Jackson stepped closer.
"Ma'am."
She spun around.
Her eyes were blue.
Not soft blue.
Storm blue.
She looked him up and down.
Leather vest.
Gray beard.
Tattoos.
Boots.
Club patch.
Her expression immediately became suspicious.
"I don't need charity."
Jackson raised both hands.
"Wasn't offering charity."
"Then what are you offering?"
"A question."
She narrowed her eyes.
"What?"
"You want help with that?"
She glanced at the Harley.
Then back at him.
"You know motorcycles?"
"Some."
"That's a vague answer."
Jackson shrugged.
"Depends how badly you've broken it."
For the first time, something resembling amusement appeared in her eyes.
Then disappeared.
"You ride?"
Jackson nodded toward the parking lot.
"My bike is out front."
She looked past him.
"That's yours?"
"Yes."
"How old are you?"
Jackson blinked.
"Fifty-eight."
"Too old to be showing off."
"I wasn't planning to."
She crossed her arms.
"Good."
Jackson walked toward the Harley.
"What's her name?"
The woman stared at him.
"What?"
"The bike."
She hesitated.
Then quietly said,
"Sarah."
Jackson looked at the tank.
"Your husband named her?"
"No."
"Then why Sarah?"
The woman looked away.
"That's my daughter's name."
Jackson didn't ask anything else.
He crouched beside the motorcycle.
The fuel line was brittle.
The tires were dry-rotted.
The battery was dead.
The carburetor had probably been sitting with old fuel for years.
He stood.
"How long has she been sitting?"
"Nine years."
Jackson looked at the woman.
"Nine?"
"My husband died nine years ago."
She touched the tank.
"I couldn't ride after that."
Jackson understood more than he wanted to.
"What changed today?"
Her right hand trembled.
She quickly slipped it into her cardigan pocket.
"I need to get to Boulder City."
"Why?"
She pulled a prescription bottle from her pocket.
Empty.
"Medicine."
Jackson's expression changed.
"For what?"
"Parkinson's."
The wind moved through the alley.
She looked toward the highway.
"The pharmacy here closed six months ago. My prescription was supposed to arrive yesterday."
"It didn't."
"No."
"And you need it today."
She nodded.
"If I don't get it before the pharmacy closes, I'll have to wait until tomorrow."
Jackson looked at the sun.
Then at the Harley.
Then at the woman.
"This bike won't make it."
Her shoulders dropped.
Just slightly.
"I know."
Jackson expected her to argue.
Instead she whispered,
"I just hoped it might."
That sentence stayed with him.
Because Jackson knew what hope sounded like when it was running out.
He looked at his Road King.
Then he remembered Diane.
Her hospital room.
Her pale hand in his.
Her voice, barely strong enough to reach him.
Promise me something.
He had leaned closer.
Anything.
Help people, Jackson.
He had smiled sadly.
I do.
"No," Diane had whispered.
"When you can."
Six years later, Jackson realized he had spent almost every one of those years doing exactly the opposite.
He looked at Beatrice.
"What's your name?"
"Beatrice Holloway."
"Jackson Reeves."
She studied him.
"You're going to tell me you can't help."
Jackson shook his head.
"No."
He pointed toward his motorcycle.
"I'm telling you I can."
Beatrice stared at him.
"You don't even know me."
"No."
"You could be dangerous."
"So could you."
Her eyebrow rose.
Jackson smiled.
"But I have a working motorcycle."
He paused.
"And you have a problem."
The old woman's eyes softened.
"Why would you help me?"
Jackson looked toward the highway.
"Because somebody I loved would've wanted me to."
Beatrice said nothing.
Finally, she nodded.
"Give me two minutes."
She walked toward the diner.
Then stopped.
Turned.
"Jackson?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Can you really ride?"
Jackson smiled.
"I can ride."
Beatrice nodded.
"Good."
Then she disappeared inside.
Jackson stood beside the dead Harley.
He placed one hand on the dusty tank.
For the first time in six years, he felt like he might be going somewhere.
Beatrice Holloway
Beatrice returned three minutes later carrying a small canvas bag.
She wore a heavier jacket now.
A scarf.
And a look that suggested she had made a decision she wasn't going to reconsider.
Jackson pointed toward the passenger seat.
"You sure you want to do this?"
"No."
He blinked.
Beatrice climbed onto the bike anyway.