Her Road Home

No white picket fences for her!

It’s not in Samantha Crozier’s DNA to ignore the call of the open road. The wind in her hair and the pavement beneath her bike are all Sam needs. Until she crashes into Widow’s Grove and the arms of Nick Pinelli, that is. Nick is gorgeous, and pure temptation—temptation Sam is determined to avoid. But with her motorcycle totaled, she’s here for a while. So she comes up with a plan to renovate an abandoned house. Once that’s done, she’s gone.

However, the plan quickly backfires. She can’t find any resistance to Nick’s charm. Worse, for the first time, the house she’s working on is beginning to feel like a home. Her home. And she knows that’s all because of Nick.

“What are you afraid of, Sam?”

Nick looked at her closely then asked softly, “Me?”

“Not you.” She felt her lips twist, but it probably wasn’t a smile. “We’ve both got things to do, Nick, and my things aren’t in Widow’s Grove. Better to just let it go.”

“Better how? Look, Sam. I know you’re going back to the road as soon as the house is done, and I have no intention of leaving Widow’s Grove, ever again.” He lifted his hand from the passenger seat, turning it palm up. “Doesn’t that make me safe?”

“Safe?” She stepped away from the car, away from him. “I don’t know that word.” She turned to trudge up the drive, hearing the throb of the car’s engine, and feeling the familiar throb of separateness in her chest.

Dear Reader,

I can’t tell you how thrilled I am. This is not only the first book I ever wrote, but my first Harlequin Superromance novel! I’m happy that a story so close to my heart found such a wonderful home.

My husband and I have ridden more than 200,000 miles together on motorcycles, and have had lots of wonderful adventures. Back when I was still riding pillion behind him, one day a dog ran in front of our bike. After a gut-clenching scare, he trotted back the way he had come, and we rode on.

But I started thinking. What if a girl, riding a motorcycle, was in an inescapable accident? Then, what if…

The idea grew into Her Road Home.

California’s central coast—the setting for my fictional town of Widow’s Grove—is one of my favorite places on the planet. I hope that the story gives you the yen to see it. If you do travel there, be sure to drop in and meet Jesse, at the Farm House Café. Then follow the road out of town. Turn in at the beautiful Victorian, sitting perched on a hill like a grande dame, holding dignified court over the tan hills.

Tell Sam and Nick I said, “Hey.”

Laura Drake

P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers. Contact me through my website, www.LauraDrakeBooks.com.

Her Road Home

Laura Drake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laura Drake is a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. She writes both women’s fiction and romance stories. She rode a hundred thousand miles on the back of her husband’s motorcycle, propping a book against him and reading on the boring stretches. Then she learned to ride her own motorcycle, and now owns two—Elvis, a 1985 BMW Mystic, and Sting, a 1999 BMW R1100. She’s put a hundred thousand miles of her own on them, riding the back roads, getting to know the small Western towns that are the settings for her books. Laura resides in Southern California, though she aspires to retirement in Texas. She gave up the corporate CFO gig to write full-time. In the remaining waking hours, she’s a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick.

To Mom and Nancy—the unceasing wind beneath.

Anything I’m proud of I do in your name—the blame for the rest is on me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Al, who pulled me out of the ditch, dusted me off and set me back on the road…and who’s been standing by cheering ever since.

I love you.

For Gary, who taught me what forever love is—and it isn’t what I thought….

For his family, who taught me what one can look like when it’s done right.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER ONE

RUNNING AWAY FROM home at twenty-eight—that’s gotta be a first.

Keeping her movements broad and slow, the motorcycle responded to Samantha Crozier’s shifting weight. Waterproof gear snugged around her, repelling the worst of the weather. Through the visor of her full-faced helmet, the world flowed past in shades of gray and the water-shattered reflections of passing cars.

Sam’s mind moved in broad sweeps, but unlike the bike, it didn’t respond well to direction, drifting onto dangerous curves that ended in blind alleys.

I’m not running. Ohio just didn’t fit me anymore. Not after Dad died. Besides, how could she become someone new while living in the same house, the same town that made her what she was to begin with?

Sam rolled her shoulders to ease the tension of the all-day rain ride. As much as she’d enjoyed her first glimpse of the Pacific, the wind had edged its icy fingers into her leathers, making her grateful to turn inland at Highway 101 past San Luis Obispo. A road sign announced Widow’s Grove in five miles.

An ominous name, but it somehow fit the rainy day. The road slipped between rolling hills covered in a grass the color of a child’s sun-bleached hair. Live oaks dotted the slopes, their gnarled branches spreading more horizontal than vertical. The trunks seemed to squat in the soil, as if cringing from an unseen force, their fallen branches a testament to the siege.

New scenery—new life. Who would she become, down the road? She wasn’t sure. Except she did know she’d be someone who spoke her mind—who said it right out loud. Someone she could be proud of. The classic road anthem, “Turn the Page,” echoed through her mind for the eight zillionth time in its tedious, endless loop.

It’s impossible to outrun your thoughts—even on a motorcycle.

Imagining a hot bowl of soup and a warm, dry bed, she crested a hill. Dammit! A line of red taillights flashed ahead. Too close. Her stiff fingers scrabbled for the brake. Fueled by panic, her muscles clamped down. The front tire locked in a skid.

Instinctively, she released the lever then reapplied it slowly, downshifting to scrub off some speed. The bumper of the blue Honda ahead grew large in her face shield. She shot a glance at the shoulder drop-off. Too fast. Her stomach dropped. She’d end up in the steep ditch for sure.

Shit!

She put her feet out to act as outriggers. Her boots slid across the wet pavement, slower, slower. She feathered the brake, applying as much pressure as possible without locking it up.

Just when she knew the bike wouldn’t stop in time, with a twisting, gut-clenching skid, it did.

Until the car behind slammed into her.

* * *

SOUND CAME BACK FIRST. Rain, pattering on the asphalt beside her head. A car engine idling. A man’s voice yelling. A siren in the distance, getting closer.

Then the pain hit. With every indrawn breath, a white blade of agony slashed her side. She flopped like a fish on the wet pavement, trying to suck in air turned liquid.

Small breaths. It wasn’t enough. Her lungs screamed for more, but when she gave in, the blade slashed again, and she writhed. Small breaths.

Focused on sucking air, the sound of running feet barely registered.

“Check his neck before you take his helmet off,” a deep voice ordered.

Although she liked the anonymity her helmet and leathers afforded her, she hated that. Why did they always assume the tall one in the biker gear was a man? Something tugged at her neck and she jerked, trying to fight off the threat to her meager trickle of air. Only one hand obeyed.

“Does your neck hurt?”

“No,” she wheezed.

“Okay. Just relax.”

Easy for him to say. He could breathe. More hands slipped beneath her neck, supporting it as they carefully pulled off her helmet. A plastic mask touched her face, covering her mouth. She opened her eyes and tried to twist away.

A baby-faced paramedic hovered over her. “This is going to help you. Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

Oxygen hissed into the mask, smelling of metal. The cool ecstasy brushed her lips and her windpipe unlocked, allowing air to her starving lungs.

Greedy, she sucked the oxygen in, then froze as the knife plunged again. She tried once more, shallower. That worked. While she practiced breathing, the paramedic ran his hands over her, feeling for breaks. She shifted, cataloging pain: a tweak in her shoulder, a hot coal burning on the side of her knee and the knife hovering at her ribs, waiting to slice.

Overall, not bad, considering. She blinked rain out of her eyes and pulled at the mask. “Let me up.”

The paramedic again appeared over her. He pushed the mask gently back to her face. “What hurts?”

“My ribs.” Now that she could breathe, she tried lifting her arms again. An electric current shot to her collarbone. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. “And there’s something wrong with my shoulder.”

Zzzzip.

She didn’t care that she wore only underwear beneath the one-piece leather suit. Or that the rubber-gloved fingers skimming the skin of her sides were wet and cold.

“Unhh,” she grunted. He had found the spot. Poked, prodded, then moved on.

“You’ve broken your collarbone. Your ribs could be cracked, or just bruised. An X-ray will show for sure.”

“Just help me up—I have to check out my bike.”

“In a minute.” He ran his fingers under her hair, at the base of her skull. “What day is it?”

“April fifth. No, wait, the sixth?”

“Where are you?”

“In the mud, on the side of the road, in California. Now can I get up?”

He frowned. “Not unless you sign a release first.” He thrust a pen into her working hand and held up a clipboard with a damp form and tiny writing.

Painfully, she signed the form, and with help, sat up. She checked the burning on the outside of her knee—road rash. Blood trickled from a scraped hole in her leathers. Damn. The skin would heal, but those leathers had set her back three hundred bucks. Maybe they could be repaired.

The legally absolved paramedic helped her move slowly to her feet. As she came vertical, her shoulder protested, the heavy throb matching the beat of her heart. At the chunk-clunk sound of a diesel engine, she looked up. A tow truck idled on the road beyond the line of cars—and her bike.

She took a sharp breath, then grimaced. Her heart pinched. Her baby lay sandwiched between the Honda and a silver Mercedes: bars bent, headlight smashed, front fork seals blown. Brake fluid leaked like blood onto the wet road.

“Oh, no.” A hollow ache that had nothing to do with her injuries filled her chest. She laid a protective hand over it.

“Back it up.” The tow driver in a hooded windbreaker gestured to the driver of the Mercedes.

She limped to her bike. The frame didn’t look bent, but the chrome was scratched, the gas tank dented. Deep gouges marred the leather side bags, but they were intact, and her sleeping bag and duffle still sat wrapped in plastic and bungee corded to the passenger seat.

“A Vulcan 750,” the tow driver said with an in-church voice. “I haven’t seen one of these in forever.” He trailed reverent fingers over the one pristine side of her cherry-red gas tank. “What year?”

“’85.” Sam glanced to the tow truck, grateful to see it had a flatbed.

A man in a rumpled business suit jogged up and stopped, too close. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I came over the hill and you were right there. I tried to stop, but I just slid—”

She took a step back. “I didn’t think I was going to stop in time, either.”

He leaned in. “Here’s my cell number and my insurance information.” He handed her a business card with writing on the back. “Do you live around here? Let me drive you home. Or do you need a room for the night?”

Her eyes skittered away. “I’m just passing through. I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

The man’s face showed shock at the harshness of her voice. He looked her over, then shrugged and walked away. She turned to the tow driver’s raised eyebrow and curious look. Heat pounded up her neck to flood her face.

Well, screw him, too.

The EMT stepped in front of her. “Look, I either have to take you to the hospital, or you have to sign another waiver.”

“I think my ribs are just bruised.” If she kept her breaths shallow, the pain only throbbed in cadence with the lugging truck engine. But the collarbone was another story. No longer distracted by the damage to her bike, the pain from her own damage cranked up.

“You really should let me take you in. Do you feel dizzy? Weak?”

“Not dizzy. I’m sure the weakness is from the adrenaline hangover. I’ve got to see to my bike, then find someplace to stay.”

The tow driver said, “You go ahead to the hospital. I’ll get her on the truck.” When Sam opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hands. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He looked at the bike, then back at her. “We mostly work on foreign cars. But I’m a bike mechanic, and take a few in on the side. If you’d like, I can try to track down parts for you.”

The sign on the tow truck’s passenger door read Pinelli’s Repair and Tow.

“Or I can haul her wherever you’d like. Just let me know.”

She looked him over. Tall as she, with dark hair that was combed back on the sides and curling onto his forehead. He had a classic ’50s bad-boy look. A cigarette pack would look right, rolled in the sleeve of the white uniform shirt peeking from beneath his windbreaker.

She remembered his light touch running over the gas tank as if it were a rare piece of art. “Are you in Widow’s Grove?”

“Yep. Just off Main, near downtown.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm, reached into a pocket, and handed her a business card. His open smile told her he knew he was being judged. He put out his hand. “Nick Pinelli.”

With only a slight hesitation, she shook it with her left hand. “Samantha Crozier.”

He noticed her wince. “You’re lucky you were ejected.”

She shuddered, imagining her legs taking the blow the bike had taken. “My body may not agree, but I’m with you.”

Man, this is going to be a hassle. But the pain was already wearing her down, and she didn’t want to imagine what the night would be like without painkillers. “Would you grab my stuff out of the saddlebags?” At his nod, she followed the paramedic to the back of the ambulance.

* * *

AT THE EMERGENCY ROOM, the paperwork took longer than the examination. X-rays showed a clean break in the collarbone, but luckily, the ribs were only bruised, albeit badly. By the time she walked out to the taxi they’d called for her, the drizzle had thinned to a fine mist.

As she eased in, the cab cocooned her in warmth and the smells of oily rags and old heater. She put her scratched helmet and bag of essentials on the seat, then snapped herself into the seat belt, ducking under the harness to avoid having it touch her shoulder.

The cabbie settled into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and dropped the clipboard into a holder on the dash. He checked his mirror, waiting for a break in traffic. “Where do you want me to drop you?”

“Can you recommend a hotel in Widow’s Grove?” She thumbed open the bottle of pills and, after reading the label, popped two and dry swallowed them.

He looked over his shoulder, then back to the mirror. “Are you looking for a room, or a bed-and-breakfast for a king’s ransom?”

She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. “Do I look like a B-and-B kind of girl to you?”

He shot her an assessing glance. “I’ve got just the place.”

They rode two miles to the turnoff in silence, then slowed at the main street of town. The view made her forget the pain.

Wow. This is how to treat cottage architecture with respect.

Neat Victorian facades lined both sides of the street. She recognized Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles, among others. Each house sported gingerbread scrollwork, and intricate spandrels above porches displayed traditional strong colors: green, maroon, yellow, or blue.

Sam looked around as they drove through downtown, wishing she had access to her camera. On the right, they passed a yellow, single-story adobe building with leggy wildflowers in the yard. The sign over the door said Santa Inez County Grange Building. From its look, she thought it probably housed the county library.

They idled at a four-way stop where a tall flagpole graced the center of the intersection. She couldn’t read the weathered bronze plaque on the concrete base, but imagined it stood in memory of the founding of the town, or of its brave departed soldiers.

She glanced up the cross street lined with beautiful bed-and-breakfast hotels. Although the architecture had a Victorian flavor, they were spanking new. It reminded her of Main Street in Disneyland, everything so perfect and “in period” that it flirted with parody.

Nestled between them were antiques stores, art galleries and souvenir shops. The rain-drenched streets were deserted. They rolled through the intersection, past an empty coffee shop. White wrought iron tables dotted the patio, and a flock of small sparrows, looking as bedraggled as she felt, took shelter under the bright umbrellas. The entire town seemed like a carnival after hours—without the crowds it seemed pointless and lonely.

A half mile farther, the cab pulled in a graveled drive just past a sign for Raven’s Rest, a cluster of tiny wooden cabins, their heyday probably dating to the ’60s. Huge pines hovered over them, branches resting on moss-covered roofs. Each cabin had a small porch with a rusting metal chair that had once been white.

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean and safe.”

“No, this is good.” She unbuckled the belt, and bent carefully to retrieve her saddlebags.

She paid the driver from her dwindling wad of bills. “Can you tell me how far I am from Pinelli’s Repair?

“It’s less than a mile from here. Just turn left at Hollister. Nick’s is a block down.”

“Thanks.”

The taxi backed out, then pulled onto the road. The rain began again, this time more of a cold, soaking mist. The office seemed a distant island in a vast sea of wet gravel. She almost sighed, but caught herself in time. She trudged, helmet and suitcase banging her leg, the pain in her ribs and shoulder pounding.

A buzzer sounded as she opened the creaking door and squeezed into a tiny office. Grumbling emanated from the recesses of the cabin, something to do with idiots out in bad weather. The curtain behind the desk whisked aside, and Sam faced...well, the first thing that came to mind was...a troll.

Old and stooped, the man had scraggly gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail. He wore a misshapen moth-eaten cardigan over a white shirt tinged yellow. A pair of Marine spit-shined wing tips peeked from under sagging pants at least a size too large. It took Sam several seconds to make out his words, as he was in need of an entire set of teeth.

“Lordy, whaddya have here?”

She could’ve asked the same question. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Well, you’re in luck, missy. I have one left.” Faded blue eyes twinkled beneath grizzled eyebrows. “Forty-five dollars a night. No wild parties, no men and no room service.”

Sam barked a surprised laugh, then winced. Reaching for her credit card, she said, “And here I had my heart set on champagne and cabana boys.”

He turned the register for her to sign. “You look a bit like a drowned rat, but I guess you’ll do.”

“Do you know where I can get something to eat nearby?”

“The Farm House Café, just up the street. Not fancy, but good home cooking.” He pushed the key across the desk. “You can have our executive suite.”

“The Jacuzzi’s fired up, right?” She opened the door, and his laughter followed her into the drizzle.

Luckily, he’d put her in a cabin close to the office. She put down her stuff and unlocked the door. A frayed chenille spread covered the swaybacked iron bed, and an old-fashioned radiator squatted under the window. Inside, she dropped the bags and crossed to the tiny bathroom. The pitted stainless steel hardware gleamed in the stark light of a bare lightbulb.

Sam turned the shower on full force and gingerly peeled off the sling and her damp clothes while waiting for the water to heat. She glanced into the mirror, flecked with black spots, and winced. A lump and an angry red impression of the bike’s handlebar stretched from just below her sternum to her side. A purple goose egg rode her left collarbone. Damn. That was going to hurt for real tomorrow. She stepped into the hot shower, letting the stinging spray do its magic on her aching body.

Oh, heaven. Now if only the leprechaun at the front desk would just grant me room service...

Ten minutes later, when her body had stopped screaming demands and her bones felt soft and liquid, she stepped out of the shower. She wrapped the thin hotel towel around herself and walked the few steps to the bed.

She was hungry, but knew she was in no shape to walk anywhere tonight.

Lifting the covers, she gently burrowed in, shivering at the chilled touch of fresh sheets. She carefully rolled onto her uninjured side, creating a comfortable nest.

It looked like she’d be here awhile, and that suited her fine. The siren call of the open road had pulled her this far, but her travel account had reached warning levels. She’d need to find a job, but she was too tired to think about that now.

Her body relaxed and her exhausted brain drifted to the refrains of her road song and the sound of rain, dripping from the pines onto the roof.

Maybe this time she’d gone far enough, fast enough, to outrun her own guilty shadow. She sure hoped so, because she’d flat run out. Run out of time. Run out of money. And she’d run out of land to feed her restless front tire.

CHAPTER TWO

SAM JERKED AWAKE and in her panic, forgot. The ninja dagger plunged. She froze, panting in shallow rabbit breaths. Her heart slammed her ribs, which set them to throbbing.

Morning light slanted onto the bed through the white curtains. The nightmare seemed to drift on the dust motes. In the dream the cellar walls had transitioned to dirt. The rough cave opening had been only a darker shadow. Something had waited. Something that hammered her with soul-withering terror.

It’s not real. It is not real. She knew the mantra would calm her, if she kept at it long enough.

Her nightmares weren’t normal. She knew that. They washed her nights in an ugliness that lingered, the residue clinging to the inside of her skull. It leached out, leaving greasy stains on each new day.

When her lungs no longer begged for oxygen, she tried to roll onto her back and reach for the amber plastic pill bottle. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Her ribs’ painful response was only the high soprano in the operatic chorus of her body’s pain. Waiting until the wailing quieted to a whimper, she tried again. Slowly. That worked better. She swallowed the pills, grateful for the little white dots that promised relief.