Page 6 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Thanks," I say, grabbing my purse from the car. "How long do you need?"
"Give me an hour. I'll have a better idea by then."
I nod, setting off down the street. Flounder Ridge is exactly what you'd expect from a small mountain town—quaint, quiet, lost in time. A general store with rocking chairs out front. A post office the size of my bathroom. A bulletin board covered with community notices and lost pet flyers.
As I push open the door to Rose’s Diner, the smell of coffee and grilled onions hits me, and my stomach growls in response, reminding me that my last meal was those stale crackers and peanut butter hours ago.
A woman with silver-streaked hair looks up from behind the counter. "Take any seat you like, honey. I'll be right with you."
I slide into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath me.
The waitress approaches, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"
“What’s good?” I ask.
“What are you in the mood for? Our special today is meatloaf, but the BLT is what most people come in for."
"A BLT sounds perfect. And coffee, please."
As she walks away, I check my phone. No service. Of course. I should text Charlotte, let her know I'm delayed, but that will have to wait.
The sandwich arrives quickly, piled high with bacon and fresh tomatoes. I didn't realize how hungry I was until the first bite, and then I'm devouring it, washing it down with gulps of coffee.
My mind races as I eat. What if the car can't be fixed? How much will it cost? I’ve got no money in my account and my credit cards are just about maxed out.
The diner fills and empties around me as I sit there, locals coming in for early dinners. They chat with the waitress, with each other, occasionally glancing curiously at me. In a town this small, everyone must know everyone else's business.
An hour passes and I head back to Jed's garage, the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains.
Jed is leaning against the garage door frame, a fresh cigarette between his fingers. His expression tells me everything I need to know.
"It's not good news, is it?" I ask, bracing myself.
He shakes his head. "Head gasket's blown for sure. But you've also got a cracked cylinder head, and the radiator's shot. Coolant's been leaking into places it shouldn't for a while now."
"Can you fix it?"
"I can, but it won't be quick or cheap. Parts for these old beauties are hard to come by. I'll have to order them special, and that'll take at least a week. Maybe longer." He takes a drag of his cigarette. "Then there's the labor. All told, you're looking at about twenty-five hundred, minimum."
The number hits me like a physical blow. "Twenty-five hundred dollars?"
"I know it's steep," Jed says apologetically. "But that's what it costs to keep a classic like this on the road. I could try to findused parts, might save you a few hundred, but I can't promise anything."
"I—I don't have that kind of money," I admit, my voice small. "And I need to get to Wyoming. My friend is expecting me."
Jed studies me for a moment. "Rough day?"
"You have no idea," I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob.
He sighs, flicking his cigarette away. "Look, I know a place you might be able to stay while you wait for the parts. There's a bar called Devil's Pass about a half mile down the road. They've got a room they rent out over the bar. Nothing fancy, but the owners are good people."
"A room over a bar?" I repeat, trying to picture it.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," Jed assures me. "Lot of travelers end up there when they're passing through. Might be your best option if you're stuck here for a week."
A week in this tiny town, sleeping above a bar, waiting for car parts. This is not how I imagined my escape to Wyoming going. But what choice do I have?
"How do I get there?" I ask, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket.
