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Erin stood and removed the bolt. Especially when Mom's idea of an eligible gentleman was far from hers. Usually they were ten to twenty years older than Erin, a stuffed shirt who'd never left the town, their brains as soft as their bodies. None of them had any desire to go, do, or see anything new or different.
Sure, Marcus, Montana was a beautiful and wonderful place—that's why she'd come back after everything fell apart. The gorgeous Bitterroot Mountains, the rushing streams, the miles of hiking, the fantastic skiing, the amazing fly-fishing; it was the perfect place to call home. But everyone should experience some of the wonderful, beautiful, and terrible things in the world so they'd appreciate what they had. And if they couldn't physically leave because of financial or physical limitations, the desire should still exist. Erin couldn't connect with people who lacked the longing to learn. She'd experienced so much and knew there was more.
Thank the heavens, there were plenty of people here who wanted to widen their minds, even if they couldn't leave.
Lately, though, Mom's dating pool had widened, and not in a good way. Men from out of town, with expensive suits and entitled attitudes. Wealthy, self-absorbed, rough and tough despite the designer duds, like movie mobsters. A couple carried weapons—she could smell the gunpowder and if she looked closely, see the bulge from a pistol. Some of those had slight accents; Russian, if she had to make a guess. If she had to deal with slime, she preferred the local losers. Like Chaz Cust. Bad enough Mom dealt with him; these new customers and associates made Erin nervous.
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t pay her bills. She clinked the wrench into place on the next bolt and pulled. She might need the impact wrench, but then she risked rounding off the bolt's head, making her job harder.
"Hey, Erin," a gruff male voice said.
Her tense shoulders relaxed. "Hi, Pete, what can I do for you?" She ducked, shooting a smile at him, then went back to work. Pete Borde, local rancher and Vietnam vet, wouldn't mind. He knew time was money.
Pete hadn't known what to make of her, an Air Force veteran who'd become a military spouse and then a widow. But he'd warmed up to her quickly when she offered him the coffee shop next door for their veteran meetings. He insisted on paying for the coffee.
"I'm checking your schedule. Are we still clear to use the coffee shop on Tuesday afternoon?"
"You bet, Pete. You're always welcome, you know that." He made sure the shop was cleaner than he found it, too.
"Appreciate it. See you later."
"Bye. Have a great day."
"You too."
The door sighed again, and she echoed it. Pete's group was getting smaller. They should reach out to the younger vets moving into Marcus. Many of them had severe wounds, often hidden, like traumatic brain injuries and post-traumatic stress. They'd come, just like she had, to rest and recover in a friendly place. And sometimes, just to hide. Marcus was a good place to hide. A small town but large enough to not know everybody, with mountains on all sides. An easy place to hide in plain sight. Vietnam vets did the same, years before. The survivors learned hiding didn't work. The new guys—and gals—could use some mentorship, and the Vietnam guys needed new blood.
Erin closed her eyes. Michael would have integrated the two groups, but he was a one-of-a-kind man. She'd been lucky to have him as long as she did. Wishing for more was futile.
Enough memories. She had work to do. The last bolt broke and spun out. To finish the job, she needed the transmission rebuild kit, which should have been delivered already. She wiped her greasy fingers on a shop rag. She rarely remembered her mechanic's gloves until dirty grease blackened her fingernails.
Her boots thudded across the twenty feet of concrete to the auto shop counter. Opening the connecting door behind the counter, she breathed deep. Dark, rich espresso overwhelmed the sharp scent of burned oil. But her pleasure was short-lived. No one stood at her very expensive espresso machine or behind the cash register next to it. Or at the drive-through window. She scowled. Tiffany was gone. Erin edged behind the counter, pulling her greasy coveralls against her body, keeping the dirt away from the surfaces.
Halfway down the long, narrow dining area, Tiffany giggled and batted her eyelashes at the men who came in every morning. From the sawdust left under their chairs, Erin was pretty sure they were loggers. "Tiffany!"
She jumped and turned, her big brown eyes open wide, lashes fluttering with too much mascara, pink lips pouting.
Great. Sad puppy dog eyes first thing in the morning. "Tiffany, did you order that transmission rebuild kit for me like I asked?"
"I think so!" She shot a smile at the loggers, then sauntered away, hips twisting like a model on a catwalk.
That phrase meant the opposite—she hadn’t ordered the parts or finished any of the other tasks Erin had asked her to do. Erin checked the computer next to the cash register. Yup, no order. Rats. A shiny expanse of red caught her eye. "Tiffany, the drive-through. There are customers waiting." Erin kept her tone flat, even though she wanted to yell.
"I'm so, so sorry. I didn't notice them, Erin!" The cute little blonde scurried to the window.
Of course not. She clamped her lips shut. Customers in the drive-through weren't nearly as interesting as the muscle-bound, bearded loggers in the dining area, even though the drive-through customers tipped, and the loggers generally didn't. Erin needed a decent employee, somebody who would work and could learn new skills. So far, the hours and pay she could offer made it impossible. Her business plan was a good one—mother's bank wouldn't have approved the loan otherwise—but finding the right person was mission impossible so far.
Erin waited until Tiffany was back on the job and returned to the garage. She hit the quick dial on the garage phone, gripping it tightly to keep the slightly greasy plastic from slipping out of her hand.
"Kelly's Auto Parts, lowest price always, how can I help you?"
"Hi, William. It's Erin at Coffee and Cars. Got a 2010 Pontiac G6, four-cylinder automatic, and I need a transmission rebuild kit. Tiffany was supposed to order it, but..."
He snort-chuckled, the tapping of computer keys underlying his mirth. William understood how hard it was to find good help. "We've got one. I'll have it to you shortly."
"Thanks, William. Appreciate it."
"No problem. Have a good one."
