One Track Mind by Bethany Campbell Page A

men who don’t know the meaning of the word impossible. ”
    Lori’s muscles stiffened. “Maybe some men,” she said, “have to learn it the hard way.”
     

    L ORI WENT to the speedway early, the Mustang acting up all the way. It labored to take off and then shifted roughly, clunking into gear. The ominous noises multiplied and grew even more ominous, and a rancid odor began to float up from underneath the floorboards.
    She told Clyde when she reached the speedway. He shook his head and said he and the mechanic from the driving school should get started on it today. The thing might break down on her at any time.
    She thanked him and patted him on the shoulder, keeping up a facade of stoic good cheer. But when she got to her office, she locked the door, turned off her cell phone and pulled the plugs on the two phones that sat on the desk. She felt a primal need to be alone.
    She’d agreed verbally to Kane’s offer; she’d made up her mind she had to take it. She couldn’t live with accepting the Devlin bid.
    But she hadn’t yet signed Kane’s document. She wanted to be alone, no one looking on, when she did that. She opened the leather folder and read all the offer’s paperwork again. Then she simply stared at the document for a long time.
    At last, she took her father’s Waterford pen from its holder and numbly, her hand moving like that of an automaton, she signed and dated all of the lines of her agreement. She would give it to Kane, and soon they’d be in the title office, signing over the final transfer, him handing her the check.
    She signed the last line and put back the pen and sat, nolonger really seeing anything before her. The end had truly begun. She’d wondered what to wear to the speedway today when she handed over the papers.
    She’d toyed with the idea of wearing the dark dress she’d worn to her father’s funeral but dismissed it as melodramatic and self-pitying. So she’d dressed as she usually did on an ordinary summer day—plain green cotton shorts and a green and white Halesboro Speedway T-shirt.
    She started going about her tasks, working on another publicity release for the Stang Fest, getting the payroll checks ready and, finally, starting to put the books in some kind of final order.
    At ten sharp, a knock rattled her door, and the sound pierced her heart like a nail being driven through it. Kane was here, as hellishly punctual as he was yesterday.
    She sprang out of her chair and unlocked the door. He stood there, casually, one hip cocked. He was in jeans again, and this time a blue cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the forearms. They were seemingly ordinary clothes, but he looked extraordinarily handsome and at ease in them.
    His expression was so blasé. “May I come in?”
    “Certainly.” She gestured at the empty guest chair.
    He sauntered in and sat, crossing his ankle over his knee. “I can’t stay long. I’ve got an engineer and an architect coming up from Charlotte. I need to show them everything. You got an extra set of keys?”
    She opened the desk drawer and extracted a large key ring. It had been her father’s backup set and still had his silver fob hanging from it with his engraved initials, AJS. She thrust it at Kane and he took it casually, letting the keys jingle. Perhaps their tinkling sounded lighthearted to him. It didn’t to her.
    How would Andrew Jackson Simmons feel? she wondered bitterly. He’d come to despise Kane, the common laborer with the gall to try to corrupt his daughter. What would he think if he knew now that Kane held not only the keys to the speedway, but to Andrew’s very lifework and legacy?
    She forbade herself to think of it—yet. “Clyde can help show you around,” she said.
    “Fine. I’ll have to spend all day with these guys. They need to get back to Charlotte by seven. Then I need to talk to you some more. Meet me at the café again. Seven-thirty’s a good time. The rush’ll be over by then.”
    They both