Read Online Whitehorse by Katherine Sutcliffe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Sutcliffe
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minute the driver hit the brakes and the taillights lit up like red beacons. The car reversed, rumbling like a Caterpillar 'dozer, stones crunching and spitting as it stopped beside her. A man's face peered out at her, his skinny, unshaven features made eerie by the dim green lights from his dashboard.
He grinned, looking like a jack-o'-lantern. "Need some help?"
Leah hugged herself tighter, the image of her cell phone left lying on the kitchen table popping into her brain like a camera bulb. She had laid it down to fix her coffee and forgot to retrieve it before leaving.
Think. It was ten miles back to the house. It was twelve miles to town, and another eight to the reservation where a half-dozen goats were bleeding to death, chewed up by barbed wire. Chances were Ramona Skunk Cap would call the house when Leah did not show up, but Shamika did not normally answer Leah's business phone, not at this hour.
"Blowout," she finally replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.
He grinned again and winked. The car crawled over to the shoulder, headlamps trained on the shredded tire and mangled wheel. The man stepped out, hitching up his too-tight jeans before spitting a stream of tobacco onto the road. Despite the cold, he wore a tank top and a grimy gimme cap that reflected his interest in the World Champion Denver Broncos. Her initial feeling of unease streaked up her back and made her scalp prickle. She glanced down at the broken rod she still held in one hand, gripped it more tightly and tried to breathe evenly. Once, she had taken a self-defense course—what women should do if they found themselves threatened—but she had always suspected that to be effective in gouging out eyeballs or cracking testicles with the tip of her boot she would have to be totally in control of her logic. But how did one control logic when fear fogged reasoning beyond comprehension?
The stranger walked over, gravel scraping under his scuffed Red Wing boots. He had the look of a construction worker, skin dried like an old cow hide, lanky body wiry but strong, arms corded and muscled without the slightest hint of fat. A tattoo of snakes and skulls entwined both arms from his shoulders to his wrists. He smelled like beer. And sweat. And rancid Skoal.
Letting loose a low whistle, he regarded the wheel and shook his head. "Made a mess of it, didn't you?"
"Seems that way."
"I reckon it don't matter if you got a spare or not. No way in hell you gonna get anywhere on that axle." He spat again. "If I was you I'd get rid of the whole damn thing. This baby's 'bout seen its last mile." Looking out at her from beneath the brim of his cap, he said, "What's a good-lookin' lady like you doin' out on a highway this late at night?"
"I'm a vet. I was on my way to a call."
"A vet?" He grunted and looked her up and down. "You mean like an animal doctor?"
She nodded as another car rounded the curve and barreled toward them, blinking its brights to acknowledge Leah's presence on the shoulder. Perhaps if she jumped up and down and waved, it would stop. She could tell the tattooed snuff-sucker to beat it—she did not need the help of someone who looked as if he were spending his first night out of Attica prison.
Then again, if it did not stop, her actions would indicate exactly how she felt about standing in the dark on an isolated highway with someone who smelled like road kill.
The car roared by, its driver invisible behind tinted windows. Leah watched its taillights dwindle into specks, then disappear completely.
His hands on his hips, the stranger watched the car disappear into the dark, then he looked around slowly, his eyes invisible under the low brim of his gimme cap. Leah focused on his mouth. Lips said a lot about people's thoughts, even more than eyes. She didn't much care for the thoughts running through the Bronco fan's head in that moment.
"Tell you what," he said. "I don't mind givin' you a ride into town."
Leah looked up and down the
He grinned, looking like a jack-o'-lantern. "Need some help?"
Leah hugged herself tighter, the image of her cell phone left lying on the kitchen table popping into her brain like a camera bulb. She had laid it down to fix her coffee and forgot to retrieve it before leaving.
Think. It was ten miles back to the house. It was twelve miles to town, and another eight to the reservation where a half-dozen goats were bleeding to death, chewed up by barbed wire. Chances were Ramona Skunk Cap would call the house when Leah did not show up, but Shamika did not normally answer Leah's business phone, not at this hour.
"Blowout," she finally replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.
He grinned again and winked. The car crawled over to the shoulder, headlamps trained on the shredded tire and mangled wheel. The man stepped out, hitching up his too-tight jeans before spitting a stream of tobacco onto the road. Despite the cold, he wore a tank top and a grimy gimme cap that reflected his interest in the World Champion Denver Broncos. Her initial feeling of unease streaked up her back and made her scalp prickle. She glanced down at the broken rod she still held in one hand, gripped it more tightly and tried to breathe evenly. Once, she had taken a self-defense course—what women should do if they found themselves threatened—but she had always suspected that to be effective in gouging out eyeballs or cracking testicles with the tip of her boot she would have to be totally in control of her logic. But how did one control logic when fear fogged reasoning beyond comprehension?
The stranger walked over, gravel scraping under his scuffed Red Wing boots. He had the look of a construction worker, skin dried like an old cow hide, lanky body wiry but strong, arms corded and muscled without the slightest hint of fat. A tattoo of snakes and skulls entwined both arms from his shoulders to his wrists. He smelled like beer. And sweat. And rancid Skoal.
Letting loose a low whistle, he regarded the wheel and shook his head. "Made a mess of it, didn't you?"
"Seems that way."
"I reckon it don't matter if you got a spare or not. No way in hell you gonna get anywhere on that axle." He spat again. "If I was you I'd get rid of the whole damn thing. This baby's 'bout seen its last mile." Looking out at her from beneath the brim of his cap, he said, "What's a good-lookin' lady like you doin' out on a highway this late at night?"
"I'm a vet. I was on my way to a call."
"A vet?" He grunted and looked her up and down. "You mean like an animal doctor?"
She nodded as another car rounded the curve and barreled toward them, blinking its brights to acknowledge Leah's presence on the shoulder. Perhaps if she jumped up and down and waved, it would stop. She could tell the tattooed snuff-sucker to beat it—she did not need the help of someone who looked as if he were spending his first night out of Attica prison.
Then again, if it did not stop, her actions would indicate exactly how she felt about standing in the dark on an isolated highway with someone who smelled like road kill.
The car roared by, its driver invisible behind tinted windows. Leah watched its taillights dwindle into specks, then disappear completely.
His hands on his hips, the stranger watched the car disappear into the dark, then he looked around slowly, his eyes invisible under the low brim of his gimme cap. Leah focused on his mouth. Lips said a lot about people's thoughts, even more than eyes. She didn't much care for the thoughts running through the Bronco fan's head in that moment.
"Tell you what," he said. "I don't mind givin' you a ride into town."
Leah looked up and down the
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