Hard Road Home

By L. A. Dopson

Much has been written about every aspect of the Bakken oil boom--the dirt, the danger, the exploitation, the money. Every aspect but love. Hard Road Home explores the aftermath of a chance encounter between two people, each driven by their own demons as they forge ahead toward very different dreams.

When shy receptionist, Amanda Swenson, meets lonesome trucker, Clayton Sloan, an intense
new longing awakens in her. Clayton has only one thing on his mind as he hauls oil eighty hours a week: earn enough cash to save the family farm—-and his legacy. Women are a distant second. Can the redheaded receptionist push beyond her doubts and fears to slow down the tight-lipped trucker long enough for him to notice her? Will her beauty and new-found boldness be enough to break through the wall of secrecy around him? Set in western North Dakota against the harsh, unrelenting demands of the Bakken oil boom, this lusty coming-of-age romance explores the age-old stirrings of the heart.

Poignant and sensual, Hard Road Home tells a compelling story about the power of love to open hearts and transform lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9780971212343

Book preview

2013

The Story and the Dream

Clayton: Holding It Together

HE HAD TO KEEP IT TOGETHER TWO MORE years. That was the plan. Full speed ahead. No distractions. Then just maybe he could turn things around. Clayton was thoughtful as he dipped a curly fry into a tiny tub of ketchup. His hands were clean, the nails scrubbed white as wax. He sat erect on a tan plastic chair, his blue-jeaned knees bent ninety degrees above well-oiled boots. A Cardinals cap sat low on his forehead, hiding his face. Beneath his hat a strip of blond hair blended into his tanned neck. A passerby would have no way of knowing his eyes were a vivid blue. Clayton was one of the thousands of plaid-shirted workers drawn like iron filings to the magnet of North Dakota, each with a story and a dream.

Arby’s was tucked away in the southeast corner of a Bismarck mall, lit so bright you’d think you were in a line-up. A young crowd packed the place this Friday evening. High school students and young families lined up for a quick meal, enjoying the warmth of the little restaurant on a cold November night. The aroma of hot food wafted around everyone as red-uniformed workers scrambled to keep the orders coming. Southern, Mexican, urban and local voices maintained the volume at a constant hum, punctuated by the occasional wail of a disappointed child.

Business had started picking up all over town a couple years back, all over the state around 2010. That was when the oil boom really took off in northwest North Dakota and neighboring Montana. Thousands of fracking operations were now underway in an area everyone knew as the Bakken. Drills plunged ten thousand feet straight into the earth then jabbed out another thousand feet in any direction, finding sweet crude and turning it into cash. Even in Bismarck, a hundred eighty miles away, people felt the impact.

Clayton finished off his potatoes and looked up, scanning the restaurant. No sign of his buddy. Bending his head over the tray again, he picked up his roast beef sandwich and began to gnaw as if each bite deserved respect. He was so damn tired he could have lain his head on the Formica table top. Where the hell was Mark?

Hey.

Clayton looked up at a lanky young man. Hey, Mark. You took your time. I thought you went looking for socks.

Mark shrugged. Pushing a strand of brown hair behind his ear with one hand, he held up a white plastic bag with the other. Got ‘em. I saw some nice boots, but they’ll keep. You almost done? Mark was a few years younger and a few inches taller than Clayton, just over 6’ in his shoes. He was still broad in the shoulders from years of lifting in high school. Dropping down across from Clayton, he pulled out his phone, not waiting for a reply. My sister called. I gotta call her back

I didn’t know you had a sister. Clayton took another bite of his roast beef.

Sorry to say, I do. He hit the number.

Clayton went back to chewing. It was impossible to ignore the conversation.

Hey, Mandy…how you doing…not bad…maybe…no shit…really? Well, I got a surprise for you too. It’ll blow your mind…I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Be ready. Mark punched off the phone then stood and stretched. They’d come down from company housing north of Dickinson three hours away, four if the traffic was bad, like tonight. I’m gettin’ something to go. If we’re not at the bar by ten we won’t get a table.

We’re picking up your sister?

Afraid so. It’s a little out of the way, but I gotta show her my new truck. Finish up. Mark ambled to the counter, his unzipped parka hanging like a cape. Unlike Clayton’s, Mark’s boot laces were untied. When he gave the young woman at the counter a smile, she smiled back.

Always the ladies’ man, Clayton thought, shaking his head. Women were the farthest thing from this trucker’s mind. Two years of working his butt off, with no distractions, just might be enough to save the farm. Nothing else mattered.

Amanda: Letting It Go

Three hours earlier, when Mark was still on the road to Bismarck, his sister had been dreading her thirty-minute walk home. Amanda had worked in the front office at the Marshland Clinic for three years. This was her first winter without a car and it wasn’t yet December. Four more months of snow and slush to go. All afternoon she’d watched the sky grow darker outside the clinic windows. The radio told her the temperature was dropping. Twice she’d run out to toss handfuls of pellets on the icy sidewalk.

Now, at five o’clock, she was bundling up for the walk home, buttoning her green wool coat and waving to the bookkeeper. By 5:30, she’d covered the eighteen blocks to her apartment, pushed open the heavy front door and bounded up three flights of stairs. Balancing her bulky purse on her shoulder, Amanda bent down to turn the key and open the door. Home. Thank God it was Friday.

Amanda ripped off the damp things. Despite her heavy mittens, her fingers were numb. Tucking her hands into her armpits, she stood shivering in the small warm living room, her nightly ritual. She loved this place. It was nothing special--white walls, tan carpet, tiny kitchen, but it was hers. Sort of. I did this. I earned the money. I fixed it up. And there’s no one around but me to ruin my day. Like a hen nodding at her chicks, she gazed at two prints of desert scenery, scarlet and orange, decorating one wall, then down at the three cinnamon candles on the coffee table. Near the candles sat the plump little cactus she’d tended for years. More succulents were thriving in the kitchen window.

Amanda’s love of the prickly plants first bloomed with a science project in junior high. That’s when she learned of their hardy endurance in difficult ground. Even then, she’d admired things that grew in hard places, pushing toward their future in rocky soil. Every summer during high school she’d help her dad with the garden, planting geraniums and lilies, tomatoes and beans, watering and waiting. She hadn’t minded the work. But her little cacti never seemed to need special treatment. They grew silently, on their own, demanding little. Too much bothering might even kill them. What they needed, if they needed anything at all from humans, was to be appreciated as they were.

Rubbing her hands together, Amanda took a few steps toward the small bookcase that stood against a wall. It wasn’t much of a collection, she knew: three self-help books, her series of The Lord of the Rings, an instruction booklet for a camera, five mysteries involving cats and a worn copy of Succulents for Idiots: How Not to Kill Your Cacti. I should get a book about Arizona. One of those really big ones with pictures. One day I’ll go there. Maybe I’ll stay.

At that moment, she caught her reflection in the mirror above the bookcase. Her shoulders jerked back on command. Don’t slouch. It makes you look fat. It was her mother’s voice, a voice that had traveled across town, settling into Amanda’s tiny apartment just after the younger woman arrived. Lifting her head, she peered at her face for a hint of a double chin. Not yet. Still, Amanda felt the need to explain herself to the unforgiving mirror.

Okay, maybe I am a little chunky. What do you want me to do about it? I walk three miles a day five days a week back and forth to that damn clinic. Fifteen miles a week. Heck of a lot of good that does me. Not that her receptionist job at the Marshland Clinic was all that bad, she thought, turning to view her other side. If you didn’t count her lazy co-worker or the lousy pay. Anyway, it felt better to criticize her job than herself, though Amanda was pretty sure she was the problem. A lump of failure rose up in her throat. If I could just lose twenty pounds…it would change everything.

She’d put on the extra weight her junior year of high school, when her mother got cancer and became so skinny. Amanda had made her mom breads and desserts, roast beef and potatoes, anything to get the older woman to eat. Eventually her mother recovered just fine. Strong and trim again, Alice Swenson was briskly managing her section of the world. I wish I’d been so lucky. At 5’5" Amanda was pushing 150. An image popped into her mind, a wall chart from health careers class four years ago scolding her to get down to 135.

Amanda turned away from the mirror, but not before she recalled another defect. Her calves. Troll legs, her brother used to call them. At least her slacks could hide the thick muscular legs she hated.

She takes after her father’s side, her mother would explain whenever relatives saw her daughter in shorts.

Right, the hobbit side of the family. Amanda sniffed. Shut up. Don’t do this to yourself. Think of something else.

For three months, she’d been studying a little green meditation book she kept by her bed. Loving Your True Self, it was called, or something like that. When her mood threatened to bottom out, it helped her to remember just one phrase. It came to her. Don’t dwell on the negative. Right. I have better things to do than whine about my fat legs.

She fluffed her snow-damp hair with her fingers, tossed back her head and made herself grin at the glass. It was her hair that caught people’s attention. Amanda loved it. The hair and the attention. When she was a kid they’d called her Carrot Top. That was before her curls darkened to a flattering brick red. Her hair hung just above her shoulders, framing her face.

Amanda hung the keys on a nail by the entryway then dropped her purse on the couch. Her hands moved quickly to her coat. Six blocks from home, the sleet had turned to rain, forcing her to run the rest of the way--for her coat, not herself. My beautiful coat. She brushed the raindrops from the sleeves like she was petting a kitten then stepped closer to the mirror. Turning slowly, she stared at the new emerald green pea coat. Made of pure wool, it was the first $200 piece of clothing she’d ever owned. She loved it. Maybe the style didn’t flatter her figure, the four front buttons mirroring her square shape. But it was still a great choice. The rich green color was perfect with her red hair. Every time she put it on, she felt like someone special. Carefully, she eased her arms from the satin-lined sleeves, hanging it gently on a wooden hanger. This coat has to last me a long time.

Amanda dropped onto the sofa she’d inherited from her folks, clasping a fuzzy orange cushion. I thought this week would never end. God, Beka was so awful. I don’t know what to do about her. I can’t do her work and mine. I won’t do her work and mine! She rose again to grab a spoon and a Greek yogurt from the kitchen then plodded back to the couch. I am so damn tired of eating here. But I’m stuck. It’s a mile one way by foot to any restaurant.

It had been a little over three months since her old Chevy died. Most nights and weekends she sat at home now, her life stuck on one really long pause button. Walking back and forth to work wasn’t that bad yet, but real winter was coming, the kind that measured temperature in minus numbers. But she had a secret hope. A plan. The thought of it made her smile. I’m getting Mark’s old truck any day now!

The dream of driving her brother’s old Ford had brightened many dismal nights, even saving her from despair more than once. Sure, her dad would lend her some money for a car if she asked, but he was getting ready to retire next year. He didn’t have anything extra. And she was twenty-three, old enough to stop mooching off her parents. Her deal with Mark was a life saver. They’d worked out the details early in the fall. As soon as he was ready to buy a new truck, Mark would sell her the old one for $300 a month and no down payment. As simple as that. He’d even promised to help with repairs.

At first, Amanda had worried she might be taking advantage of him. But things were going good for him. Like he’d told her plenty of times, he was making top money. And she’d never bothered him for anything before. Anyway, he was the one who’d brought it up in the first place.

It could be any day now, Mark’s new truck. Her brother loved new things. And he wasn’t a person who liked to wait. It seemed like almost everyone had a new truck. Or maybe the oil companies were buying them up and passing them out. She’d heard that pickups, mostly white, roared up and down every road in western North Dakota. Even in Bismarck, trucks filled the streets like it was Houston. She hugged her pillow tighter. Once I get that truck I’m eating out for a week.

Amanda stopped herself. She had to be reasonable, pace herself, let only a little hope at a time seep to the surface. The meditation book was always warning about expectations. What if Mark didn’t buy a truck until spring? Sitting up straight, she peeled the foil from the plastic yogurt cup and dipped in her spoon. Once again her eyes drifted over the little room. Okay. I don’t have a car. For now. I don’t have a guy. I don’t have a television. But I’ve got a TV stand. And I’ve got my own place. Reaching for a match, she lit the cinnamon candles. Then she nudged her purse to the floor and put her arms behind her head. Thank God it’s Friday. Too bad I don’t know what I’m going to do tonight, once I get done climbing the walls.

She must have dozed off. When she awoke, Amanda’s gaze drifted to three large cardboard boxes lined up like sentries next to the couch. Oh, crap. I forgot. I’ve got to set up the damn computer. Tonight. Last weekend her old computer had collapsed after five good years. It had been a slightly used graduation gift from an aunt in Minneapolis. Too bad it happened right after I bought my coat. I could have used that money. Of course, Mark would have told her just go out and charge a new one. That was his way. It wasn’t hers. With the hundred dollars from her October birthday money and the savings she’d tucked away from three years at the clinic, she’d had just enough to venture out and buy some new equipment for cash. Now she was flat broke.

But she had ventured out on her own. That was a good thing. Usually her brother went along and told her what to buy because, as he explained, You suck at technology. But Mark lived a hundred fifty miles away now. Who knew when he’d be back in town? She was on her own. Sitting around last weekend without the internet and any of her shows to watch had bummed her out so bad she’d vowed it would never happen again.

Shopping without a car had been tough. The clinic bookkeeper, Maureen, had given her a ride to Best Buy after work on Monday. Once there, Amanda had stood clueless in the cavernous store, thinking how Mark would have known exactly what to do. When a salesman asked her what she was looking for, she hadn’t known what to say. Plunging ahead on her own, Amanda had picked out an HP laptop computer and a printer, partly because they looked so nice.

Were they really what she wanted? She had no idea. But it had felt so good to make her own choices that night, she’d determined to take it a step further. I’ll put it together myself, she’d decided. I don’t have to wait for Mark. I don’t have to depend on some guy telling me what to do, not even if he is my brother. Her decision had felt so right at the time, so…adult. That was Monday. Now she wasn’t so sure. Amanda scrunched herself deeper into the plush fabric, worrying her way into the sofa. Now it would be too embarrassing to ask her brother for help. He’d criticize everything I bought. Tell me how I’d messed up. Tell me to take things back. But in a way Mark was right. She wasn’t a technical person. She probably would mess things up.

Like it had every night this week, the dread of opening those boxes and putting all that stuff together burned into her head. Her throat tightened. I am not going to start crying about this. Not this time. I’ve got to get over being so…helpless. It wouldn’t be easy. All that week, whenever she’d looked at those boxes, a voice inside her head had whispered, You can’t do it. The words, I’m a failure, were never far behind. They were here now. Shut up, damn you. Just shut up.

But there it was, that old feeling. She remembered feeling it as far back as third grade. That was the year she’d had Mrs. Cook for her teacher, a short potato of a woman with black-framed glasses and crow dark hair. That witch kept me in for recess every day for a month until I got my math problems right. I couldn’t get them and she wouldn’t help me. She never helped me. She just didn’t care. It was humiliating. Amanda sniffed at the memory, her eyes filling with tears. It was Mrs. Cook all over again. Why should this time be any different?

I can’t do technical things. Mark’s the smart one in the family. I should just call him and tell him I goofed up again. He won’t be surprised. He’d come over the next time he got to town. I could offer to pay him…except now I don’t have any money…I screwed that up too. I could just make him a pie…do something I’m good at. That was exactly where she’d ended up the last four nights. And it was pathetic, this bickering with herself.

I have to at least try. Either that or spend another weekend without a computer. Act like you believe something and it can come true. That was something else she’d read in her book. Amanda stood and plodded back to her tiny bedroom, wriggling out of her black polyester work pants then pulling on her grey sweats and a baggy green shirt. The next thing was to warm up a slice of pizza, open a Diet Coke and do the thing she hated most--look at the damn instruction book.

Mark: Revving It Up

Damn, this truck handles good, Mark thought. Even on the snow. He gave it a little more gas. It would take ten minutes to get to Mandy’s place and another ten to get to the bar. He glanced over at his buddy. Clayton’s head was tilted back, his mouth hanging open. Even from three feet away, Mark could hear the guy’s slow breathing. His buddy was a hard worker, Mark knew, racking up overtime every chance he got. He’d let Clayton sleep and spend a little more time savoring his new truck.

His eye had been on this exact model for a while. No surprise there. It had been the nation’s number one best seller two years running. Mark’s initial plan had been to wait until spring to buy it, just keep driving his old pickup on the winter roads. Then he’d seen this baby at the dealer two days ago beneath a banner announcing ‘all trade-ins welcome.’ One thing had led to another and the next thing he knew, he was throwing stuff out of the old truck into the new and driving off like a rock star.

Mark shook his head, smiling at the sweetness of it all. At this moment the world was his--good job, good money, good truck, good woman. Well, he wasn’t too sure about the woman. Not that Jessica wasn’t a fine woman. She was great. She was hot. But he’d been feeling a little tied down lately. She wanted a steady thing. Maybe too steady. He tried to make it back to Bismarck as often as he could, at least once a month. The trouble was she wanted him to show up at her place as soon as he rolled into town. It suited him better to hang out with his buddies first and call her later. Well, what the heck. She’d come around.

He swerved around a corner. A thump and a yell from the passenger side told Mark he’d taken the curve a little too fast.

Hey, man, slow down! Clayton yelled, rubbing his arm.

Mark eased off on the pedal. Boy, you wake up cranky.

Damn it, Mark, there’s ice under the snow.

Mark didn’t appreciate people pointing things out. You know what your problem is, Sloan? You worry too much. You’re a natural born worrier.

Clayton tightened his seatbelt. With a perfect driving record.

Yeah. Whatever. Mark shut up. He knew better than to push this one. Just a couple hours back a state trooper had pulled him over and slapped him with a $50 fine for ‘Care Required: Driving too fast for the conditions.’

Clayton decided not to embarrass his buddy by pushing the issue. So, what’s your sister like?

She’s okay. Mark was busy fiddling with the heater.

Well, what’s her name?

Amanda. I call her Mandy, but she likes people to call her Amanda.

Clayton stared sideways at the younger guy. So why do you call her Mandy?

Hell, I’ve been doing it for 23 years. I’m used to it.

Clayton shook his head. So what’s she like?

I don’t know. I got a couple funny stories. I’ll tell you later if I got the time.

The men rode in silence, hearing only the purr of the engine and the smack-smack of wiper blades pushing back the snow. They were moving through a well-tended residential area full of new apartments lit bright for the Christmas holidays. Even this far away from any actual fracking, Bismarck was part of the Bakken housing boom. The radio called it the fourth fastest-growing town in the country, Williston being number one. Dozens of new units had sprung up, ringing the city like mushrooms around an oak.

Before long, Mark was leaving the newer parts of town behind, heading for an older area where washed-out buildings charged lower rents and parking lots were crowded with older cars. Leave it to Mandy to pick a dump, Mark thought. He’d been feeling annoyed with her all day. Out of the blue he mumbled, She can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.

Yeah? How’s that? Clayton was wide-awake now, even vigilant, as the truck sped through the night.

I don’t know. She used to be real easy-going. Quiet-like. Always smiling. Now if I tease her, try to give her a hard time, just kid around, she gets upset. I liked her better the old way. All of a sudden Mark slammed on the brakes. Hey, here’s her place. He made a sharp turn, slid in parallel to the curb and stopped.

Clayton’s shoulder bounced against the door. Man, you’re crazy.

Maybe. Mark grinned. But you got to admit, this baby can move. Then he sat for a moment, listening to the idling motor as he looked over the dark neighborhood. To his way of thinking, his sister’s building was a bore, exactly like the other yellow brick structures on either side, each with little fake balconies. Her unit faced the back, which was a drag. It would have been sweet to have her looking down from her third-floor window for her first peek at his glossy white Ram 3500. Maybe his sister was a pain in the butt, but this $50,000 beauty warranted admiration. Would she be impressed. Mark pulled out his phone and hit her number again. Mandy was always telling him not to honk. This time he’d humor her.

Amanda sounded breathless when she picked up on the third ring. Hi, I’m here.

I’m outside.

Already?

I told you twenty minutes. Get your butt out here. You’ve gotta see something!

It’s only been fifteen!

You coming or not?

Alright. Alright. Just give me two minutes.

Mark hung up and turned to Clayton. Two minutes. He checked his watch. We should be okay. I just don’t want to stand around waiting for a damn table. He started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Clayton frowned. You think that noise will bring her out any faster?

The younger guy shrugged. She has no idea I bought a truck. Man, is she gonna be surprised. She’s also gonna be pissed, he thought to himself. He’d deal with that later.

Clayton opened the passenger door. I’ll get in the back, give you a little more bragging space up here.

Sure. Whatever. Mark kept up the tapping a little longer then jumped out and strode around to the passenger side so he could see Amanda’s face when she got her first look. That’s when he noticed he’d parked right under the street light. Damn, he thought to himself, this truck looks like it has a fucking halo. Hell, it was cold. He zipped up his parka, rubbed his hands together and blew on them hard. Where did he leave his gloves? Probably the same place he left his hat. Mark kept his eye on the front door of the building, stomping his Red Wings to warm up his legs. It had to be more than two minutes.

MARK’S FIRST PHONE CALL HAD CAUGHT HER JUST as Amanda was packing up the empty computer boxes. Mark was taking her out on a Friday night! She could hardly believe it. Immediately, she’d started tearing through her closet for something to wear, something that didn’t make her look fat. Ten minutes later she was standing in the bathroom, turning from side to side, tugging at her snug pink turtleneck. Her tight jeans pulled her in nicely, she thought. Good choice. It hides what needs to be hidden and shows off the rest. Crap, I still have to do my makeup! Most days she just dabbed on some mascara and a little lip gloss. But this was Friday night! Anything could happen. Amanda reached inside her silky orange makeup bag. Tonight I’m wearing eye-liner and my green shadow. More mascara. Pink lipstick to go with my sweater! Her hands were shaking as she went to work in the bathroom’s bright light. A few minutes later she stood in front of the mirror smiling. At least her face looked good.

That was the moment Mark called again. Gosh, he’s early. I didn’t have time to fix my hair. She picked up a brush and fluffed her curls. I’ve waited for him plenty of times. He can just hang on. Against all sense, she darted to the closet, rummaging until she found a box in the back where her three inch black patent heels had languished since she bought them six months ago. Amanda tore it open. Balancing herself against the wall, she tugged on the shoes, twirling a time or two to make sure they still fit. Great! Now I’m 5’9, exactly the right height for my weight. One final check in the mirror, one last dab of blush. Almost ready. She buttoned her green coat and pulled on her pink mittens.

I’m so happy he called. I haven’t been out on a Friday night for weeks. I know we’re not going anywhere fancy. It’s just so fun to fix up, get out of my prison and go somewhere. She used to have a social life. Of sorts. For a year, there’d been Russell Grant, a guy she’d met in health careers class. But once she figured out he preferred video games to humans, she’d dropped him. He probably didn’t actually know he’d been dropped. She just stopped showing up and he never asked why.

Amanda’s life had gone on pretty much the same after that--the same people doing the same things, minus Russell. It was okay. She had a car. Mark was still in town. He’d let her hang around with him and Jessica. She’d watched movies, played Wii, went to some parties with a few friends from high school. Dull but something to do. Things were still fine six months ago when Mark got his welding job, loaded up his truck and moved out west. She’d signed up for a zumba class, made some new friends. It was in September, just after her car broke down, that life began to suck.

Since that time, Amanda had depended on others for rides. Or walked. Sometimes a friend would pick her up for supper on Saturday. Sundays stretched so long she’d started walking eight blocks one way to the First Baptist Church for company and coffee. And she was Methodist. Her only other regular excitement was grocery shopping with her dad on Saturday afternoon. They’d fill their carts and load up the car, then wander through Target, stopping at Starbucks before they headed home. I love my dad. He’s the world’s most mellow guy. But someday I’m going to have to find a man of my own. After I find a car. Maybe tonight would be the night she got what she wanted. Not the man. The car.

Amanda dropped her phone into her purse, sprayed a veil of cologne around her hair and checked the time. Five minutes instead of two. Too bad. What was Mark’s surprise? Did he have the new truck now? Was that it? It had to be! Why else would he sound so excited? Why else would he take her along on a Friday night if not to celebrate? She smiled. One more fluff of her hair and she stepped into the hall, locked the door and hurried to the elevator.

CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY AM. Yellow tape crisscrossed the elevator door. Amanda knew it was no crime scene. Every two or three months the elevator got boarded up, usually after someone was moving in or moving out, holding it open with chairs, bicycles or suitcases. The motor always got jammed, it always happened on a weekend and the repairperson could never come until Monday. Darn. She looked down at her feet. It was too late to change. Instead she toddled to the stairway, stopped short at the top and grabbed the rail. Eyes wide open, spike heels teetering over the edge, Amanda stared down the twenty stairs between the third and second floor. She swallowed. Her right foot edged over the top step as her body leaned into the railing.

Never mind. I’ve got bigger things to think about. Amanda started. With each step her confidence grew. Worry gave way to hope. Life was about to change. She was sure of it. The last time she’d talked to Mark had been two weeks ago, after he’d shown up at their folks’ place, homesick for his king size bed, the 50-inch television and his mom’s cooking. Sometimes he’d called when he was in town. But never did he take her anywhere. I’m way down on his list of things to do—after buddies, girlfriend and sleep. Now out of the blue he calls on a Friday night, wants to pick me up and take me out. He sure sounded excited. It’s got to be something big.

Amanda made it past the next landing and held tight for the final flight of stairs. He’s not the only one with news. Mine’s nothing compared to his, but still…. She smiled, remembering how she’d overcome her technical challenge earlier that evening. He’s gonna crap when I tell him. He won’t believe it.

At last Amanda arrived at the bottom landing. Darn, that took forever. Pushing against the heavy outer door, she stepped out and cringed, grabbed by a blast of cold air. Two inches of snow now covered the cement porch. Crap. I forgot it was snowing. Again she grasped the black metal railing, her mitten slipping on the smooth surface as her heels disappeared beneath the snow. Holding on with both hands, she crept sideways down the last three steps, tapped with her toes to find the concrete and moved toward the street like a sailor on rough seas.

Mark stood near the curb beside a glowing white truck the size of a pontoon.

Her mouth dropped open. For a moment she remembered the Ford commercial where a cute guy in a cap offers you a test drive. Then it registered. That was no spotlight. It was the street light beaming down on Mark’s new truck.

Whadda ya think? her brother yelled, waving his arm like an MC with a trophy. It’s a Dodge Ram 3500! Leather seats! Fully loaded! He was grinning like a kid at Christmas.

Wow. Amanda said. You got your new truck! It’s really nice. It’s so…white. It was beautiful, huge and gleaming, its finish dusted by snowflakes twinkling in the street light’s golden rays. Wait a minute, Mark. I thought you didn’t like white. You said it wasn’t safe in the winter.

He laid a hand on the vehicle’s hood. No one pays attention to that any more. This was what they had. I didn’t want to wait. Plus I got a really good deal. Really good. Anyway, I can trade it in next year if I need to. That sounded like Mark. He wasn’t a patient guy. Amanda was surprised he’d waited this long. He opened the passenger door and waved her in. Come on. Hop up. You’re gonna love it.

Amanda took a step closer while Mark strode around to the driver’s side and opened his own door. All of a sudden she felt a knot of fear in her chest. Something wasn’t right. Reaching out to the door for balance, she looked at her brother across the open cab, heedless of