient smile unsettles me. Have I stopped being able to recognize good people?

“I’ll help,” I say despite the itch in my feet to run. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Suit yourself,” Henry says easily, and closes the door, leaving me alone in the cab while the couple walk to the back end of the trailer.

After exhaling hard into my cheeks, I step down from the cab. The dry air tastes of dust and sun-warmed pine. Jagged gravel crunches beneath my wet sneakers as I walk the length of the trailer. The dogs racearound the back, and I squat down, letting them sniff my hand. The smaller one licks my knuckles, and the male heads right for my crotch. I can’t help but smile as I take a moment to pet them. Their collars are embroidered with their names. The female is Honey; the male is Rex.

---