Page 8 of Working for Her Heart

We climb from the truck, locking it up, and make our way across the lot to our vehicles.

Lane raps his knuckles on Carla before heading to his white crew cab pickup parked next to her. “You can follow me.”

He leads the way across the small town of Forge Creek. The once industrial hub, built around mills, rail lines, and trade routes, is currently in the midst of a revival. Old factories are being reborn as workshops and storefronts. The roads and bridges hum with constant repair, and new construction rises beside century-old brick buildings.

The air rushing in my open window smells faintly of oil and fresh-cut lumber. The sidewalks are filled with people in hardhats, steel-toed boots, or grease-stained jackets. Hardworking folks who are bringing this small town back to life.

I follow Lane’s truck into a crowded parking lot next to one of the many old brick buildings. We enter the bar and grill to the chorus of clinking dishware and glasses mixed with the dull roar of conversation. The patrons, who have made their way here after their shifts, are just as grimy as Lane and I. The interior of the building is dimly lit with the brick and steel beams left exposed.

There are some familiar faces I’ve met over the last week around the heavy wood tables. Hank Mullins, the Public Works foreman, is talking with Hugo Rhodes from the Road and Ridge crew, and Kane Langston, owner of Forge Creek Municipal Contractors. Gus “Red” Holloway, manager of the Forge Creek Union Hall, is at the bar talking to Doris Whitfield, the owner of Whitfield and Sons Hardware.

I’m about to ask Lane who the man talking to Sheriff Callahan is when a squeal pierces the air so loud it can be heard over all the noise. My stomach drops when a woman with a wide smile, who looks to be in her late 20s, practically throws herself at Lane.

“Lane, I’ve missed you.”

“Hey doll.” He swings her in a circle as she laughs, arms wrapped around his neck.

This right here is the exact reminder I need that all men are the same. Lane certainly isn’t the exception to the rule.

It’s a good thing I’ve kept my wits with this one and haven’t succumbed to his charm.

Chapter Seven

Lane

My laughter at Kayla’s exuberant greeting dies instantly when I twirl her and see the expressionless face of Jessa. A lump the size of Texas forms in my stomach. I hadn’t considered what this might look like to someone who has no idea who Kayla is. I put some distance between the two of us before gesturing to Jessa.

“Kayla, this is Jessa. She just started at Masterson’s last week. Jessa, this is Kayla, the bartender here and one of my sister’s friends.”

Kayla sticks out her hand. “Great to meet you. Are you really a mechanic? That’s so badass.”

Jessa nods, taking Kayla’s offered hand. My lungs deflate with the exhale of the breath I’m holding at the gesture.

“I am.”

“Too cool. I’d love to hear more about it sometime, but I’d better get back. Lane, you tell Alana she owes me a call or six. It’s been radio silence since she left.”

His eyebrows pinch. “Yeah, I haven’t heard from her much either. I’ll be sure to let her know the next time we talk though.”

“Great. I’ll grab a draft for you. What would you like Jessa?”

“I’ll take one also,” she confirms.

“We’ll be over at that table,” I point to an open one along the back wall.

“Where did your sister move to?” Jessa asks as we sit.

“She moved to Coyote Creek. It’s a small town in the mountains of Southwest Idaho.”

Her eyebrows raise. “That’s quite the move. What prompted that?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t too happy about her going so far away by herself. She said she wanted to experience somewhere new. I worry about her. Fortunately, it just so happens a buddy from my army days lives there too. So he’s keeping an eye on her for me.”

Kayla sets our drinks and menus down with one of her quick smiles. “Here you go. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

“Thanks Kayla.

Jessa frowns. “How old is she?”