Chapter 1
1
I-40 in northern Arizona
August 12, 6:20 P.M.
Stormy glanced at the fuel gauge. Low, too low.She’d planned to run on in to Flagstaff before she stopped, but that would be pushing it.
Well, I’ve got a good load and I’ve been stretching the speed limit. Drinks diesel like crazy.She hit the blinker, shifted over a lane and took the off ramp. Tapping the brake, she heard the big engine whine into the down-shift. If memory served, the truck stop she wanted was on the far end of town.
With a glance around for any lurking “smoky bears,” she eased the baby blue Freightliner down to the speed limit.
No use getting a ticket in this podunk town. That would slow me down and cost money I can’t afford to waste. Winslow, Arizona. Not much of a place, is it?
Looking ahead down the wide ribbon of the Interstate, she’d seen the wall of gray clouds almost obscuring the San Francisco Peaks. She’d lay a bet it would be raining before she hit Flagstaff. The song coming from her radio said something about loving a rainy night, but from her seat in the high cab, the notion didn’t apply to truckers. Rainy nights cost time, which she had little to spare. Her load needed a timely delivery in Las Vegas, and another waited there to be taken back east to Memphis. Maybe she could get a day or two at home then.
In terms of pay, over-the-road trucking beat waitress and secretary work. It also gave her the independence she sorely needed. She was buying her own rig, and the tractor was almost half paid for now. The semi-tractor was far from new, but she trusted the man who’d refurbished it. At least the kids were in good hands with her mom, and she made enough for them all to live on, not in the highest style, but beyond adequate. Lemonade out of the lemons she’d ended up holding by the basketful.
She cruised along now at about thirty miles per hour, right down the main drag. The street had once been Route 66, back before I-40 came to be. She chuckled at the quaint old tourist courts and the curio shops, mostly closed now. A slice out of a long-past time. Then she saw him.
Just like the song, standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. The man was a fine sight for all his battered black cowboy hat had seen better days, as had his faded Levis. He stood over a worn sea bag and a scuffed guitar case wearing a look that said he figured he’d be wet in the coming rain before anyone would pick him up.
She wasn’t sure what made her stop. Some perverse imp or maybe simply sympathy for a fellow lost soul. Been there and done that, too many times. Oh, she’d seldom hitched rides, but she’d been down and out so often she knew the route like an old familiar highway.
After she braked to a stop at the curb, she opened the passenger door. He looked up, a strong-faced man, not old, but worn with shadows of trouble painting his features. Then he saw her, recognized she was female, and grinned.
“You’re ‘sposed to be driving a flatbed Ford.”
“Hey, buddy, if this semi isn’t your style, I can drive right on down the road.”
He shook his head. “Right now this warm cab looks better ‘n’ a Cadillac to me, ma’am. I can smell rain. It’s getting close, and I really don’t want to get my stuff wet. I won’t melt, but this old case won’t give my Gibson much protection. Where you headed?”
“I plan to be in Vegas tomorrow morning to drop off a load. I’ll be pushing my hours, but…” She shrugged. “A person does what they have to do.”
“Works for me,” he said. “I don’t have my CDL any more or I’d take a few hours for you. Oh, if you run out of steam and wanna risk it, I could. I know how to herd an eighteen-wheeler down the road. I can talk to ya and keep you awake at least. And Vegas is fine. I might even catch up to my old band around there.”
He climbed in, slung the sea bag behind the seat and eased the guitar case down on top of it.
“My name’s Tom. Right now I’m kind of between gigs, you might say. I just got back from a tour in the Middle East—Tennessee National Guard. My old truck quit on me about half way here from Albuquerque. I got a couple of rides and then ran out of luck. Until a truckin’ lady happened by, that is…I’ll take a pass on that Ford under the circumstances.”
She shot him a keen look. “I bet you have a story. Seems like a good place to start your talking. By the way, don’t call me ma’am. I’m not quite a kid any more, but not that damn old. The name’s Stormy. You do music, huh? What kind?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Most anything. Country, rock, trad—mostly stuff along the lines of Rascal Flats, Alabama, CCR, the Eagles. I like songs that tell a story.”
She nodded. “Me, too. Ever try your hand at writing some? I dabbled in songwriting a little, but traveling like I do, never had a chance to get them out for anyone to hear, and I don’t have any friends serious into music. Would I recognize the name of your band if I heard it?”
“Naw, don’t think so. We were just starting to try to move out of the rural South when I got called over to the sandbox. Figured Vegas as a good gig to get our stuff to the ears of somebody with some connections, first step up the ladder. The guys would’ve needed a lead singer, though. Hope they didn’t find anybody too good. That’d put me out of a job.”
Stormy pulled into the truck stop, fueled the rig, and they headed out west into the darkening night. A few raindrops splattered on the windshield. In the light of the dash, she could see Tom playing air guitar along with the radio. It was providing a stream of older country tunes interspersed with Navajo language commercials and an occasional Native American piece.