"I figured you needed something besides 'big angry biker.'"
He looked at her.
She looked back.
Neither smiled.
Then Deacon laughed again.
"You're trouble."
Josie shrugged.
"Probably."
Mae Callaway's Barn
The Callaway farm sat three miles outside Milbrook.
The road turned from pavement to gravel, then narrowed between fields.
At the end stood a farmhouse with peeling white paint, a red barn, two grain sheds, and an old windmill that squeaked whenever the wind changed.
Josie drove the tractor.
Deacon sat beside his Harley on the trailer.
He watched her hands.
She handled the old machine confidently.
Not like someone who had learned yesterday.
Like someone who had been doing it for years.
The barn doors opened.
An elderly woman stood inside.
Mae Callaway.
Seventy-three.
Straight-backed.
Silver hair braided down her back.
She wore denim overalls and held a wrench.
She looked at Deacon.
Then at the Harley.
Then at Josie.
"Absolutely not."
Josie sighed.
"Grandma."
"No."
"He needs help."
"He needs a real mechanic."
"I am a real mechanic."
"You are seventeen."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Mae looked at Deacon.
"How long you been riding?"
"Nineteen years."
"How long you been fixing that bike?"
"Almost as long."
"Then why'd you bring it here?"
"Because every mechanic in town told me no."
Mae stared at him.
"That answer I believe."
She turned toward the barn.
"Bring it inside."
Josie grinned.
Deacon noticed something.
Mae never looked surprised.
She looked worried.
Not about the motorcycle.
About Josie.
Inside the barn were tools.
Hundreds of them.
Old tools.
New tools.
Sockets hanging from boards.
Wrenches sorted by size.
A drill press.
A welding machine.
An ancient engine hoist.
And in one corner, beneath a tarp, sat an old military generator.
Deacon's eyes narrowed.
"Your father?"
Josie nodded.
"His."
Mae said nothing.
Deacon rolled the Harley beneath the overhead lights.
Josie immediately began working.
She removed the inspection cover.
Checked the chain.
Measured slack.
Examined the tensioner.
Deacon watched.
"Who taught you that?"
"My dad."
"You ever work on a Harley?"
"Not this exact year."
"Then what?"
"Engines."
"That's not the same."
"No."
She smiled.
"But they still have to breathe, spark, compress, and move."
Deacon nodded slowly.
That answer was good enough.
For two hours, they worked.
Josie never rushed.
She never guessed.
Every conclusion came after a test.
At last, she held up the damaged component.
"Tensioner."
Deacon stared.
"You sure?"
"Almost."
"Almost?"
"I want to check the cam timing."
"Why?"
"Because the chain stretched enough to move it."
Deacon looked at her.
"How much?"
"Maybe four degrees."
He whistled softly.
Josie didn't.
She looked toward the covered corner of the barn.
Deacon followed her gaze.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Josie."
She hesitated.
"My dad had a timing rig."
"Where?"
She pointed.
Under the tarp.
They pulled it away.
A heavy steel workbench appeared.
On it sat an old military-grade diagnostic system.
Deacon ran his fingers across the dust.
"That's not farm equipment."
"No."
"Your father built this?"
"Modified it."
"For what?"
Josie looked at him.
"Engines that had to keep running when everything else failed."
Deacon looked back at the Harley.
Suddenly, the bike seemed less like a broken machine.
And more like a puzzle.
One Josie had been waiting years to solve.
Caleb Callaway
That evening, Mae served dinner.
Beef stew.
Cornbread.
Sweet tea.
Deacon sat at the kitchen table.
He had eaten worse meals in better restaurants.
He had rarely eaten one that tasted this good.
Josie sat across from him.
She barely spoke.
Mae watched her.
"Your father would've liked him."
Josie's spoon stopped.
Deacon looked up.
"Me?"
Mae nodded.
"He liked men who knew machines."
Josie looked down.
"He liked people who didn't give up on them."
Silence filled the room.
Deacon took a drink.
"What happened to Caleb?"
Mae answered.
"Work."
Josie looked at her.
"That's not what happened."
Mae sighed.
"No."
Deacon waited.
Josie finally spoke.
"My dad worked military contracts."
"What kind?"
"Vehicle recovery. Engines. Field repairs."
"Overseas?"
She nodded.
"He came home different."
Mae's eyes hardened.
"He came home tired."
Josie stared at her plate.
"He stopped sleeping."
Deacon understood that without needing an explanation.
"He built things at night," Josie continued. "Engines. Tools. Sometimes he would just sit in the barn and listen to machines."
"What happened?"
"He died."
"Accident?"
Josie's fingers tightened around her fork.
"That's what they called it."
Deacon looked at Mae.
The old woman said nothing.
Josie continued.
"Truck accident. Rain. Bad road."