Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

I look up when the chimes ring again. A tall, dark-haired woman with a baby wrapped to her chest and another child holding her hand steps inside. She greets the old man and then looks skeptically at me. “Walker around?”

“He’s on a call,” I say as the baby starts to scream.

“Shhh,” she whispers, bouncing herself up and down. “Shhh, Gabriel. It’s okay.”

“Mommy,” the other one whines. “I’m tired.”

“I know, baby,” the lady tells him. “We’ll have the van in a second.”

“You walk down here, MaryAnn?” the old man asks her. “All the way from Washington Street?”

Over the wails of the baby and the whining of the child, she tries to stay calm. “I hit a deer in the van last week and Mike had to work today.”

“I still can’t believe you walked all that way,” the old man says. “That’s a couple miles.”

“The baby has a doctor’s appointment this morning. He’s having an allergic reaction to something and we can’t figure it out. It’s costing a fortune with co-pays, which is why Mike is still at work. He’s been working all the overtime they’ll give him.” She sags against the wall, patting the older boy’s hair. “It could be worse, right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the exchange between the old man and the woman. It’s nothing more than a slight tip of their chin, but they understand each other on a level that I don’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be them, and to even consider it strikes a fear in me that I can’t shake.

I can’t imagine my sister-in-law, Danielle, walking two miles with Ryan because she didn’t have another choice. Especially in this heat with a sick baby.

“I’ll try to find your invoice,” I volunteer, feeling so frustratingly helpless. “What kind of car?”

“A maroon van. I have no idea what year it is,” she says, still bobbing the baby up and down. “I barely know what I had for breakfast at this point.”

Thrust into what my mom calls “do-er mode,” I scramble for something to do to make her day easier.

“Do you have your keys?” I ask, holding up a couple of random papers. “I found your invoices.”

“Walker always leaves them on the floor mat,” the old man says. “What do I owe him?”

“Well,” I say, forcing a swallow, hoping this doesn’t bite me in the ass. “You, sir, have no charge because the tire they used was going to be thrown away anyway. Right?”

“That’s what he said,” the man agrees, but doesn’t look convinced.

“And you, madam,” I say, hurrying along, “there’s something here about insurance and write-off’s, but Walker’s writing is crap and I can’t figure it all out. It just says zero with a circle around it,” I shrug.

“You’re kidding me.” A flitter of hope casting across her face. “I don’t owe anything? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Says it right here.”

Holding my breath, seeing if they believe me, I wait until they prepare to leave. The woman opens the door and grabs the little boy’s hand. “Tell Walker thank you,” she says. “I’ll send Mike over this week to double check. I just . . . I appreciate it.”

I round the corner and offer a hand to the old man. “Do you need help outside?”

Groaning as he gets to his feet, he takes both of my hands in his. “I’m going to be fine. Have a blessed day, sweetheart.”

“You too. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“It’s the best part of my day.”

I take a quick step and open the door for him. As he heads to his truck, I move to the window and watch him make his way off the stoop and through the gravel. Rummaging around the floorboard, he retrieves his keys. He hobbles into the front seat, adjusts his hat, and pulls out.

“Was someone here?” Walker asks from behind me. “I thought I heard the door a couple of times.”

Giving myself a moment to adjust before turning around, I scramble for an angle to talk myself out of this jam. I’m sure he’s not going to be thrilled with this bit of news, but I’m just as sure I didn’t have a choice other than to help them both.

“I was going to ask you,” I say, turning around. “How much would a used tire cost for my car?”

Furrowing his brow, he shrugs. “Depends on what size you have.”

“Um . . . the size of a Ford Ranger, I think.”

Walker crosses his arms in front of him, the muscles in his thick forearms flexing. “Funny. I didn’t have you pegged as driving a Ranger.”

“Funny. How do you know me well enough to know what I would drive?”

“I don’t,” he admits. “I’d say that a used tire would run you thirty-five bucks or so.”

He moseys across the room and stands next to me, so close I can barely think. He’s a step from my personal bubble, his cologne knowing no bounds and filling it with his heated, working man scent that has me shivering despite the heat.