Wrenching

Chapter 1 Copper Canyon, NM Early spring Malachi Dunbar deftly twisted the wrench to secure the wheel bearing he installed on a customer’s pickup. Few who saw him with his deformed left hand would imagine how skilled and capable he was at his chosen trade of auto mechanic. Determination, perseverance, and creative use of the abilities one had could take a person a long way. Especially if you pursued your goal with dogged persistence and never took no for an answer, not even your own personal nos. When he heard a noise outside the garage bay where he worked, Mal wriggled out from under the truck and went to investigate. Most of the time, he left dealing with customers to his boss, but Ben was out this afternoon, taking his very pregnant wife to the doctor. It was an excuse even Mal could not argue with, so he’d agreed to mind the store as well as carry on with his regular work. When he saw who stood inside the front door to the office and parts store section, he rued his acceptance. There stood the last person he wanted to see and deal with. Hero, and subject of both envy and passionate longing, Daniel Winslow probably didn’t know Mal existed. Why should he? Heir to the largest and most successful ranch in the area, he always appeared cool, collected and in control. Dan gave the impression he had the world on the end of his lasso, branded and ear notched with the Flying W’s marks. Still, Dan looked very anxious and troubled, if the expression on his face was a valid clue. Mal wasn’t quite sure if he was seeing anger, worry, sadness, or a mixture of all three on his idol’s face, but he did recognize he’d have to deal with Dan, whatever it was. He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice somewhere down behind his breastbone. For a few seconds, words refused to come. Finally, he managed to croak a facsimile of, “Can I help you with something, Mr. Winslow?” Dan wheeled toward him. “Er, is Ben around?” Mal shook his head. “Nope, sorry. He had some business in Los Mercados. Won’t be back in until tomorrow morning.” Dan growled what sounded like a muffled cuss word. Then he gave a half-irritated shrug. “Okay, then. I know you do the work anyway, at least most of the time. If I leave the pickup, can you check it out? The brakes seem to be going. I really don’t want to drive it another yard until someone can determine what’s going on. My foreman’ll be along in a few minutes to take me home, so I don’t need a loaner.” Hell, Mal had just replaced the fuel pump in the truck a few days ago, and now this? Something sure did not seem right. That time he hadn’t spoken to Winslow, though, which suited him just fine. He managed not to stutter or show a tenth of the feelings roiling through him. Although Dan stood not an arm’s length away, he’d better not do anything stupid. Instead, he turned toward the cluttered desk where Ben did the paperwork for the shop. “Sure, you can leave the truck. I wouldn’t want to drive up or down Alamo Canyon Road with iffy brakes myself. Let me write out a work order for you.” Finding the right pad of forms and a pen took enough attention that he regained some focus so his good hand only shook a little as he filled out the information. Then he gave the pad to Dan, careful not to touch the other man’s hand. “I’ll need you to sign this and then I’ll give you a copy to keep while we work on your truck. Not that it isn’t immediately recognizable as yours. Everyone knows the Flying W brand and this particular Silverado, at least everyone in Copper Canyon.” Dan scrawled his name across the line and handed the pad back. “Thanks. Do you want to me to call Ben in the morning or can you explain to him?” “I’ll take care of it, unless you feel a need to speak to him,” Mal said. “You’re a regular customer so I doubt he’ll have any questions, but he can call if he needs to.” “All right.” Dan nodded. “Good. Thanks.” The single toot of a horn alerted him that his ride had arrived. He spun and headed for the door. Mal stood and watched as the other man headed for a pickup, a much dustier, older, and well-worn one than the shiny blue Silverado he left behind. Mal had to admire the horseman’s trim ass, set off by a snug pair of Wranglers, as he lifted a leg to climb into the cab. Dan—make that Mr. Winslow—was one good-looking guy. Chocolate-colored hair that curled a bit behind his ears and along the edge of a silver-gray Stetson, a matching moustache, and the greenest eyes Mal had ever seen. Almost too pretty, but all man despite his looks. Well, of all the f*****g luck. I hope I handled that okay. I know Winslow is a regular customer and kind of a pal of Ben’s from way back. At least he didn’t make a comment about my hand or whether or not I could do the work. Maybe he didn’t notice or even care. He exhaled a ragged half-sigh as he went to open the door on the garage’s empty bay. Then he carefully drove the Silverado in and set the emergency brake. A few minutes later, after securing the braces under the pickup, he manipulated the hydraulic lift to raise the truck. He locked it down high enough he could stand underneath to examine the lines and the rest of the brake system. The truck was only a few months old, so a sudden failure seemed peculiar, even downright suspicious. Mal had to wonder what was going on, what he’d discover.