It started as a strange sputter sound, but Wyatt could smell the smoke before he saw it. He slowed the bike and looked up. The green sign he had passed said the next town was only five miles ahead. If he could make it there, he could take the bike to a garage and investigate the problem.

He clutched the handles, urging the bike forward. He rolled into town, blowing smoke from the exhaust pipe.

“What the hell?” he muttered. This was the last thing he needed.

The bike had started jerking and seizing right as he entered the city limits. Wyatt looked around with a scowl on his face. There wasn’t much here. He eased the bike into a gas station, more than a little relieved that there was a rusted sign painted over one of the doors that said Mechanic.

He hopped off the side and walked the bike to the back of the store. There was a garage wide enough for two cars. He noticed a pile of tires stacked in the corner and an open toolbox.

“Hello?” he called.

“Hold on, hold on.” He heard a muffled voice under the car in the first bay.

Wyatt waited while a man in dark denim overalls rolled out from under the car. “Can I help you?” His nametag read Glen.

“Yeah. Do you service bikes?” He nodded toward where he had parked the black motorcycle.

“That all depends.” The man spit from the side of his mouth. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It started smoking and making a put-put sound. I was wondering if I could take a look at it here.”

The man scratched the back of his head, sending his shock of white hair straight up toward the ceiling. “I’ll look at it for you.”

Wyatt shook his head. “I can do it. I don’t have any tools with me. I’ll compensate you for the space and letting me use yours.”

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t rent out my equipment. If you want me to take a look at the bike, I will.”

Wyatt felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He didn’t like to be told no. And he didn’t like being told what to do. He hadn’t had the bike long, but he already felt protective of it.

“Well, what it’ll be, son?”

“Sure. Why the hell not?” He handed the mechanic the keys after hesitating only a second.

“What branch of service are you in?” the older man asked.

Wyatt squinted at the man. Glen pointed to his neck. “I see your tags there. I used to be a Navy man.

Wyatt felt his shoulders relax. “Army.”

“On leave?”

The mechanic sure was nosey. “No. No, I’m not. You could say I’m retired.”

Glen seemed surprised. “You look mighty young for retirement.”

He didn’t like discussing his career, or why suddenly he was no longer in Special Forces. “I guess so,” he grunted. “When do you think you can have it ready?”

“It’s going to be after lunch before I can get to it.”

“Is there another shop in town?” he asked. He suddenly felt anxious again to put more miles behind him.

“No. This is St. Claire. We’ve got one of everything. You’ll have to drive to the next town, but it looks like you’re not going to be doing any driving.” He pointed to the puddle of oil forming by the front tire.

“Shit.” Wyatt stared at the oil.

“Go grab some lunch. There’s a place across the street. I’ll try to take a look and give you an idea of what you’re dealing with here, Army.” Glen smiled, pleased with himself at the new nickname.

Wyatt felt the irritation start to subside. He never finished breakfast and he was still hungry. Lunch wasn’t a bad idea.

“All right. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He walked toward the restaurant the mechanic had pointed out. He waited for a slow moving car to pass before crossing the street. St. Claire was a picturesque town. The kind you see on the front of a postcard. Nestled in a valley, the giant mountains rose around it, making it seem sheltered and safe.

He pushed open the door to The Skillet, quickly adjusting to the dimness of the small room surrounded by dark wood paneling. According to the sign on the door it was open for breakfast and lunch.

By habit, his eyes instantly darted to the back doors, trying to assess how many exits there were. His hands balled into fists at his side. His eyes shot to the patrons, sizing them up. There were two couples, and in the back a noisy construction crew took up two large tables.

“How many?” a tall woman with thin wired glasses asked.

Wyatt glared at her, but saw the look in her eyes before realizing how she had reacted to him.

“One,” he grumbled.

“Right this way.” She quickly jumped in front of him and sped to the back of the restaurant.

He was about to protest that he couldn’t see the door from here, but realized he had already made her uncomfortable. He expelled a heavy breath and dropped into the seat she offered. He hadn’t meant to scare her.

“Thank you.”

“Your server will be right out.” She scurried away and Wyatt realized how gruff he must seem. He hadn’t shaved in days. He was hungry, and he was annoyed his only mode of transportation was being worked on by a complete stranger.

He ate lunch quickly, tipped generously, and walked back to the garage behind the gas station. He couldn’t stay still. He needed his bike running so he could get back on the road.

Glen was right where he had left him. Only this time he was covered in more grease.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked the mechanic.

“Pretty simple fix. We need to order a few parts and she’ll be good as new.” He said as he pulled an oil stained rag out of his back pocket.

Wyatt peered at the bike. The muffler was lying on the ground. “And how long will that take?”

Wiping his brow, Glen looked at a calendar hanging on the wall behind him. “If I put in the order this afternoon, we might get it by tomorrow.”

He didn’t want to spend the night in St. Claire. He wasn’t sure where he was going to stop, but it wasn’t a town like this. He had planned on driving all night.

“Tomorrow?”

“That’s best case scenario.” The mechanic spit again. “I’ll do my best.”

“All right. Fine.” Wyatt realized he was out of options. “Order what you need to.”

“I’ll call right now.” Glen turned for the office door, which looked like it was the entrance to the gas station. “What’s your name, Army?”

“Call me Wyatt.” Wyatt looked around. “Wait. Is there a motel in this town?”

“We’ve got one. Take a right and head down two blocks. You’ll see it. The Long Pine Inn.”

“Thanks.” Wyatt picked up his pack off the bike and walked out of the garage, following Glen’s instructions.