ninety

Yaak, Montana
October 2016

“Here you go, miss …”

The truck slowed, its vintage engine easing from growl to purr while it rolled into the stop. He pulled over onto the soft shoulder of the road, mindful not to jostle the young woman who rode in the truck bed. He’d picked her up just outside of Eastport, walking along the 95 like she’d been out for a Sunday stroll instead of stranded in the middle of nowhere. She hadn’t stuck out her thumb or flagged him down, but he pulled over anyway and asked where she was headed.

“South,” she’d said, swinging a long leg over the back of his truck and settling into the bed of it.

“Miss …” He hesitated before reaching for her through the truck’s rear sliding window, hand hovering just above her shoulder. He didn’t want to touch her. He’d made that mistake about a hundred miles back, tapping her on her shoulder when he pulled over in Moyie Springs for gas, to tell her this was as far as he’d be willing to take her. She’d damn near snapped his hand off at the wrist for his trouble.

She’d apologized by filling both gas tanks on his Ford—the primary and the auxiliary—and offered him five hundred dollars if he’d take her as far as Yaak. He’d been on his way to Troy but he’d seen the wad of cash she had on her when she paid for his gas, so he figured she was good for it. He also figured driving a few hours out of his way’d be a hell of a lot easier than trying to take it off her.

She’d been sleeping since they passed the Golden Nugget about fifty miles back. Or at least he thought she was sleeping. She wasn’t much of a talker and his offer for her to ride up front with him had been met with nothing more than a slight narrowing of her eyes, shadowed by the brim of her battered ball cap and a polite but firm no thank you.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin, the stubble that covered it rasping with each pass of his palm. The nervous gesture sent a twinge through his abused wrist, reminding him of what she’d told him while he cradled his wrist and she pumped his gas. I don’t like being touched.

He decided to try one more time without the touching, more willing to waste a few more minutes trying to wake her than he was willing to risk her getting hold of him again. “Miss, you’re home now,” he told her, leaning in just a bit so that his voice carried through the narrow opening of the window.

Like home was a magic word, she stirred, the movement pushing back the hem of her jacket, exposing the pistol on her hip. He’d caught sight of it when she’d first climbed into the bed of his truck. Factoring in the olive drab cargos and plain black shirt along with the heavy-soled hiking boots and mannish haircut, he figured her for another Montana Militia wannabe.

That’d changed back in Moyie Springs.

He sat back in his seat, making sure his hands were in plain view, watching her from the relative safety of the rearview. Reaching into the long pocket of her cargos, she produced a wad of cash as fat as his fist. He watched her peel off the promised five hundreds plus a few more—nearly double what she’d promised him. Reaching through the window, she tapped him on the shoulder with the offered bills.

He turned slightly, reaching over his shoulder to take the offered cash, a nervous grin on his face. “I thank you kindly.” He gave the stack of bills that connected them a tug but she didn’t let go, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Did you give me a ride?” she said quietly, snagging him with a pair of hazel eyes that didn’t seem to belong in the face that carried them.

He thought about the gun strapped to her hip and the fact that he believed with 100 percent certainty she knew how to use it. “No, ma’am. Picked up a drifter just over the border, but I dropped him at the Nugget so he could catch on with one of the logging camps round here. Don’t believe he mentioned which one.”

She finally gave him a smile, just a ghost of one really—gone in an instant as it coasted across her face. She abruptly released the money into his hand, the jerk of it sending a twinge up his wrist.

“Drive safe,” she said, shouldering her backpack before swinging a leg over the side of his truck to climb out. He listened to the sound of her boots crunching in the soft gravel of the shoulder, watching as she walked away.

Disappearing into the trees, like she’d never been.