Chapter 1

"Summertime ... and the living is easy... "

Porgie and Bess. Every once in a while, I get this weird urge to listen to some of the old musicals. That might explain why I had this particular CD playing while screaming my lungs out in song ... this time in the key of Q-flat. Shit, I can't carry a tune in a plastic-lined cardboard box! But when you're winding along the Alaska Highway at sixty-five miles an hour, who gives a shit? Anyone stupid enough to listen to a truck driver trying to sing deserves to have their ears fried anyway.

I'd just crawled up the Taylor hill, a miserable seven percent grade, and was relishing the possibilities of winding the old K-whopper up and making some decent time. That went out the window as soon as I found myself behind one of those damned motor-home caravans that always show up right after the May 24^th Victoria Day weekend. As soon as I spotted over twenty of them in front of me, I knew my day was now totally fucked. I just hoped I'd get a hug and a kiss when it was all over.

Well, maybe I'd get lucky and they'd all pull off at One-Oh-One for a coffee break.

Nope. No such luck. I tried to see past them, wondering if there was anything coming the other way, but the dust was just too damned thick. Those dumb fuckers might be on vacation but I wasn't. Hell, I had a good eight hundred and something miles between me and Whitehorse, and another three seventy-five beyond that to Stewart River. At this breathtaking speed of something less than forty-five miles an hour I might make my final destination by, oh say, Thanksgiving of next year?

Some smart-ass in Edmonton had slapped a bumper sticker on the side of my sleeper that read, "If it's tourist season, why can't we shoot them?" At this moment I couldn't have given you an answer if my balls had depended on it. All I knew was that these land yachts were slow, driven by people that had a tough time wheeling their Honda Civics around Wal-mart parking lots, worth something in excess of a half-million bucks a copy ... and slower than a sea turtle with prostate problems.

There was a stretch just up the road that's almost six lanes wide, and that's where I'd make my move. If it tried before then, I'd break a few windshields. At thirty-five hundred a pop to replace them, I'd be working ... a long time for free. Not worth it. Thirty tires on eight axles tends to throw a lot of gravel, and these turkeys had the money to chase me into small debts court for what amounted to being "chump change" to them.

Ba-wham!

Shit, that sounded like a tire exploding. I looked in my mirrors, just waiting for the telltale pieces of flying rubber to show me which one of mine had just blown out. In fact, I was so busy looking at where I'd already been that I damned near hit one of those motor-home in front of me. He was hastily trying to get off the highway with a missing front tire and had the back ones locked up tight.

'Stupid asshole! That's the second-best way to get yourself killed on this fucking road!' I thought to myself, and probably said it out loud.

But it did get all but four of those land yachts out of my way, and windshields notwithstanding, I wasn't gonna stand around gawking. I was gone, gone, gone.

It was another four hours before I reached Fort Nelson. Looking at the fuel gauge, I had just enough left to make Watson Lake, but if there was any kind of a delay between here and there, I'd be coasting in on fumes. Something told me that this would be a good place to fuel up, and maybe even break down for something to fill my face. The Husky Truck Stop didn't have the best food on the Alcan, but it was a helluva sight better than the Petro-Can across the road. That made my decision a whole lot easier. I threw the signal on, mostly out of habit, and wheeled up to the commercial pumps.

While the young fuel-jockey squirted a couple hundred gallons of diesel fuel into the tanks, I ran inside, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and filled my thermos with the last decent coffee before Watson Lake. As soon as I'd signed the fuel invoice I was out of there like a shot in the dark. That's hard to do in Northern BC when there's only a couple of hours in the day without sunshine at this time of year, let me tell ya. But damn, I was gonna give it my best try anyway.

Northbound traffic had gotten pretty scarce, but the number of vehicles going the other way made me wonder if there was anyone left in Whitehorse. That many cars, trucks, motor-homes, and whatever I'd forgotten, would represent half the population of the Yukon Territory and most of the people in Alaska. But with my half of the road wide open, I had my foot jammed down on that throttle hard and the old Cat engine was just screaming like a bull moose with his cock stuck in a snow-blower. The next big pull would be Fireside Mountain, and any speed I could get here on the Lliard Flats would get me there that much sooner.

Fireside Mountain. Imagine, if you will, the shape of a Boa Constrictor with stomach cramps that's just had his nuts kicked hard, then stood up against a wall. Smack him a couple more times just to get him all twisted up and to make sure he can't wiggle loose or untwist. Got that pictured in your mind? Good, because that's what the straight sections of Fireside Hill look like. We won't talk about the others.

By the time I'd gotten half-way up that fucking goat trail, I'd dropped eleven gears. At the breath-taking speed of a whole twelve miles an hour, it's about forty-five minutes to the top and about the same coming down the other side. Any faster than that and by the time you get slowed down enough to jump out of the cab, you can almost get parked right beside the Exxon Valdez. For the sake of safety, I always stop at the summit and adjust the brakes. It's a bit of an inconvenience in the winter, but it beats the hell outta falling off the road and into that ravine along the south face. Many have tried that short-cut; none have survived.

As I approached the summit, I spotted a car sitting right smack dab in the middle of the only place I could pull into. At eighty-five feet long, this rig wouldn't fit on either side of that piece of crap without sticking out onto the highway. Damn, another stupid tourist that thinks they're the only vehicle on the whole fucking road! Sneaking up as tight as I could so my butt wouldn't get shoved out my nose if someone came over the top of the hill too fast, I tapped lightly on the air horn, hoping that whoever was in the car would move enough to let me park safely. That was the theory. But in practise? Not even close.

I wasn't quite prepared for what happened next. A young woman about twenty-something crawled out of the driver's seat, stood up, placed her hands on her hips, and gave me one of those looks that only a woman that has designs on hanging your dried balls off her rear-view mirror as a trophy can give. I didn't know whether to get out and talk to her or grab my 30.06 rifle, just in case.

"Sweetheart, any chance you can move that thing up about thirty feet?" I leaned out the window and asked her. That's when her expression changed from one of indignation to a look of resigned defeat. The tears just sat at the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill and flow if I even took a breath the wrong way.

I'm a guy, and every woman knows how helpless guys get when the tears start to flow. I confess, I'm one of those types too. In less than a heartbeat, I went from being absolutely furious to a state of being softer than road tar on a hot summer's day. She hadn't said a word. Not one. And I was still helpless under that feminine magic that she exuded. There's a word that describes guys like me. I just can't think of it at the moment.

"If I could move this fucking piece of shit, I'd be half-way to Whitehorse!" she screamed at me. "Do you see me flying down this goddamned road? No? Maybe that's because the fucking thing won't start again! So if you want it moved, move it yourself!"

Gee, that was a great way to enjoy my day. A fairy Princess with a mouth on her that would make a sailor blush. Delightful! Just fucking delightful! But old Mr. Softy couldn't leave her just stranded out here, fifty miles for nowhere.

"Yeah, okay. Let's see if we can get you mobile again. I'll grab some tools" I directed her, then remembered my manners. "By the way, my name's Ryan. Ryan Blackstone. And I don't bite, so try and relax. Looks like we're gonna be here for a while."

She cautiously extended one of the most delicate hands I've ever seen, then introduced herself. I was afraid to touch her peace-offered hand, figuring I'd probably shatter it into a million little pieces with my big mitts.

"Linda. Linda Coulter," she declared, "on my way to Whitehorse. I was supposed to be there this morning. Guess I'm gonna be a little late, huh?" I stood there, probably looking like the mental midget I felt myself to be. Finally finding my voice, I confirmed her worst fears.

"Yeah, I'd say so. You're about five hundred miles short, and this is probably gonna take us a while to fix. Looks like you have a decision to make. Either we try to get this thing running again, or I can give you a ride into Muncho Lake, and you can see about getting your car retrieved. Your choice."

"Damn! Everything I own is in that car. I can't leave it here, abandoned. Someone's probably gonna come along and steal everything." I could see her brow furrowing as she considered her options. "You think we can get it going again?" she asked. "I'll quite happily pay you for your time and effort."

The money would be nice. Spending time enjoying the view she presented would be even nicer.

With a little coaxing from me, she finally explained what had happened, and by the sound of it she probably had a plugged fuel line. I could clear the line, but if there was rust or water in the tank, I'd have a hell of a time to keep it running until she got down to the closest gas station in Muncho Lake. That crud would snake down the fuel line and undo all our work in a matter of minutes.

"How much gas you got?" I queried her.

"Umm, I filled up in Fort Nelson, so there's roughly three quarters of a tank left" she replied.

"Yeah, okay," I conceded, "and where'd you fill up? The Husky, or the Petro-Can?"

"Fucked if I remember. If you've seen one gas station, you've seen 'em all. What's the difference?" she demanded.

"Well, the difference is that the tanks at the Petro-Can have more shit in them than a national park's outhouses. So if that's where you gassed up, I'm gonna suggest you have a plugged fuel line, and your description of the car's behaviour tends to confirm it. How about we get under the hood, have a look, and see if we can get this thing running again? That is unless you wanna homestead here instead. Nice place, but there's an old Grizzly sow up that hill that's gonna challenge your claim" I told her. I've never seen anyone go that white in the face that fast before in my life.

We tinkered around under the hood for about a half hour, and my theory proved correct. She had spark, and there was lots of air getting through the filter but no gas. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. A quick look at the plastic fuel filter showed that ugly oxide colour that only rusted iron can produce. I gave her the bad news, telling her that the closest place that had facilities to fix the problem was at Muncho Lake. She asked how far that was from here, and I told her. My honesty was rewarded by the threat of more tears than one man can possibly resist in a lifetime.

"Aw, come on, Linda. Enough with the tears already" I tried to soothe her frustration. "Lock it up and I'll take you down to Muncho, then we'll get Gordie to retrieve this thing and put it back together for you. He'll probably come up with some lame excuse why he can't, but the son-of-a-bitch owes me a favour or two."

"Ryan, I really do appreciate this. I'll make it up to you, I promise" she gushed.

Oh yeah, she'd make it up to me alright. One night with this woman would be more than full payment for a road warrior like me. I had visions of pleasuring that body of hers. My cock began to agree with the idea. The logic side of my brain suggested I drop her off at Muncho Lake and get on with other things. Some days, I hate that side of my brain. Guess which day this was?

We climbed up into the cab, and as Linda got her first sight of something larger than the family chariot, I had to chuckle. Most people cursed large trucks from the safety of their little sedans. Seeing the world with eight feet of fibreglass hood in front of you tends to change your point of view in a real hurry.

"What? First time you've been inside something this size?" I teased her.

"Yeah. Wow, this isn't as big inside as it looks, is it? It's not much bigger in here than my car." She looked over her shoulder at the walk-in bunk that I called "Home" most days. "Can I look back there?" Linda asked.

"Sure, but watch out for the laundry creatures running around. They've got nine legs and seven eyeballs, and they'll eat up a pretty thing like you in seconds flat" I joked. The look on her face said that she thought I was serious for a moment, then she clued in. I slipped the Kenworth into gear and pulled out onto the highway.

She really was pretty, once she'd lost that scowl from when we'd first yelled at each other. I guessed she was about 5'-6", somewhere around 125 pounds, and all packaged in a body that just wouldn't quit. I'd describe it as being "substantial, but not fat". If she was ever aiming for the front cover of a fashion magazine, she'd need to shed maybe fifteen of those pounds. But on Linda, that extra weight looked so delicious. Everything was in proportion; her bust, her waist, her hips, even her soft, smooth butt. It was her face that got my attention though. Soft, smoothly oval, and framed by her straight shoulder-length auburn hair, those high cheeks and an upturned button nose all screaming "feminine". Her pouty lips invited a man to taste and kiss them until Hell froze over. Her eyes? Probably the lightest colour of blue I could remember. They beckoned and called me to dive into them, to seriously consider spending the rest of whatever lost in their mysteriousness. I'd looked at that face for a whole ten seconds, and was quite prepared to surrender my entire being with absolutely no reservations whatsoever.

I could hear the sounds of doors and drawers opening and closing in the sleeper, wondering what she found so intriguing about my personal possessions. One drawer in particular held her interest longer than the others, and I had a pretty good idea which one it was. I usually referred to it as my library, where there's everything from National Geographic to various porn magazines. When you spend most of your life on the highway, you tend to develop widely varied interests but pursue none of them seriously. That drawer was the fuel that powered my imagination some days.

Linda crawled back into the passenger's seat and gave me a sly stare of curious humour.

"What?" I shot at her.

"Nothing," she mumbled back, "but you have quite the collection in that one drawer. Rather explicit, aren't they?" I wasn't in the mood to explain myself in too much detail.

"Yeah, well, you spend as much time out here as I do, it's nice to remember what the fairer sex looks like."

Linda didn't quite smile, but it wasn't a frown either; more like a knowing smirk that left me with a feeling somewhere between being accepted and having just been tried, judged and convicted of one of the most despicable crimes against humanity. I shrugged and got on with winding back down that damned excuse for a highway.

We'd made it almost to the bottom of the hill, and I started grabbing gears as we built up speed again. By the time I got into "eighth-direct", we were zipping along at a decent clip. Linda seemed to be fascinated by the operation of a transmission with eighteen gears in it. Then she did something that almost got us killed.

She leaned over and kissed me!

My shocked reaction made me jerk the wheel, and I could see the rear trailer twitching in retaliation. It wasn't what I'd call a kiss of pure passion, but I wasn't expecting it either.

"Okay, I give up. What was that for?" I asked her. "I mean, it ain't gonna break my heart being kissed by a pretty young thing like you. But maybe give me a little warning next time? I'd hate like hell to fall off this goat trail and get us both killed to death."

"Just for being so helpful, for saving my ass out here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I think you're kinda cute, in a rugged sort of way" she returned. I could feel the beginnings of my face changing colour as the blood started to flow. I felt something else receiving extra blood flow too.

"Yeah, well, I always was a sucker for a damsel in distress" I told her.

We arrived at Muncho Lake, and I made arrangements with Gordie, the owner of the only gas station and eatery there, to retrieve Linda's car, fix the damned thing, and phone me when it was ready. He had all of my phone numbers that work in this god-forsaken piece of real estate. Besides, he owed me some favours for all the errands I'd run for him. Make that several dozen favours.

Linda was going to be late for her first day of work in Whitehorse, but that couldn't be helped. I'd asked her what the attraction of Whitehorse was for her. She told me her story about having landed a summer job at one of the hotels.

"Where you working up here, out of curiosity?" I opened my inquisition.

"At the Golden Nugget hotel. They were looking for someone to work in the front office and the money sounded real good. Why? Am I walking into a lion's den?" she wanted to know.

"Nah, Byron's a pretty good shit. If you like shit, I mean. He'll work your ass off, but he's a fair man. Just don't let him get you into a corner or you'll find yourself being..." I left the rest to her imagination.

"You know Byron Cooper?" she asked.

"Byron? Yeah, I know him. Hell, if I ever collect all the money he owes me, I'll be able to retire. He's a little tight when it comes to paying it out, but he's a good man to work for. Shit, he'd give you the shirt off his back in the middle of a snowstorm" I stated. It was all true, too.

"Does that mean I'll have trouble getting my paycheque out of him?" The concern in her voice was obvious.

"Nah, you won't have any real trouble. He might hold back on some of it until you leave, but you'll get paid. Tell ya what though. Remind me to give you a couple of phone numbers. If that old reprobate gives you a hard time, call me. I'll straighten that old fucker out."

"Ryan! Language!" I reminded myself.

"I'm gonna have to wash my mouth out with diesel!" I apologized. "I'm just not used to having women on board I guess."

"Don't worry about it. My Dad was a longshoreman, so I've heard it all before. Many, many times, too. Matter of fact, if you want to see the air turn blue, just get me pissed off. Dad's language really comes out then" she said. I wasn't sure if I was off the hook yet, but her open honesty was making this girl a whole lot more appealing.

Over the 175 miles to Watson Lake we discussed everything from her life as a student in Vancouver to my travels around the continent. There were a few of the world's problems that we didn't solve, but they seemed to be of little consequence. By the time we'd reached that highway junction, I'd become quite comfortable with her company. I think she was getting used to me too, as she went into more detail about her life than most people would. By the time she'd finished her life's story, I'd have killed to be twenty years younger and a part of that life.

We shot right through Watson Lake, which is about half the size of a small folded postage stamp. If it wasn't for the junction with the Cassiar Highway, it'd probably dry up and blow away.

Three hours and something minutes later found us coming down the hill into Teslin. As we started over the bridge, the cell phone on my dash rang. To this day, I've never figured out why phones always ring only when you're busy. It's a narrow bridge that should have been replaced years ago. Only concentration keeps you on the top side of it.

"Hello? ... Yeah, I'm just into Teslin. Why? ... Switching with who? ... Where? ... Yeah, okay. When's he supposed to be there? ... Two days? You're out of your ... Aw shit, John. You know how much I just love Washington State! How come you're doing a switch? ... Yeah, alright. Dave's got my cell number. Have him call me when he gets to Carmacks. I'll meet him at the scale ... Yeah, you're right, you do owe me for this one. Big time ... Yeah, I'll leave the paperwork with Travis in Whitehorse ... Yes, Dearie, I'll call you before I leave. You know that ... John, I keep telling you, 'This is my second trip over this piece of road, and I love it!' ... Yeah, okay Bud. Talk to ya when I get pinned up." I hung up the phone, shaking my head as I digested the information just given to me.