Chapter 1

I live in New Mexico — Albuquerque, the biggest city in the state. I guess that's not saying a whole lot, because, compared to most states back east, there aren't that many people in New Mexico. We've got lots of wide-open spaces. And mountain ranges — several of them.

Not much water. The Rio Grande runs south right through the middle of the state, and if you get up high on one of the nearby mountains, you can see the narrow green strip that follows along on both sides of the river. That's where most folks live — close as they can get to that little dab of water.

S'funny, the Rio Grande isn't really that impressive, up in the central part of New Mexico. I mean, it would be called a creek, some places back east. But when water's scarce, any significant body of water is going to get the royal treatment. So it's "Great River" where we come from, even if, most places, you could throw a rock clean across the thing, no strain.

It's real pretty country, though. The weather is incredible, the scenery is fantastic, and the people, for the most part, are laid-back, easy going and friendly.

I'm a long-haul trucker. My partner, Earl Turner and I are co-owners of a big rig, a Peterbilt, and we make a good living off it. I mean, paying for that monster tractor and trailer is practically a lifetime proposition, but me and Earl can still draw down enough to live pretty comfortably, payments and all.

Trucking is a hard life, especially if you're one of those people who can't stop driving; the kind who goes at it like a maniac, day after day, trying to finish every haul faster, earn more, and get on to the next job.

Me and Earl are not all that desperate. We both work hard, sometimes together, sometimes on one-man runs, but we decided, long ago, that killing ourselves just wasn't worth it. Driving a big rig like ours can be a good life, if you've got the right attitude toward it. Me and Earl, we've had us some adventures.

Working out of Albuquerque, and owning our own business, we get a lot of over-the-border work. There's a whole lot of commerce back and forth with Mexico, and we have developed lots of good contacts in the border towns and in the larger cities deeper into the country, where there are manufacturing plants like you wouldn't believe.

You've gotta be careful not to involve yourself in illegal trade. There's plenty of that going on, too. Plenty of drug-running, illegal immigrants, every kind of contraband known to man. But me and Earl are straight. We stay away from that stuff, entirely. We work at it. It's not just a matter of morality, it's a question of self-preservation.

My name is Jeremiah Prescott and I'm 33 years old. Please don't call me "Jerry" or "Jer" or anything else. I like to be called all four syllables — "Jeremiah." Earl is 39 and has a wife, Carol, and three kids between eleven years old and three. Earl and his family live only a couple of blocks away from me, here in Albuquerque.

Me, I'm still single. I own my own little place, on the edge of a commercial strip. Right next door to my house, but on the opposite side of a little ivy-covered fence, there's an open lot where we park our rig. It's handy there, for me or for Earl to access the truck, but I've got it arranged so that it doesn't look like it's right there in the yard with me. I don't know why I'm sensitive about that — the Peterbilt is a Helluva lot better-looking, and better-maintained, than my house.

Depending on the length of a haul and a few other factors, Earl and I will share the driving or break it up and take turns taking time off. Despite having the three kids, Earl stays cool about money matters, and doesn't kill himself. He likes his kids and spends more time with them than a lot of truckers do. We have very few hang-ups, Earl and I, and we can talk straight to each other about the work, and just about anything else. My partner is my best friend.

It's a good life.

I'm having a little trouble, though, with the ladies. I don't play the field much, with women. I've had long-term relationships with three women, serially, over the past decade or so. My pattern seems to be to find them, charm them, start a relationship that both of us are happy with for awhile, and then, eventually, lose 'em when they get the whole picture — that I'm satisfied just to go along as we are, with no permanent commitments.

Sooner or later, most young women expect you to offer marriage as part of the bargain. Eva, my first long-term live-in lover, hung with me almost five years.

Rhoda came along soon after and she stayed around for about three years, living with me and sharing what I thought was a pretty nice life. Then one day, she was just gone. She never said why she was leaving. In fact, she didn't say anything at all. She just up and left.

I took some time off from women after that, and played it with just casual-dating for more than a year. Then I met Pamela and we lived together, and went at it hot and heavy, until just about two weeks ago. She asked me if we were ever going to get married, and I guess I said something kinda vague in response.

Pamela got pissed, packed up and left me the next day.

Now, don't get me wrong. I got no problems with the basic idea of getting married. I just didn't happen to see Eva, or Rhoda, or Pamela as the woman I wanted to settle down with.

Maybe I just need to find a woman whose name doesn't end in an "a".

Now, Carol, my partner Earl's wife, is almost perfect. She's close to Earl's age, which makes her a couple or four years older than I am, but if I'd seen her first, I think I would have jumped at the chance.

Carol's a sweetheart, and never loses her temper with those three kids. She works, part-time, but mostly she's just there with the little guys and busy working at making Earl comfortable. I'm amazed the guy can ever tear himself away from her and go out on one of our long-hauls.