Page 25 of Call it Reckless

Chase:I got a problem with one of my trucks. Will trade you lunch for your engine voodoo.

My brother’stext made me chuckle. Chase could make anything grow. He had more than a green thumb; he had two green hands, and what was more, he loved it. He was always begging to hang out at Silver Creek Farm with our great uncle James. They were like two peas in a pod and constantly experimenting with new variations and crossbreeding plants. But, if it required more than a key and fuel to make a vehicle move, it stumped him.

Me:I’ll be there soon. I have a stop to make first.

Chase: 10-4

So much for relaxing.But I was glad to have an extra chance to spend time with my brother and to help him out.

Paige and I had spent countless hours at Head to Tow this week. The hydraulic lift installation was finished yesterday, and I’d passed my EPA inspection. Massive tool chests were in place with their respective tools. I was still waiting on a few deliveries, but since nothing else was happening on my side, and Paige was busy with interviews, I decided to relax at home.

Forty-five minutes after Chase’s text, I pulled up to the church cemetery where generations of my family had been buried over almost two centuries. Since I’d arrived back in Sterling Mill, I’d put off doing something I should have done as soon as I arrived.

The spires of the old stone church threw shadows across the grounds. The iron gate yielded easily as I took a fortifying breath before stepping through it. I walked slowly, my feet knowing exactly where to go, even as my mind struggled to make the journey.

Generations of Allens were grouped near the back in a sectioned-off corner, looked over by a tall obelisk marking the family name. Wandering the rows, I recognized name after name of ancestors I had never known but had heard about from passed-down stories. I passed a white stone angel and found the markers I was looking for. I stared at them, fighting against the wave of emotion that tore through me.

I knelt before them, absorbing the warmth of the stones as I skimmed my fingers along their names.Arabella Dawson AllenandOliver Allen, my grandparents, andJames Dawson, my grandmother’s brother. All of them showed the exact same date of death, almost eight years ago.

I knew there were several other stones in the hallowed ground with the same date, lives all cut short in one immense tragedy when the church’s senior group traveled to Nashville together. On the way home, their bus had been involved in a terrible, fiery collision, and several people at the front of the bus, including my grandparents and great uncle, were killed. In one swoop, I’d lost three of the most important people to me.

There would have been a fourth, more recent grave here, but my father had wanted to be cremated and have his ashes spread across the different racetracks where he’d claimed a winning title. The idea horrified my mother, but Chase, Cameron, and I honored his wishes.

“I’m so sorry I haven’t been here before now.”

Other than my father, these had been the three people who’d helped to raise my siblings and me when our father couldn’t, and our mother wouldn’t. I plopped my blanket down and leaned back against my grandmother’s stone. I mean, why not? She’d been one of my biggest supporters in life, and now, when I wanted—needed—her, this was the best I could do.

Grams always worked to instill in me the strength of the Dawson women who’d endured wars, famine, and The Great Depression and who, in the end, came out stronger for their trials. Their blood ran in my veins, she said.

She’d been born a Dawson but had defied her parents to marry Oliver Allen, a lowly mechanic. Her parents hadn’t been happy, hoping their daughter would choose someone “better educated” and “financially secure.” But Arabella and Oliver were in love and determined, and her parents eventually saw their relationship for what it was and gave them their blessing. My great-grandpa even brought his new son-in-law into the family construction business, which his father had created. Now it was in Cam’s capable hands.

My grandpa claimed I got my stubbornness from her side, but he’d meant it as a compliment. He adored his wife and her strong will. So did the community.

She was the first one to show up at someone’s door with a home-cooked meal for any occasion—birth, death, a newcomer to the area—and, for years, helped organize the annual Milling About Barbeque and Bluegrass Festival, in which she consistently won prizes for her pies. But anyone who crossed her was quick to learn that beneath her looks and charitable nature was a spine made of steel.

I almost laughed at the irony, given I was the one who was now the proud owner of a steel rod, although mine was supporting a shattered bone in my leg.

“I got back up, Gigi. And now I’m back. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you orchestrated this event. How convenient that Grandaddy’s old garage went up for sale at a steal of a deal.”

When I was younger and angry over circumstances beyond my control, my grandmother offered a piece of advice.“You may not be responsible for getting knocked down, but you are responsible for getting back up.”Then she and my grandpa had helped me do just that, although I hadn’t made it easy on them. I hoped they were wearing extra big halos in Heaven.

“I’m sorry for all I put you through,” I murmured. “I’ll do better this time, I promise.” I chuckled. “I’ve moved back. I wish it weren’t under these circumstances, but I know y’all and Daddy are watching over me.” A catch in my throat threatened to choke out the words, but I swallowed it back down. I’d come here to start over, not to wallow. I’d left that part of me back in North Carolina when I’d said goodbye to my dad for the last time.

I took advantage of the quiet as I continued to sit, gathering strength in the memories. I was reluctant to go, wanting to hold on to the past for a bit longer. I wasn’t afraid of the new life I was creating, but it wasn’t familiar and therefore didn’t hold the comfort my memories offered. But it was time to move forward. I wasn’t the first Allen or Dawson family member to suffer, and I wouldn’t be the last. But I would strive to be as strong as my ancestors. Feeling at peace, and with some renewed energy, I left the churchyard.

The mountains visible along the back road to Silver Creek Farm made a spectacular backdrop for a ride in my 1967 Shelby Cobra. She was my prize possession, a genuine classic that I’d stumbled upon for sale. She’d been in rough shape, but I knew I could bring her back to life. I’d sunk most of my bank account into buying and restoring her, but she was worth every penny. My dad had been excited for me, and together, we’d spent hours upon hours, often late into the night, working side by side on her.

I’d had her shipped from Charlotte, and she’d only arrived a few days ago. I’d been itching to take her out on some of the back roads that weren’t heavily traveled and open her up, something I hadn’t been able to do since my accident, and something that had been rare even before then.

It didn’t take long to hit the road that led to Chase’s house a few miles out in the country, further down the mountain. Most of the tourist attractions were in the other direction, so there was never a lot of traffic, especially on a weekday. After checking my mirrors to be sure I was alone, I cranked up my music and floored the pedal.

I might have kept my expertise under the hood on the racetrack, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love the thrill of speed. I laughed aloud as I shifted to the final gear, feeling free and more like myself than I had in ages. The Cobra was in excellent shape and handled the stretches and curves like an experienced lover. It was exhilarating—until the flashing blue lights caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

Shit.

I dutifully pulled over and fished out my registration and license. “I’m sorry, Officer,” I said as I turned toward the window. “I—” I looked into a pair of familiar blue eyes. “Shit.”

Reid flicked up his mirrored sunglasses as he leaned down to look at me. “Decided to tear up the road today, huh, Bristol? Not that I’m accusing you of being stupid or anything. And again, that would be Deputy, not Officer.”

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