Grace sat on her parents’ porch swing, watching the clouds play hide-and-seek with the mountain peaks.
It was one of those days that felt like fall in every way. The sky was overcast. The temperature was cool without being cold. And the smell of damp earth filled the air.
Soon the Appalachians would be burning with color instead of just hinting at reds and oranges and yellows. And she couldn’t help but feel a sense of melancholy. The changing of the seasons seemed to put a period on her relationship with Hunter.
They’d been summer lovers.
Now, summer was over.
A low rumble of thunder echoed through the hills and she squinted at the clouds. They didn’t seem the type to hold electricity. They weren’t the kind that heralded the angry, black, billowing tempests that would sweep across the Blue Ridge, taking down trees and sparking forest fires. They were the low, heavy,wetclouds that moved over the peaks like a fog, leaving the air moist without leaving it wet.
Then she realized itwasn’tthunder when the rumble only grew louder.
Her broken heart was crushed anew.
How long will I equate the sound of a motorcycle with Hunter?she wondered.Two years? Ten? The rest of my life?
Would she be eighty years old, wrinkled and working in her garden, hear the sound of a big engine and think…Once upon a time, I had me a motorcycle man?And would the same sense of melancholy and loss wash over her then like it did now? Or would she have healed enough to remember the time they’d spent together with only fondness and joy?
She hoped it’d be the latter. She hoped she’d be able to—
Her thoughts screeched to a halt when the motorcycle sounded like it was turning up her parents’ drive.
That can’t be right,she thought.Mom and Dad don’t know anyone who rides a motorcycle and—
The cup of tea slipped from her hands when Canteen Green rounded the bend, its big wheels eagerly crunching across the gravel.
Hunter sat astride the detailed machine looking as good as ever in a thick motorcycle jacket and well-worn jeans. The visor was down on his helmet, obscuring his face, but she could feel the moment his eyes found her on the porch swing. What little breath she’d managed to suck into her struggling lungs strangled in her throat and all the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted as if in warning of a lightning strike.
She couldn’t move as he came to a stop near the base of the porch steps and toed out the kickstand. Time seemed to slow to a snail’s pace as she watched him pull off his helmet, hang it over one handlebar, and then easily swing his leg over the big bike’s leather seat.
He’s so beautiful,she thought, her eyes raking over his chiseled jaw, up past his high cheekbones, to lock onto his hazel eyes. Eyes she couldn’t read even though she desperately tried to.
Why is he here?
She couldn’t think of a reason.
Okay, shecould. But she didn’t want to get her hopes up.
Maybe he hadn’t even come to see her. Her family had grown fond of him during the week she’d been unconscious. Maybe he’d come to see them.
The clunking of his biker boots up the worn wooden boards of the front porch matched the hardthudof her heart. She wasn’t sure what she expected him to do or say, so she simply gaped at him as he squatted to pick up her dropped teacup—thankfully it hadn’t shattered or her momma would’ve killed her—and placed it gently on the wrought iron table next to the swing.
“Mind if I take a seat?” His deep voice was music to her ears as he gestured to the empty space beside her.
She’d lost the ability to speak. The best she could manage was a quick shake of her head.
The chains on the porch swing creaked as he lowered himself next to her. Then he sent them rocking with a gentle shove of his booted toe.
He smelled exactly as she remembered, aftershave and leather oil and the open road. But he didn’t look at her. Not immediately. Instead, he gazed out at the view. At the rolling mountains that stretched as far as the eye could see, the tallest ones disappearing into the low river of clouds flowing overhead. At the tips of the trees dancing in the cool breeze. And at the hawk that circled the nearest peak.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and soft. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined. I understand why you love it here.”
Since she wasn’t certain she’d regained the use of her voice, she simply stared at him. Waiting for him to continue.
He did. Gesturing to the spot where a thin scar cut through her scalp. “How’s your head?”
The hair the surgeon had cut away was growing back. And if she parted her hair down the middle, no one could tell she’d had a hole drilled into her skull.
