The Woman Beside the Dead Harley
The Nevada sun hung low over Highway 95, turning the desert into a sea of copper and rust.
Jackson Reeves felt the familiar vibration of his Harley-Davidson beneath him.
The 2023 Road King was black as midnight, with chrome that caught the dying sunlight and threw it back in sharp flashes. The engine was smooth, deep, and dependable. It didn't ask questions. It didn't care where he had been or where he was going.
It simply carried him.
Jackson preferred it that way.
He was fifty-eight years old, six feet two inches tall, broad-shouldered, and beginning to show the years around his eyes. Gray had worked its way through his beard. There were scars on his hands, a faded tattoo crawling up the side of his neck, and a large motorcycle-club patch on the back of his leather vest.
Twenty years of riding had taught him many things.
Most importantly, it had taught him when to keep moving.
That afternoon, he had left Carson City without telling anyone where he was going.
He hadn't even known himself.
He just needed the road.
He needed the engine.
He needed the miles.
He needed something loud enough to drown out the silence that had lived inside him for six years.
Six years, two months, and fourteen days.
That was how long Diane had been gone.
Jackson still counted.
He didn't know why.
Maybe counting was easier than admitting he missed her.
Maybe numbers were safer than memories.
Diane had been the one person who could make Jackson stop riding.
She had hated the way he disappeared for days whenever life became difficult. She used to stand on the porch with her arms folded and wait for him to take off his helmet.
"You're not running from the road, Jackson," she'd told him once.
"What am I running from?"
"Everything."
He had laughed.
She hadn't.
She had been right.
Diane died after a long battle with cancer.
Jackson had held her hand when she took her final breath.
Before she died, she had made him promise something.
"Promise me you'll help people when you can."
Jackson had squeezed her hand.
"I will."
"Don't just ride away from everything."
"I won't."
Six years later, he was still breaking that promise.
The road stretched ahead.
Empty.
Endless.
Perfect.
Then a sign appeared.
DUSTY RIDGE — POPULATION 342
Jackson almost laughed.
"Three hundred forty-two optimistic souls," he muttered.
The town looked like it had been forgotten by the rest of Nevada.
A gas station.
A mechanic's shop.
A small church.
A handful of houses.
And one diner.
A flickering neon sign read:
HOLLOWAY'S REST
Jackson's fuel gauge was approaching empty.
His throat was dry.
He pulled into the parking lot.
The asphalt was cracked, with faded yellow lines barely visible beneath years of dust.
Three vehicles sat outside.
A rusted pickup.
A battered Honda Civic.
And an old Harley parked behind the building.
Jackson killed his engine.
Silence immediately swallowed the space.
He sat for a moment with both hands still resting on the grips.
He breathed deeply.
Sage.
Dust.
Gasoline.
Desert heat.
Home.
Or what passed for home these days.
He swung his leg over the motorcycle.
His boots touched the pavement.
Then he heard it.
A cough.
An engine trying to start.
A second cough.
A sputter.
Then silence.
Jackson turned his head.
The sound came from behind the diner.
Then he heard a woman's voice.
"Come on, you son of a—"
The engine coughed again.
"Don't do this to me!"
Jackson sighed.
He had no intention of getting involved.
None.
He was tired.
He wanted coffee.
He wanted a sandwich.
He wanted to sit alone for twenty minutes and then get back on the road.
But his feet moved anyway.
He walked around the diner.
And stopped.
A woman stood beside an old Harley.
She looked to be around seventy.
Short gray hair.
Thin shoulders.
A faded blue cardigan.
Her right hand gripped the handlebars.
Her left hand was wrapped around the starter.
She tried again.
The engine coughed.
Failed.
She kicked the rear tire.
"Fine," she said. "Be that way."
Jackson stared at the motorcycle.
Mid-1990s Softail.
Probably a 1995 Heritage.
Black paint.
Chrome accents.
Leather saddlebags.
The bike had once been beautiful.
Now it looked exhausted.
Rust covered the exhaust.
The chrome was spotted.
The leather had cracked.
The tires were dry-rotted.
Jackson walked closer.
The woman noticed him.
Her blue eyes narrowed.
"I don't need charity."
Jackson stopped.
"I didn't offer charity."
"You were looking at my bike."
"I was."
"Why?"
"Because it's trying to die."
She looked at the Harley.
"That's dramatic."
"Mechanical diagnosis."
"Can you fix it?"
"Maybe."
She crossed her arms.
"You know motorcycles?"
"Some."
"Some?"
Jackson smiled.
"I've only been riding for forty years."
She studied him.
Then looked at the patch on his vest.
Her expression changed.
"You're one of those motorcycle men."
"That's one way to put it."
"People around here don't like your kind."
"Most people don't know my kind."
She looked at him for another moment.
Then her shoulders dropped.
"Neither do I."
Jackson crouched beside the Harley.
"When was the last time it ran?"
She looked away.
"Nine years ago."
Jackson stared at her.
"Nine?"
"My husband died."
Her voice had changed.
The sharpness disappeared.
"This was his."
Jackson examined the fuel line.
"When did you last start it?"
"Today."
"Why?"
She hesitated.
Then she reached into her cardigan pocket.
She pulled out an empty prescription bottle.
Jackson read the label.
Parkinson's medication.
His expression softened.
"I ran out this morning," she said.
"The pharmacy here closed six months ago."
"Boulder City is the closest one."
"How far?"
"Forty-five minutes."
Jackson looked at the bike.
"Not on this."
"I know."
She swallowed.
"My car died."
"Tow truck?"
"Too expensive."
"Bus?"
"Doesn't come here anymore."
"Taxi?"
She gave him a tired smile.
"Wouldn't come this far."
Jackson looked at her trembling hand.
"What's your name?"
"Beatrice Holloway."
"Holloway?"
She nodded toward the diner.
"My family owns it."
Jackson looked toward the building.
"You're the owner?"
"Was."
"Was?"
"My son runs it now."
She glanced at the old Harley.
"I was going to ride this to Boulder City."
Jackson almost smiled.
"You were?"