These Western roads sure were deserted sometimes, Melanie thought, as only the second car in ten minutes whizzed past. She put her thumb down, sighed, and leaned against the broken-down Lincoln.
Sandstone buttes rose on the southern horizon, mountain peaks in the north. Ahead, to the west, she saw sage brush and tumbleweeds, interrupted only by the black line of the highway.
Stuck in the middle of nowhere with an asshole. She had the shittiest luck of anyone she knew.
Her middle-aged, balding companion still had his nose buried under his open hood, as if he could somehow mend the broken timing belt by staring at it. At least he wasn't trying to come on to her anymore. When the car had first quit, Melanie had been afraid it was a set-up, the old "out of gas" routine.
She should have worn more, she decided. She tugged her tube top a little higher over her boobs, and considering trading her cut-off Levi's for the full-length pair in her backpack. No, it was too hot. And how was she going to pull off her pants out here without giving Bozo ideas?
A 18-wheeler tractor-and-trailer rumbled over the low hill to the east, coming into sight just at the point where the Lincoln's timing belt had snapped. Massive as the truck was, it decelerated gracefully and rolled to a stop just past the disabled car.
The driver--broad-shouldered, clean-cut, about thirty years old--appeared around the rear of the refrigerated van. Melanie suddenly wished she'd combed out her wind-whipped hair.
"Got a problem?" the man asked. He spoke to the driver of the car, though his glance lingered on Melanie.
"I need a tow truck."
"Sure thing. I'll put the word out over the CB. But the nearest towing service is thirty miles away."
"I'll wait," the man said, and sighed. He gestured at Melanie. "But my hitchhiker here would probably appreciate a lift."
Melanie blinked. The suggestion was the first considerate thing the asshole had done since he'd picked her up. Maybe her last sneer had finally convinced him he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, and he just wanted her out of his sight.
"Sure," the trucker said, "Climb aboard."
Melanie smiled, grabbed her backpack, and jumped in.
The driver radioed for help for the stranded motorist and brought his own powerful vehicle up to cruising speed. "Where're you headed?"
"San Francisco."
"I can almost get you there. I pick up my return load in Sacramento."
"Great," Melanie said. She ran her finger lightly along the base of her window. No dust. This guy maintained his rig with loving care. After riding across half a continent in the cluttered backs of family station wagons or trying to keep greasy hands from feeling her up, the idea of getting to spend a thousand miles in a clean, bright truck next to a hunk of a guy put her in a wonderful mood.
"The name's Cal," he said.
"Melanie," she replied.
They talked for an hour about the weather, the scenery, the situation in the Middle East, the latest sports scores. Cal listened fully to everything she had to say, and often asked her to elaborate. When they stopped for a quick lunch, he held the restaurant door open for her.
Unlike virtually every male driver who had picked her up along the way, he did not come on to her. Maybe it had something to do with the wedding ring he was wearing. Not that some of the other men weren't married, though usually the only admission they made was the band of pale skin at the base of their ring fingers.
The good ones are always taken, she thought sourly.
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