Page 107

“What are you talking about, Duane?” I asked.

“What are you talking about, Duane?” He pitched his voice higher to mock me.

Visions flashed through my mind of grabbing that mallet out of the glove box and using it on him. The problem was we were flying west down a two-lane road and I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. If he crashed my car, I’d be ejected.

“I’m talking about how you made my old lady leave me.”

I’d never seen Duane at On a Lark with a woman. This was no time to argue with him - especially if he was a killer.

“Have I met her?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said.

“Then how could I—”

“She left me because of you,” he yelled.

There were people who firmly believed alcohol (and by extension bars) dissolved many things. Jobs, marriages, families - and that was one of the reasons why I wanted On a Lark to be a bar and grille. The fact Duane came in every Monday and left at closing was on him, not me.

It wouldn’t help me to point that out to him, though.

He barely slowed for a stop sign and swung a hard right onto another two-lane country road. I had to grip the door handle hard during the turn. My mind reeled as I tried to figure out where we might be headed. Lark had forced all three of us to scout the area surrounding the bar back in March and April of last year. There were dairy farms out here, though most of them didn’t have many cows. They’d turned to hosting events at their farms. A third farm had an event space, a motocross course, and a campground for attendees and racers.

He was driving too fast and erratic.

“Please, slow down, Duane. You’re scaring me,” I pleaded.

“You shouldn’t have pulled the alarm, Mickayla,” Duane said.

“I didn’t pull an alarm,” I lied.

The car began to slow, and I noticed we were approaching a dirt lane. My gaze cut to the right and I saw the tall dirt hills that marked the start of the motocross course.

Crap.

Duane turned onto the dirt lane and slammed on the brakes. I still held onto the door handle and barely stopped my head from hitting the windshield when we jerked to a stop.

Faster than I’d ever seen Duane move, he angled out of my car, jogged to the metal gate, threw it open, and hurried back to the car.

His back was turned just long enough for me to open the glove box, pull out the mallet, and put it along side the door and my seat.

He drove my Corolla through the open gate and parked it next to a two-passenger four-wheeler.

“Out,” Duane barked.

I stared at him a beat, nodded, and opened the door. But I didn’t get out immediately. I’d hoped he would get out too.

“Do I need to hit you again? Get out!”

I scrambled out of the car with the mallet held low next to my leg, doing my best to hide it.

Duane got out of my car, shooting a disgusted look at me. “Are you dumb as a box of rocks now? Get in the ATV.”

A gust of wind picked up, and I put my free hand to my hair. Duane watched that movement, and seemed to miss my other hand tucking the mallet in the waistband of my jeans.

I slid into the passenger seat of the four-wheeler. Duane fired up the engine and we took off, bumping along the outside of the dirt track. In no time, we came upon a fifth wheel trailer without a truck attached to it. Then I noticed an older model, GMC Acadia parked outside the camper. I vaguely recalled seeing that vehicle outside On a Lark.

“Duane, how is any of this going to help you get your old lady back?” I asked as we pulled to a stop.