has great Italian food,” he said, pointing to the entrance to a large restaurant. “Margaritaville has the best Mexican food.”
“Named after the Jimmy Buffet song?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Avoid the extra shot with the margaritas unless you’re a professional. It’ll knock you on your butt.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’m more a single glass of wine kind of girl.”
He mentioned several other restaurants, a couple of bars and the drive-in with the best fries and shakes anywhere. All of which made her happy she’d taken the job in Fool’s Gold. If only she’d been able to grow up in a place like this, she thought wistfully. But her mother would have hated everything about the town. Especially the close ties.
Her mother liked to come and go as she pleased, always looking for new adventures—especially where men were concerned. Charity had learned early not to expect any one guy to stick around for long. They were always moving through, too.
She’d vowed her life would be different. That she would find someone special, get married and be with that person forever. So far, she hadn’t been very successful in that department but she was determined to keep trying.
Rather than dwell on her sucky love life, she asked, “Did you ever have any bike races in town?”
“No. There was some talk, but nothing was arranged.” He glanced out the window.
“What about a charity event? To raise money for kids?”
“I don’t ride anymore.”
“At all?”
He shook his head.
She thought he would continue to circle the large lake, but instead he made a few turns and before she realized where they were, he’d pulled up in front of City Hall. Their time together had ended abruptly, as if she’d done something wrong.
When he didn’t turn off the engine, she got the hint.
“Thanks for the tour,” she said, feeling awkward. “I appreciate you taking the time.”
“No problem.”
She hesitated, wanting to say something else, then got out of the SUV. He drove off without a word.
She stood on the sidewalk, staring after him. What had just happened? What had she said? She felt oddly guilty and wasn’t sure why.
“Because the hormones weren’t enough of a complication,” she murmured with a sigh.
THE NIGHT WAS COOL, the sky clear. There wasn’t any moonlight to illuminate the road, but that didn’t bother Josh. He knew every bump, every curve. There was no danger from other riders because he rode alone. He had to. It was the only way to work through his issues.
As he headed up the incline, he pedaled harder, faster, wanting to increase his heart rate, wanting to feel the blood pumping through his body, wanting to exhaust himself so maybe, just maybe, he would sleep.
The darkness surrounded him. At this speed the only sound was the wind in his ears and the tires on the pavement. His skin was cold, his shirt wet with sweat. Goggles protected his eyes, the helmet was snug on his head. He sped over the top of the hill and onto the straight five-mile stretch that led back to town.
This was the only part of his ride he didn’t like. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep his mind busy, so he had time to think. To remember.
Without wanting to, he was back in Italy, at the Milan–San Remo, or as the Italians referred to it, la Classica di Primavera. The Spring Classic.
A sprinter’s dream race, but deadly for the sprinter who wasn’t prepared for the hills. It was one of the longest single-day races. Two hundred and ninetyeight kilometers, or one hundred and eighty-five miles. That year Josh had been in the best shape of his life. He couldn’t lose.
Maybe that’s what had gone wrong, he thought grimly as he rode faster and faster. The gods had decided such arrogance had to be punished. Only he hadn’t been the one struck down.
A bike race was all about sensation. The sound of the crowd, of the peloton—the pack of racers—and of the bike. The feel of the road. The burn of muscles, the ache of a chest sucking in air. A racer was either ready or not. It came down to talent, skill, determination and luck.
He’d always been lucky. In life, in love—or at least in lust—and in racing. That day he’d been luckiest of all.
That’s what the photographs showed. As fate, or luck, would have it, someone had been taking a series of pictures of the race just as the crash had occurred. There, in single-frame clarity, was the sequence. The first bike to go down, the second.
Josh hadn’t been in the lead. He’d been holding back deliberately, letting the others exhaust themselves.
Frank had been young, early twenties, his first year racing professionally. Josh had done his best to mentor the kid, to help him out. Their coach had told Frank to do whatever Josh did and he wouldn’t get into trouble.
Their coach had been wrong.
The still photographs didn’t capture the sound of the moments, he thought as he rode faster. The first guy to go down had been on Josh’s right. Josh had felt more than heard what had happened. He’d sensed the uneasiness in the pack and had reacted instinctively, going left then right in an effort to break away. He’d only thought about himself. In that second, he’d forgotten about Frank. About the inexperienced kid who would do what he did. Or die trying.
They’d been going around forty-two miles an hour. At that speed, any mistake was a disaster. The pictures showed the bike next to Frank’s slamming into him. Frank had lost control and gone flying into the air. He’d hit the pavement, going forty miles an hour. His spine severed, his heart still pumping blood through ripped arteries, and he’d died in seconds.
Josh didn’t remember what had made him look back, breaking one of the firmest rules of racing. Never look back. He’d seen Frank go flying with an unexpected grace, had—for a single second—seen the fear in his eyes. Then the body of his friend had hit the ground.
There had been silence then. Josh was sure the crowd had screamed, that the other riders had made noise, but all he’d heard was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He’d turned back, breaking the second rule of racing. He’d jumped off his bike and run to that kid lying so very still. But it was already too late.
Josh hadn’t raced since. He couldn’t. He’d been unable to train with his team members. Not because of what they’d said, but because being in the peloton made him nearly explode with fear.
Every time he got on his bike, he saw Frank’s body lying there. Every time he started to pedal, he knew he would be next, that the crash was coming any second. He’d been forced to take a leave of absence, then retire. He gave the excuse that he was making way for the younger team members, but he suspected everyone knew the truth. That he didn’t have the balls for it anymore.
Even now, he only rode alone, in the dark. Where no one could see. Where no one would be hurt but him. He faced his demons privately, taking the coward’s way out.
Now, as the lights of town grew closer and brighter, he slowed. Bit by bit, the ghosts of the past faded until he was able to draw in breath again. The workout was complete.
Tomorrow night he would do it all again: ride in the gloom, wait for the final stretch, then relive what had happened. Tomorrow night he would once again hate himself, knowing that if he’d only been in front that day, Frank would still be alive.
He pulled off the main road to a shed behind the sporting goods store he owned. He went inside and drank deeply from the bottle of water he’d brought. Then he removed his helmet and pulled on jeans and a shirt, replacing his cycling shoes with boots.
He was sweaty and flushed as he made his way back to the hotel. If