Page 1 of Made For Ruin

ONE

LAINEY

The scentof burning metal hits me before I even open the oven door.

Instantly, I hit the emergency shutoff switch, cutting power before smoke can start filling the diner.

“Yep,” Carl, our mechanic, says. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

He crouches down to examine the access panel beneath the oven’s main chamber. Then he shines his flashlight inside and frowns at whatever he sees. I kneel beside him, peering into the maze of wiring and heating elements.

“What do you think?” I ask nervously. “Could it just be a loose connection?”

Carl sighs. “I wish it was that simple. See that?” He points his flashlight at a section of badly corroded metal. “Your heating element is completely shot. And from the looks of it, the wiring’s starting to go too.”

I bite my lip. “Can we just replace it?”

“On a newer model, sure.” Carl sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “But this oven’s older than you are, Lainey. They don’t even make these parts anymore.”

“How much for a new one?”

“Industrial unit this size?” Carl hesitates. “With delivery and installation, you’re looking at twenty thousand. Minimum.”

My stomach drops.

Twenty thousand might as well be twenty million right now. I don’t have that kind of cash. We’re barely making payroll as it is.

“And you’re sure there’s nothing else we can do?” I ask. “Just to get it going in the meantime?”

Carl’s expression softens.

“Tell you what. I know a guy who specializes in older systems like yours. I’ll reach out to him today. If he has the parts we need, I could probably get it running again.”

Hope rises in my chest. “Really? You think that could work?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Carl says. “But if he’s got what we need, I could do it for five thousand.”

My shoulders relax slightly. It’s still more than I want to spend right now, but it’s manageable. Maybe I can use my emergency fund.

“Okay,” I nod. “Let’s try it. And Carl, thank you. Really. This means everything.”

He waves off my gratitude with a callused hand.

“Don’t mention it. Your dad was good people. Man never turned away anyone who needed a meal, even when times were tight. Least I can do is help his girl keep the lights on.”

The simple kindness in his voice makes my throat tight. I walk him to the door, morning sunlight streaming through the windows.

“I’ll reach out in a few days once I track down those parts,” Carl says. He hefts his toolbox. “Take care of yourself, Lainey.”

I watch him head to his truck as I turn the sign on the door from “Closed” to “Open.”

Then I sigh as I walk over to the framed photos lining the wall, trying to remind myself that things won’t always be this way.

The Piney Creek Diner has been in my family for more than fifty years. My grandparents started it back in the sixties, and then my dad took over when they retired.

The diner sits right where the mountain roads converge, perched on forty acres that back up to the national forest. Truckers and tourists stop here on their way to the park, mixing with locals who’ve been coming in for breakfast since my grandparents’ time. From our front windows, you can see clear across the valley to where the mountains rise up blue and endless. In summer, wildflowers carpet the meadow behind the building. In winter, the snow drifts so high we have to plow the access road twice a day.

Developers have been after our land for years. And each time they call the amount of money they offer gets more ridiculous. But Dad always said this spot was sacred. Not just the diner, but the forest and the view and the quiet that comes with being the last stop before wilderness.

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