"Most of them moved to Omaha."
Deacon followed her gaze.
Across the street, his motorcycle leaned against the porch rail.
And beside it stood a girl.
Seventeen, maybe.
Thin.
Dusty.
Wearing faded jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Her wheat-colored hair was pulled beneath a battered ball cap that read:
RIYOLS FARM SUPPLY.
She was crouched beside his Harley.
Her hand rested against the crankcase.
Deacon's expression hardened.
He stepped outside.
"You're going to want to leave that alone."
The girl didn't move.
She ran two fingers along the metal casing.
"Your timing chain's stretched."
Deacon stopped.
The girl continued.
"That's your knock."
He stared at her.
"Excuse me?"
"Not the rod."
She finally looked up.
Gray eyes.
Calm eyes.
Eyes that didn't belong on a seventeen-year-old face.
"Cliff probably told you the bottom end was gone."
Deacon's jaw tightened.
"Cliff didn't tell me anything."
The girl stood.
She wiped her hand against her jeans.
"Then he didn't know."
"You a mechanic?"
"No."
"Then what are you?"
She shrugged.
"My dad was."
Deacon looked at her hands.
Grease under the fingernails.
Small scars across the knuckles.
A burn mark near her left wrist.
Not the hands of a girl who had spent her life doing nothing.
"What makes you think you know what's wrong with my bike?"
She looked at the engine.
"Because it's telling me."
Deacon almost laughed.
Instead, he asked:
"What's your name?"
"Josie Callaway."
She hesitated.
"My dad used to fix engines like this."
"What happened to him?"
Something changed in her face.
Only for a second.
But Deacon saw it.
"Military contracts," she said quietly.
Then she looked away.
"Before."
"Before what?"
"Before he wasn't here anymore."
Deacon said nothing.
Josie pointed toward the motorcycle.
"I could probably get it running."
Deacon stared down at her.
Five feet nothing.
Seventeen.
And standing beside a machine that weighed four times what she did as if it were an old friend.
For the first time that day, something inside Deacon changed.
It wasn't trust.
Not yet.
But it was the beginning of respect.
The Girl Behind the Farm Store
Josie didn't ask for money.
That was the first thing Deacon noticed.
Most people who approached a stranded rider had one of two expressions.
Pity.
Or calculation.
Josie had neither.
She had curiosity.
She looked at the motorcycle the way a doctor looked at an X-ray.
"How long has it been knocking?"
"Started twenty miles back."
"Getting worse?"
"Fast."
"Oil pressure?"
"Fine."
"Smoke?"
"None."
"Loss of power?"
"Some."
"Any hard starting before today?"
Deacon paused.
"Once."
"When?"
"Yesterday morning."
Josie nodded.
"That matters."
"What?"
"Your chain didn't stretch today."
Deacon folded his arms.
"So?"
"So whatever caused it started earlier."
She crouched again.
"Can you start it?"
Deacon hesitated.
"Probably."
"Don't."
That surprised him.
"You just said you could fix it."
"I said I could probably fix it."
She looked up.
"If you start it again and I'm right, you could turn a repair into a replacement."
Deacon stared at her.
"Where'd you learn that?"
"My dad."
"What was his name?"
"Caleb."
"Caleb Callaway?"
She nodded.
Deacon searched his memory.
The name felt familiar.
But not enough.
"Military mechanic?"
Josie nodded again.
"Contract work."
"Where?"
"Everywhere."
She smiled faintly.
"That's what he used to say."
The hardware-store woman came outside.
"Josie."
The girl turned.
"You supposed to be at the farm?"
"After lunch."
"You know your grandmother's looking for you."
"I know."
The woman looked at Deacon.
"Don't let her take your motorcycle apart."
Josie frowned.
"I wasn't."
"You were thinking about it."
"I was thinking about diagnosing it."
"Same thing."
The woman walked back inside.
Deacon almost smiled.
"Your grandmother?"
"Mae."
"She run the farm?"
"Runs everything."
"Sounds dangerous."
"She is."
Josie looked back at the Harley.
"If you want me to help, I need a place to work."
"How long?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"How bad it is."
Deacon looked down the street.
Three garages.
Three refusals.
A motel that looked like it had been built before television.
He sighed.
"Show me where."
Josie smiled.
"Follow me."
Deacon looked at his dead motorcycle.
"That's the problem."
She thought for a moment.
Then she pointed toward an old pickup parked beside the hardware store.
"Tow it."
"With what?"
She grinned.
"My grandmother's tractor."
Deacon stared.
"You've got to be kidding."
"No."
For the first time that day, he laughed.
It was a deep, rusty sound.
Josie smiled.
"Come on, Sacramento."
Deacon stopped.
"How'd you know?"
"Your vest."
"Most people don't call me Sacramento."