talking, she just might reveal what she meant when she’d said Ellen was a liar.
He shifted to second gear as a prairie dog poked his head out of a hole to check out the racers. Ahead, the trail narrowed to a small gap, hemmed in by trees as it dropped down near the riverbed. He didn’t hear the approach, but suddenly there was a biker pulling up alongside him. Surely whoever it was would fall in behind as they approached the gap.
Instead, the biker pulled forward, crowding Shane to the gravelly periphery of the path. He fought to keep the bike from slipping on the loose gravel. Betsy edged by him, so close he could see the sweat glistening on her forehead.
“Hey,” he yelled. Unwilling to give in, he pushed on until both of them were hurtling toward the narrow opening. She shot him a quick look and lowered her head, driving hard on the pedals. They were only a few feet from the gap, and she showed no signs of slowing. He caught a feverish look on her face, a focus so determined it seemed to exclude everything around her.
Two feet to go, and they would smash into each other. Anger humming in his veins, Shane slowed and let Betsy by. She shot forward through the gap and disappeared into the trees. As he rolled down onto the shaded path, he wondered about the look on her face.
Betsy Falco was determined to win.
Deadly determined.
He filed the thought away as he navigated the various logs and stumps that lined the route. They were a good ten miles into the race. The river was nearly full, rushing along, a companion to him as he went. He savored the rich smell of damp earth and leaves, especially considering that the next section would take him out of the river valley and into a bone-crunching climb in a barren moonscape. Betsy and Gleeson were ahead on the trail somewhere. He wondered who would back down if they met in a similar showdown. Gleeson was tough as nails. His bearing spoke of a military background. There was a lot more to him than met the eye. Somehow, Shane knew that Gleeson had an ulterior motive in the Desert Quest, just as he did. As the miles passed, he came no closer to figuring it out.
The last few miles, the geology shifted in front of his eyes from lush and green to arid and parched. He’d ridden a relatively flat section for almost an hour, passing a racer repairing a tire and looking as tired as Shane no doubt did. Now the route began to rise quickly. It was past noon and the sunlight illuminated the jagged rocks, which shone golden. He thought about a phrase he’d heard once about the Badlands, that it was the land God forgot, but watching the rich palette of golds and browns glittering around him and the vibrant blue sky atop it all, he had an unfamiliar stirring inside—a strange feeling of awe that did not in any way fit the circumstances of his life or Kelly’s at the moment. He felt something he could only identify as gratefulness, a surge of glory at being there, forging through the fantastic landscape.
He weighted forward and, as the slope grew steeper, his progress slowed until each stroke of the pedals was a great labor. The shrubs grew spotty; soon there was hardly a plant to be seen anywhere as he passed pinnacles of rock, twisted like arthritic fingers. As he stood on the pedals, grinding his way up the harsh path, the walls seemed to close in like giant stony fists, painting Shane in gloomy shadow. Ahead he could hear the occasional squeak of a laboring bike, but he could not see Betsy or Gleeson, nor could he hear any of the racers that he knew must be a couple of miles or so behind him.
He felt alone, swallowed up in this bizarre gullet of stone. A sensation pricked his neck. He scanned all sides, but saw only rock.
He didn’t dare stop to listen closely and lose whatever momentum he’d managed to gain on the almost vertical climb. Ahead the trail narrowed even further, steep walls rising up on either side. He pressed on, sweat pouring down his face.
A crack sounded from
He shifted to second gear as a prairie dog poked his head out of a hole to check out the racers. Ahead, the trail narrowed to a small gap, hemmed in by trees as it dropped down near the riverbed. He didn’t hear the approach, but suddenly there was a biker pulling up alongside him. Surely whoever it was would fall in behind as they approached the gap.
Instead, the biker pulled forward, crowding Shane to the gravelly periphery of the path. He fought to keep the bike from slipping on the loose gravel. Betsy edged by him, so close he could see the sweat glistening on her forehead.
“Hey,” he yelled. Unwilling to give in, he pushed on until both of them were hurtling toward the narrow opening. She shot him a quick look and lowered her head, driving hard on the pedals. They were only a few feet from the gap, and she showed no signs of slowing. He caught a feverish look on her face, a focus so determined it seemed to exclude everything around her.
Two feet to go, and they would smash into each other. Anger humming in his veins, Shane slowed and let Betsy by. She shot forward through the gap and disappeared into the trees. As he rolled down onto the shaded path, he wondered about the look on her face.
Betsy Falco was determined to win.
Deadly determined.
He filed the thought away as he navigated the various logs and stumps that lined the route. They were a good ten miles into the race. The river was nearly full, rushing along, a companion to him as he went. He savored the rich smell of damp earth and leaves, especially considering that the next section would take him out of the river valley and into a bone-crunching climb in a barren moonscape. Betsy and Gleeson were ahead on the trail somewhere. He wondered who would back down if they met in a similar showdown. Gleeson was tough as nails. His bearing spoke of a military background. There was a lot more to him than met the eye. Somehow, Shane knew that Gleeson had an ulterior motive in the Desert Quest, just as he did. As the miles passed, he came no closer to figuring it out.
The last few miles, the geology shifted in front of his eyes from lush and green to arid and parched. He’d ridden a relatively flat section for almost an hour, passing a racer repairing a tire and looking as tired as Shane no doubt did. Now the route began to rise quickly. It was past noon and the sunlight illuminated the jagged rocks, which shone golden. He thought about a phrase he’d heard once about the Badlands, that it was the land God forgot, but watching the rich palette of golds and browns glittering around him and the vibrant blue sky atop it all, he had an unfamiliar stirring inside—a strange feeling of awe that did not in any way fit the circumstances of his life or Kelly’s at the moment. He felt something he could only identify as gratefulness, a surge of glory at being there, forging through the fantastic landscape.
He weighted forward and, as the slope grew steeper, his progress slowed until each stroke of the pedals was a great labor. The shrubs grew spotty; soon there was hardly a plant to be seen anywhere as he passed pinnacles of rock, twisted like arthritic fingers. As he stood on the pedals, grinding his way up the harsh path, the walls seemed to close in like giant stony fists, painting Shane in gloomy shadow. Ahead he could hear the occasional squeak of a laboring bike, but he could not see Betsy or Gleeson, nor could he hear any of the racers that he knew must be a couple of miles or so behind him.
He felt alone, swallowed up in this bizarre gullet of stone. A sensation pricked his neck. He scanned all sides, but saw only rock.
He didn’t dare stop to listen closely and lose whatever momentum he’d managed to gain on the almost vertical climb. Ahead the trail narrowed even further, steep walls rising up on either side. He pressed on, sweat pouring down his face.
A crack sounded from
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