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Sarge got Ryan through his first deployment without a scratch. He and the rest of the crew knew exactly where to go and what to do in every possible circumstance downrange. Sarge trained them relentlessly. It paid off for all of them. Especially for Ryan—Sarge's training saved his life, no doubt.
Maybe it would be better if it hadn't.
Come on, Walsh, don't go there today. Ryan rolled his shoulders and forced his thoughts back to the Moores.
All that training didn't help the Sarge. After the Moores transferred to McChord Air Force Base in Washington State, Sarge went back to Afghanistan. A month later, a suicide bomber blew himself to pieces in the chow hall, killing Master Sergeant-Select Moore and twenty-two others. Ryan moved to McChord only a week before the attack. The next time he saw Erin Moore was at the funeral. She wore all black and a grimly determined expression. At least Sarge hadn't left kids behind, but that probably wasn't a comfort to her.
He'd heard Erin moved to Montana after the funeral but didn't know she lived in Marcus. She was a few years older than Ryan, so they hadn't gone to high school together. She must have entered the Air Force right after high school, or he would have run into her. That's why her tool chests and stickers looked so familiar. They were Sarge's. Ryan had the same stickers on his tool chest. The stab of loss and longing hit him in the heart. He endured it, fists clenched, until he could breathe again.
Sarge had a hot classic car he'd restored himself. He must have taught Erin, or maybe that hobby brought them together. The garage was a great tribute to Sarge's memory. Ryan heard Erin was good at public affairs, and she was certainly still beautiful, so it seemed strange she wasn't working on TV. But those jobs were far and few between, especially in Montana.
Either way, thinking about Erin derailed his reaction, so he should probably get back to work. Ryan pried himself up and out of the chair. Had she married again? Sarge was killed four years ago. William knew who Erin Moore was, so if she had remarried, she’d kept Sarge's last name. Ryan shook his head. War took and took, giving nothing in return.
War took everything from him, and it just kept on taking.
Chapter 3
Small Town Trouble
Erin frowned at the door, the rebuild kit in her hand sagging toward the floor. Strange. The Kelly guys were usually pretty friendly. Other than Jim. William had hired a new guy for the early shift, so she'd expected someone different. But shoving the box at her and running seemed odd.
She shrugged and turned back to the blasted Pontiac G6. Why did people buy these? They were junk. The pan was clean, so Erin slapped the new filter in place, along with the new seal, and bolted it back up. Without torquing the bolts so hard they'd be impossible for the next mechanic to get off. With any luck, this thing would go to the great junk yard in the sky before it needed another tranny fluid change. But Mrs. Cust loved this car, and she was too mean to die, so Erin would be stuck changing it again. Probably sooner rather than later because rich old lady Cust drove the car like the legions of hell were on her tail. Maybe that was why she didn't have an expensive Mercedes or BMW—she was too tough on them. Hard to get those serviced in the area, too; parts were special order, and some of the tools were, too.
As Erin tightened bolts, she considered the new Kelly's guy. He'd looked vaguely familiar. Medium brown hair, a little long and hanging across a rugged, sharp-edged face, pale lines crossing one cheek like a mountain lion clawed him. He was younger and a little taller than she was, and his bright green Kelly's shirt stretched tight across a powerful set of shoulders, down into a narrow waist and nicely fitted jeans. She snorted a laugh. Get a grip, Erin. Really. She didn't have time for everything she was doing now. She definitely didn't have time for a man.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that she knew him.
Erin torqued the bolts on Mrs. Cust's Pontiac transmission one more time, filled it, and double-checked everything else. At the sink, she scrubbed her hands thoroughly, the pumice rough on her hands and the citrus sharp in her nose. Carefully peeling off her coverall, she wiped her hands again, checked herself all the way to the soles of her boots for any leftover grease or dirt, eased into the car, and started it. She'd hate to get anyone's car dirty, but old Mrs. Cust wouldn't hesitate to raise a fuss if she found even a tiny smudge. She wouldn't pay the bill, either. Erin clicked the garage door opener and drove out. After a quick test drive, she parked in front of the coffee shop, pulled the plastic off the seat, and walked inside.
Mrs. Cust had been drinking coffee with her rich society friends earlier. Such a shock—they usually haunted classier places than Coffee and Cars. They must have been providing mutual support. Old lady Cust couldn't lower herself to the slums alone, after all. Erin smirked at her own cattiness. No sign of them; one of the posse must have taken her home. Or to their next stop, wherever that might be today. Probably some charity luncheon where they could sit around, sip tea, and tell each other how generous they were. Which was fine, because a charity got money and didn't have to find them "jobs" they'd be willing to do.
"Tiffany, please call Mrs. Cust and let her know her car is ready."
"Sure, Erin. I'll do it right after I finish cleaning Izzy."
Amazingly enough, Tiffany was cleaning the Italian espresso machine. Erin usually ended up doing it, cursing the entire time, because the longer it sat dirty, the harder it was to clean. After Tiff left, she would double-check. Last time she "cleaned" Izzy, Erin almost got the milk foaming wand through her foot. Erin sighed. At least she was here and trying. Sort of.
"Thanks. I appreciate it." Erin checked the clock. One hour before Tiffany left—enough time to get something on the 'Cuda. She'd call Mrs. Cust later; the easily distracted girl wouldn't remember.
Skirting Tiffany, she headed for the 1968 Plymouth Barracuda, her latest project car. Erin preferred to buy a car and restore it her way, but sometimes it was easier to give in and take the money from a customer than argue. This one belonged to Chaz Cust, old Mrs. Cust's son, one of the richest men in town. He was rich thanks to his grandfather, who'd made a fortune investing in the 1950s housing boom, then the 1970s oil boom, and the subsequent bust. Granddad made out like a bandit, literally—many compared him to one of the robber barons of old, like Marcus Daly the Copper King, the town's namesake.
Unfortunately, Chaz didn't have his granddad's brain or style. Chaz had looks when he was a football star at Marcus High, but that was the pinnacle of his greatness, other than in his own mind. He blew through Mommy's money, but she had lots, so it wasn't really a problem for anyone. Except Erin. Since she'd agreed to work on his car, Chaz had decided Erin was desperately in love with him but couldn't get over the guilt of her husband's death. Chaz thought he could wine, dine, and/or badger his way into her heart.
Or bed, which is all Chaz really wanted. Erin shuddered.
Equally unfortunately, Chaz was five years older than she was, five inches shorter, had a brain a fifth the size of hers, about five hairs left on his head, a gut five inches deep, and, most importantly, was fifty times slimier than anyone she'd dealt with before. Adding insult to injury, the Custs were very good customers of Mom's bank, so she couldn't offend the idiot too much. She really hoped Chaz wasn't the "gentleman" Mom set her up with on Saturday. She'd told Mother she was walking right back out the door if she ever invited Charles "Chaz" Cust again. Erin shook her head. But Mom never listened to her.
This time, though, she would walk out. She'd had enough. She would not sit through another production fending off Mr. Hands after the lights went down. Her lip curled, remembering the last time. She'd really wanted to watch the acrobatic act, but no, she hardly saw any of it because she was too busy deflecting Cust. Mother could go pound sand. Erin would buy her own ticket so she could enjoy the show. Maybe she'd invite the new guy from Kelly's. Her laughter echoed through the garage.
Despite the ugliness of her owner, the 'Cuda would be a beauty. Erin ran a hand over the fender, the primer catching the calluses on her fingers. Chaz probably paid way too much money for it. Erin smirked. He'd keep paying top dollar. She was charging him her highest rates, plus storage fees, plus an extra annoyance percentage. Not that she labeled it that way. No, that was an "energy surplus" or some other nonsense she'd come up with when she wrote their contract. And if he got really annoying, she could add recycling fees, research fees, and the ever-popular handling fee. Each expense was stated in the contract he'd signed. She wasn't cheating him, but she'd already used most of his ten-thousand-dollar deposit. Erin sighed.
If she wanted Cust out of her life, she had to get his car finished.
She'd already stripped everything off the car, had the body and frame professionally prepped, and the new wiring harness was in place. Picking up the brake line she was working on, Erin contemplated the six foot long, three-sixteenth inch diameter tube of stainless steel. Adjusting the odd curves and bends was a bit of a challenge—these aftermarket lines never fit quite right. And she had to check every single change, making sure it didn't interfere with any of the other necessary pieces and parts mounted on the car. It was a difficult, fussy task but satisfying.
Surprisingly, Chaz wanted a car he could drive, not a show car. Erin upgraded the working parts to a higher safety standard, like using stainless steel brake lines rather than the original mild steel. Stainless was much harder to bend. And expensive, if she messed up.
As she tested the fit of her latest change, the door to the coffee shop opened. Tiffany called, "Erin, I'm out of here. I've cleaned Izzy and everything else. I'll lock the door on my way out."
