Page 8 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

This one sounded expensive.

The smart thing would have been to take it to Jones Automotive weeks ago. Walter Jones had been Pops’s best friend for as long as I could remember, and his sons ran the shop now. If anyone could keep this truck alive, it was them.

The problem wasn’t finding someone to fix it.

The problem was paying them.

Every spare dollar I had went back into the ranch.

Feed.

Repairs.

Payroll.

Mortgage payments.

The truck sat at the bottom of a very long list of problems. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and silently begged it to survive one more day. Five years ago, I’d spent half my life making fun of this truck. Now it was one of the few things I had left of Pops.

After the accident, I never bought another vehicle. At first it was because I couldn’t afford one. Later, it was because I couldn’t bring myself to want one.

This truck still smelled like him. Still had his favorite sunglasses tucked inside the center console. Still had a burn mark on the driver’s side door from a cigar. Driving it made me feel like a piece of him was still riding shotgun. And some days, that was the only thing that got me through.

The engine sputtered.

Once.

Twice.

My stomach dropped. “No, no, no.” I pressed harder on the accelerator.

Nothing.

The truck continued to lose speed.

Cars began passing me as I eased onto the shoulder; my pulse climbed with every mile per hour that disappeared from the speedometer.

Come on.

Not today.

Please not today.

The truck rolled to a stop with a final shudder.

For a moment I sat perfectly still, staring through the cracked windshield as if refusing to acknowledge what had just happened.

Then I turned the key. The engine cranked. And cranked. And cranked. But it never caught.

I tried again. Same thing.

A third time, just to be sure I wasn’t giving up prematurely. And nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Damn it.” My forehead hit the steering wheel.

Today was delivery day. The milk had to be dropped off. June was expecting her order for the bakery. The diner was expecting theirs.

Half the town was probably waiting on Marigold Ranch before lunch.