Chapter 42

 

 

 

Melissa screamed as the bus jounced on uneven ground. Every muscle in Foster’s body tensed as he fought for control of the unwieldy rig. Sky blended with land in an unbroken expanse of white. After an eternity the bus and trailer came to a stop. At least they were upright.

Foster’s hands trembled as he reached down to be sure his pants were dry. Holy crap, that had been close!

“Did that truck just run us off the road?” Melissa was practically shouting.

He’d been about to ask whether she was injured—clearly, she wasn’t. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Just hit an icy patch.”

He turned in his seat and looked back. The coffee maker lay on the floor. Cardboard boxes had slid from under the table, now blocking the narrow aisle down the center of the bus. One upper cabinet had come unlatched, and a stack of plates had slid halfway out.

“Put all that stuff back in place,” he told her. “I’m going outside to check the trailer.”

His feet sank into six inches of snow, and the white stuff filled the tops of his low-cut boots. The good news was the trailer also sat upright. The bad news—the tow bar had bent at an impossible angle. No way could they tow it, even as far as the next town. He let out a string of curses, as much for his expensive boots as for the trailer.

An old blue pickup truck came out of the whiteness, a durable-looking thing that surely worked on a ranch, not some fancy city vehicle. The driver slowed. Foster saw two gnarled hands on the wheel and a Stetson atop a head with gray close-cut hair. The elderly man gawked at the trailer’s signage “Temple of the Rising Moon,” took one look at the bus with its vividly painted rainbows and flowers, and kept going. Great.

Foster yelled a few choice words that were immediately lost to the wind. Visibility was down to nothing, and he realized they were in a bad spot. If someone came along and rear-ended the skewed trailer he’d be trapped against the back of the bus. If the oncoming vehicle happened to be a big truck, his body would have to be scraped off it.

He gripped the trailer’s latch, wishing he’d thought to put on a heavy coat and gloves. Minutes of wrestling the thing wrenched his back and strained every muscle, but eventually his icy hands got the hitch detached from the bus. He shoved it out of the way. The trailer rolled a few feet down the slight incline before it became stuck in the snow. At least it was completely off the road.

He circled the bus, ears intent on listening for oncoming vehicles, checking for further damage. If the old boat would start, all he had to do was guide it back onto the road. Show Low couldn’t be that much farther.

Inside, Melissa had secured the kitchen gear and made certain to set appliances and knickknacks where they couldn’t slide. He suppressed irritation that she hadn’t done that in the first place. This wasn’t the time for the two of them to start bickering.

“Okay, let’s pray this baby starts,” he said.

She gave a smartass grin and held her hands together, as she had done so many times for their audiences.

The tires slid on the embankment—a long anxious moment for Foster—before the bus got traction and slowly lumbered onto the roadway again. After twenty more minutes Show Low emerged out of the whiteness, with tall pines laden in the heavy snowfall. They eased along the highway, which changed to Deuce of Clubs Drive in the center of town. A gray stucco building with pitched roof had a sign out front: Bluebird Café Breakfast All Day.

Foster steered the bus to the side of the parking area and turned off the engine. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d really been until he slid out of his seat and felt the cramping in all his lower regions.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” he said, helping Melissa into her fluffy faux-fur jacket.

“It’s midafternoon,” she reminded.

“I don’t care. All I can think about is a couple eggs, a slab of ham, and pretending I’m starting this whole day over.”

She looked as though she could start the day over, as well. Beneath her perfectly done makeup her face was pale, her mouth trembling, and strands of hair had slipped across her eyes.

The Bluebird Café could have been plopped into any small town in the Southwest and felt right at home. In this version, the interior walls were a dingy cream color, the leatherette booths done in dark brown, and the Formica tabletops were shiny red. A waitress with a tray full of coffee mugs told them to sit anywhere they liked, and since there was only one empty table the choice was simple. Apparently all of Show Low had decided the cozy little spot was the place to be on a snowy day.

Menus were propped against the wall, held in place by a metal contraption that held salt and pepper shakers, sugar and creamer packets, tiny tubs of jelly, a ketchup bottle, and a sticky-looking little jug of maple-flavored syrup. Melissa looked skeptical—this whole place was a far cry from the resort where she’d spent the past week being pampered.

Foster didn’t care. At this moment all he wanted was to warm up and get some food before tackling the rest of the route to Albuquerque. When the waitress—a woman whose face seemed far harder than her years—delivered their meals, he asked about the best route.

“Well, you sure don’t want to drive all the way up to Snowflake and try to connect with I-40. We heard it’s shut down. Happens at least once every year when it snows real hard, and there ain’t enough motel rooms in Holbrook to handle everybody that gets stranded.” She topped their coffee mugs while she talked. “And I-25 wasn’t much better as of an hour ago. One of the truckers said there was a big pileup. Wind, low visibility. I’d wait it out a couple days, if I was you.”

Foster’s mind raced through the itinerary he’d planned. There was no spare time for delays.

Melissa piped up. “We should just find a room here, honey.”

“My cousin owns the Full House Inn, just down the way. But I’d get there early. Come dark, everybody who’s on the road is gonna want to get to shelter. This is supposed to be a bad one.”

According to his careful itinerary, the next couple of days were planned for Albuquerque and Amarillo, and both cities were directly in the path of the storm. Well, crap, he thought as the waitress walked away.