Riding the Thunder Read online

  “On a low sodium diet?”

  She smiled, suddenly enjoying the banter. “Something akin to that.” Feeling silly, she took a sip, then passed him the bottle back. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll stick to Pepsi, Cherry Coke and 7-Up.”

  “Cherry Coke? If you’re a Pepsi addict, why not Cherry Pepsi?”

  “Cherry Coke is an old favorite around here,” Asha replied evasively, then chided, “You want a burger and fries with those beers?”

  “I’m waiting ’til the supper crowd thins a bit more. Then I’d like one of those strip steaks with onion rings. And don’t nag. I’ve only had three beers in the last two hours. I’m not driving; I only have to stagger a few feet up the knoll.” He winked. Winks like that should be outlawed as unsafe for female consumption.

  “Up the knoll? As in one of the bungalows?” Oh great, he’s right next to me. Talk about temptation under her nose!

  Jago nodded with a roguish twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyes shifted to Netta as she came through the swinging door, carrying a tray with slices of strawberry pie, each topped with a swirl of whipped cream.

  “Hey, darling,” he said, “on your next pass into the kitchen how about tossing one of those steaks on the grill for me? And a side of onion rings?”

  The blonde batted her lashes at him, then glanced to Asha and winked. She tossed over her shoulder, “Sure thing, Sexy Lips.”

  “Sexy Lips?” he repeated. His black brows lifted at the nickname. “I can live with that.”

  Damn Netta! Go ahead, feed the man’s ego, Asha thought. Sexy Lips? Hell, every inch of the man, head to toe, was drop-dead sexy.

  If he was sticking around, that spelled trouble for her.

  Suddenly, the jukebox came on. Asha closed her eyes and groaned as the song started playing.

  “Laura and Tommy were lovers. He wanted to give her everything . . .”

  Asha sighed in resignation. It was a great song, one that seemed to last through the ages. “It certainly lasts around this place,” she muttered, glowering at the Wurlitzer 2700.

  The jukebox had been new in 1963, and now was worth a small chunk of change, a collector’s item from the silver era. This one would go for ten times the market price of others, since each booth still had its original wallette table changer. But the bloody thing had a mind of its own. Oh, did it have a mind of its own!

  Netta came back with her tray empty, catching Asha’s questioning glare. She shrugged.

  “I thought Colin took that song off the jukebox,” Asha said.

  Netta laughed. “You try taking it off.”

  Asha scowled at the shiny chrome Wurlitzer that looked brand new instead of decades old, as Ray Peterson soulfully crooned on, “Tell Laura not to cry. My love for her will never die . . .”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jago’s request took Asha by surprise. “Supper rush seems over, and business has slowed. Why don’t you keep me company while I eat, Asha Montgomerie?” Netta had just informed him it would only be a couple minutes until his steak was ready. “I hate dining alone.”

  Asha looked up from scribbling notes for next week’s food order. Instinct was to brush Jago Fitzgerald off the way she did all males who tried to push past her ‘no trespass sign’, but as she stared into those dark green eyes everything faded to a blur. She could only focus on him.

  The crazed jukebox with a mind all its own had stopped its tizzy fit, spinning “Tell Laura I Love Her” endlessly, and now behaved, playing “Against The Wind.” As Asha stared at Jago, she felt close to him in some fey way, as if there were some connection between them, a bond.

  Maybe it was Bob Seger’s ballad evoking emotions, but she believed he hated eating alone, and he was right; business had slowed. A couple shared a banana split in the back booth, and one of the motel customers was finishing up his meal with a slice of pecan pie. Derek bussed the tables that needed cleaning, and Netta was already changing the menus to show tomorrow’s specials. Just another typically slow Thursday night.

  Giving in to temptation, Asha put down the pencil and closed the order book. “All right, I’ll take a break and eat a piece of pie.”

  Pleasure lit Jago’s eyes. “Where shall I sit? Anyplace special?”

  “Anywhere is fine. It’s always slow Thursday evenings.”

  Jago started to slide into the first booth on the left. A big one, almost C-shaped, it was large enough to seat eight people. Asha panicked, her command coming out in a yelp.

  “Not there!”

  “Anywhere,—just not here?” He waited for an explanation.

  Asha grasped for a reason to offer. How did one elucidate that there were unspoken rules about The Windmill—and not just The Windmill Restaurant, but also the drive-in and the swim club? There existed certain boundaries everyone around the three places quickly learned not to cross or else. Like the last time Colin removed “Tell Laura I Love Her” from the jukebox, the following morning they had found every plate in the restaurant shattered and in a big heap on the middle of the dining room floor. If you parked in slot H-13 at the drive-in or sat in that particular booth, you were courting trouble. People refused to discuss these ‘peculiarities’ with Asha since she’d returned to take over the businesses; ask them a direct question about the odd occurrences and they practically ran. Still, Asha was Scot and thus respected things outside the norm. She embraced these quirks as part of the ambience of The Windmill. She was unsure how an outsider would react to her suspicions, however.

  She eyed the booth he’d started to sit in. All manner of catastrophes befell any unsuspecting diner who dared occupy that booth after dark. During the day, it was all right to use it, but after the sun set you could bet something weird would happen. Trays might be dropped into the unfortunate person’s lap, or the bus-cart might careen into the table, sending a load of dirty dishes everywhere. Once, a flying plate had hit a man in the back of the head. No one had witnessed the ‘Frisbee toss,’ but everyone muttered suspicions.

  “Less cleanup racket if we sit a few booths away.”Nice save. She patted herself on her back. “Now, let me fetch a piece of pie.”

  As she passed the jukebox, it changed to “I Will Follow Him” by Little Peggy March. Asha stuck out her tongue at the temperamental thing.

  Pushing through the swinging door to the kitchen, she went to the food locker, took out a pie and cut two slices. Jago hadn’t ordered dessert, but she figured he couldn’t watch her eat these plump berries with the strawberry glaze and not want a slice himself.

  She returned and set both saucers down on the table, causing Jago to raise his sexy black brows. “Compliments of the house,” she said.

  “Thank you—for both the pie and the company.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve been on the go all day. I can use a breather.”

  And boy, could she! There was an odd, almost feral stillness about Jago Fitzgerald, a trait inherent to nature’s most successful predators. He unsettled Asha, on par with a white tiger wandering in and making himself at home in the middle of her restaurant. She cautiously studied him while he ate, every move deft, elegant, understated. Oh, this man intrigued her. Maybe too much.

  “You manage all this?”

  “This being the motel, swim club, the restaurant, laundromat and drive-in? Actually, I own them. The horse farm on the other side of the road is owned by my father and brother, but everything on this side belongs to me. When Mother died, she left me a quarter interest in the horse farm and half ownership of these businesses. I cut a deal with my father last year. Traded him my shares in the farm, and he made me total owner of The Windmill and the house on the river.”

  “Odd place for businesses—out in the middle of bloody nowhere.”

  “The horse farm was once part of a land grant from George the Third. During the War Between the States, it was a horse plantation. This building was the overseer’s house. As you can tell, this diner is grafted onto its side. When the landowner died in the late ’40s, there was
a protracted and dirty fight amongst the numerous heirs. They were forced to break the property into five separate tracts and sell them at auction. Mac—my father—bought this one.”

  “Valinor Revisited? Isn’t that an odd name for a horse farm?” Jago smirked in a teasing fashion, then took a sip of coffee.

  Asha shrugged. “Mac is a big Tolkien fan. My grandfather knew him. I guess we’re lucky he didn’t name the place Bag End.”

  “Okay, the farm I understand, “Jago sounded intrigued. “This is, after all, the heart of the Blue Grass State. Only, I’m puzzled by these other businesses in the middle of undeveloped farmland.”

  Asha warmed to the subject, proud of the area. “The first business on this spot was an icehouse. People used blocks of ice for iceboxes back then. They needed a place centrally located, not too far away. Seeing an opportunity, the owner started selling beer and soft drinks by the case to boaters heading to the river for the day. Back then, this highway was the main artery for commercial travel from Michigan to Florida. We’re the halfway mark on the Blue Highway. Truckers required somewhere to get gas, to eat. Travelers needed a motel, a stop on their way to Florida. Mum renovated the overseer’s house into the restaurant, and then they built a small motel extension. The swimming pool was added for the motel guests’ pleasure. Later, traffic slowed when I-64 opened back in the early ’60s, so Mum changed it to a private swim club. The laundromat was necessary for the workers. I’m not sure where she got the idea for the drive-in.” She shrugged. “She was a rabid movie buff. I thought ours was the last one in Kentucky, but Netta informed me there are a dozen left. They’re having a rebirth, people discovering the fun again. We do a strong business on weekends. With houses for the workers on the other side of the drive-in, The Windmill has grown into a special quirky microcosm.”

  It struck Asha how her tiny community was somewhat similar to B.A.’s island in Scotland. Her oldest sister owned the small island in the Hebrides, which had a population of less than three hundred. The Windmill was similarly isolated, and people who worked and lived here were just as eccentric, wanting a place in the world where things were slower. That was why she fought her father’s recent pressure for her to sell.

  Asha wasn’t getting rich. She’d returned to take over running the businesses three years ago, just after her mother’s death. She needed a purpose in life. She’d envied B.A.’s Falgannon, and sensed The Windmill could provide her with the same satisfaction. As long as everyone was paid and she was able to maintain the complex in the same style, Asha was happy here.

  Jago’s comment interrupted her reverie. “It’s also a little odd to find a Scot running the place.”

  Asha pushed her empty pie plate aside. “Though my mum was a Scot, she was raised in Kentucky from the time she was nine-years-old. I grew up on both sides of the pond. One of the bones of contention in my parents’ marriage and then divorce was that she never felt comfortable in Britain. She’d always want to come back here. The Windmill holds many wonderful recollections for me . . . it’s a storehouse of memories for many people, which is why I’d like to see it continue. In some ways, we’re in a time capsule. When I-64 took away the traffic, everything stood still. We’ve remained in a time warp, stuck in the 1960s around here with a passion.”

  “You dumplings need anything?” Netta had come to remove their empty dishes.

  Jago shook his head. “The meal was delicious. I look forward to being well-fed while I’m staying here.”

  Netta stood patiently waiting for more information. When Asha rolled her eyes, Miss Gossip of the Year finally caved in. “Fudge, you ruin all the fun, Asha. I’ll just have to needle it out of you later.”

  Jago watched Netta vanish into the kitchen, then remarked, “She’s a character.”

  “All at The Windmill are.” Asha shifted in the booth, leaned her back against the wall and stretched out her legs along the seat. “So, what are you doing in my little nowhere burgh? With that accent you’re on the wrong side of the pond.”

  “Speaking of accents—burgh?” he teased, “You can take the lass out of Scotland, but you can’t take the Scot out of the lass.”

  She stuck out the tip of her tongue at him. “Och, roots run deep. Why the thistle is our national flower; they often go down thirty feet. So, what drew you to my burgh?” she asked again.

  “I’m a developer. I’m in the area to scout around.” He watched her intently, obviously waiting to see her reaction to that pronouncement.

  Asha just stared, unblinking. Oh, bugger. Sexy lips or no, she’d just got the kicker of a feeling Jago Fitzgerald was the front man for Trident Ventures, the big money people trying to buy the horse farm and The Windmill. There’d already been two offers and counter-offers; however, Trident was pressuring her father to include The Windmill as part of the package. Mac didn’t like her living in Kentucky, wanted her closer, so he used the offer as a lever to get Asha to return to England to live. She’d flatly refused. The businesses were hers, and there wasn’t anything Mac could do to force her to sell. Evidently, Trident had decided to send their rep to negotiate face-to-face.

  “Never trust a pretty man,” she muttered under her breath.

  Jago leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Beg pardon?”

  She blinked innocently as though she hadn’t spoken. “Scout? For what?”

  “As you said, this wide spot in the road is centrally located.”

  “Oh, great. What the world needs—another Wally World.” She drank her 7-Up, trying to calm her rising irritation. She failed.

  Jago shifted in the booth, stretched out his long legs and observed, “I see you rank developers slightly above used car salesmen and lawyers.”

  “They take beautiful countryside and turn it into Plasticland. If I want to shop, I can drive into Lexington and have my choice of half a dozen malls. I don’t want any on my doorstep. The thought never occurs to developers that anyone might like how things are.”

  “No one holds a gun to people’s heads. They don’t have to sell.”

  “Good. Thank you. I’m not selling, no matter what anyone says. Go back to Trident, tell them I don’t care how they pressure Mac or if he sells the horse farm. The Windmill stays.” She slid from the booth before saying something she’d regret, then paused, having one more tidbit for Mr. Sexy Lips Developer. “I don’t like Trident sending their hired gun to muscle me. I don’t take harassment well. I tend to get mean. Very mean.”

  Instead of looking affronted, he just smiled. “Sassy thing, aren’t you? Guess it goes with the red hair.”

  “My hair isn’t red,” she snapped. Picking up a strand draped over her shoulder, she pretended to study it. “It’s . . . well . . . crabby tabby.”

  “Crabby tabby?” He chuckled.

  “Oh aye, and that describes me rather well, too. Push me, I hiss and the claws come out,” she warned.

  He sipped his coffee and watched her with a predator’s stillness, which set prickles tingling along her spine and neck. “Ever get up on the soapbox and find you mistook the situation?”

  “You aren’t from Trident?” she challenged.

  He evaded, asking, “Now that I’ve eaten, may I have another beer?”

  He slid from the booth and followed her to the front of the restaurant to perch on a stool at the counter. Asha went to the cooler, took out a Coors, opened it and set it on a paper coaster before him. She commented, “I noticed you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, Asha, I represent Trident. But not as a hired gun, as you so colorfully put it. We felt there was a need to study the area. Sheath the claws, Crabby Tabby. You don’t have to try and boot me out of the motel—yet.”

  Netta came from the kitchen and plopped down on the stool beside Jago. “My feet hurt,” she grumbled. “They promised these high-priced New Balance shoes would stop that. Guess I have to break them in first, you think? Asha, hon, give me a cream soda with lots of ice. I’m dying of thirst.”

&nb
sp; Asha took a glass off the shelf, filled it with ice and Big Red. She set it on a coaster in front of Netta, along with an Almond Joy—Netta’s nightly end-of-shift indulgence.

  “So, have you finished giving handsome here the third degree?” Netta asked impishly.

  Asha’s eyes met Jago’s, and she was barely able to focus on Netta due to the mesmerizing power the man exuded. “He’s a bloody developer,” she said, using her sour words as a shield.

  Netta let out a howl. “Could be worse. He could be a used car salesman.”

  Jago lifted his beer in a small salute, glancing pointedly to Asha. Netta leaned toward him and bumped shoulders.

  “But then, Sexy Lips,” she cooed, “I’d let you park your socks under my Serta Sleeper no matter if you were a telemarketer, forever calling me at 8:00 a.m. and waking me from my beauty rest.”

  “Down, Netta, you’ll give him a big head.” Asha chuckled. It was hard to remain straight-faced around the saucy, thirty-something woman with bleached-blond hair and china-blue eyes.

  “Shucks, hon, I’d like to make something big on him.” Netta winked at Asha.

  Asha shook her head with a smile. “Stop propositioning the customers, Netta.” The rebuke was a running joke. Part of her earthy charm, Netta propositioned the customers with great regularity; they’d be disappointed if she didn’t. In some ways Asha wished she could take life with the same seek-your-fun-where-you-may attitude. Having faced hitting the big 3-0 just three weeks past, she felt the pinch of her moral standards and the limited opportunities. She loved The Windmill, but being in the middle of nowhere didn’t present one with the widest range of dating prospects. Worse, her high raisings—as some around here put it, referring to her being a Brit—made the local lads seem a tad mundane. Demolition derbies and tractor-pulls just weren’t her cup of tea.

  The maniac jukebox began playing “It Hurts To Be In Love” by Gene Pitney. “How long can I exist wanting lips I’ve never kissed?”

  Netta looked at Asha, and they both broke out laughing.