"Bastard," she swore softly as she returned the phone to its cradle. "Jim, you dumb-fuck, butt-ugly, slacker bastard."

Nice time to back out on a ride, half-hour before they were to hit the road. Fine. It was only 150 miles; she was going anyway. In reality, she preferred to ride alone. Setting her own pace, taking the whole lane in a curve, stopping when and where she wanted to.

She stood in her small living room, dressed only in black silk boxers and a hot-pink and black zebra striped bra plaiting her red hair into a long braid. As much as she loved the wind in her face, it wreaked holy hell on her hair. She pulled on Levis, a white pocket tee, her favorite engineer boots and a black turtleneck. Grabbing her Langlitz jacket on the way out, she was nearly to the door when she realized she hadn't shut off her computer. She sprawled in the chair at the keyboard and logged on for a last-minute check of her e-mail.

There it was: "Hey Red Sonja, I'm riding up 97. Want to meet halfway? Let me know. Smokey."

Too late now. She had serious doubts about meeting this guy anyway. What the hell had she been thinking? E-mail pen pal, what a joke. It just goes to show how desperate someone can get when they live alone in the middle of nowhere and work at home. She had been slumming through a few biker Websites and found a posting from a guy in Klamath Falls, forty miles west. They had been writing and chatting for three months, but the only personal information they had shared was scooter stuff. The remainder of their almost-daily correspondences had consisted of barbed witticisms and jaded observations.

She had told him of her '64 Duo Glide. He claimed to have a '75 Shovelhead and was saving for a new Low Rider. Both were heading north to the Run for the Cascades, a small rally in central Oregon. She was going for lack of anything better to do. He was going to "finally meet Red Sonja," his nickname for her after she let it spill that her hair was deep auburn and she was near to 6 foot in her boots. What a geek. She envisioned him as a balding, short, chubby computer geek who still lived with his mother. And what the hell kind of a name was Smokey? But he did have a wicked sense of humor and seemed to know his bikes, so despite her natural skepticism and distrust of the human race in general, she had always looked forward to his e-mails.

Her responsible adult brain warred with her typically adolescent mindset. She really should just stay home. She had a manuscript to finish and an agent waiting impatiently. But what the hell, if you can't get out and ride every few days to blow the cobs out of your brain, what good is it to have a bike? She logged off and shut down her computer, unplugging it against the threat of late summer thunderstorms. Time to go.

Once again, she was heading out the door. Her bike, "Bob," was packed and ready. She had reservations at the Satellite Motel on the main drag in Bend, a clean shirt, tool bag, a thermos of good coffee and plastic with plenty of credit left.

She kicked Bob to life with a minimum of sweat. He grumbled happily, the joyful popping of his exhaust echoing through the surrounding woods, bothering no one but the squirrels and blue jays. She jammed the helmet on her head and took off down her 2-mile-long driveway.

An hour later, by the time she hit Highway 97, she was feeling pretty sassy, glad Jimbo had spared her his constant yakking and whining. Her mind was settled and she was feeling loose and tranquil from the happy vibrations rumbling up from the Panhead between her thighs. It was better to ride alone; no one to interrupt the flow. She pulled into the Astro Gas. Old Danny sauntered out and handed her the premium nozzle. She carefully filled the tank, paid cash, gave him a wink and was back on the road in under five minutes.

The ride was excellent in that it was uneventful. It was sunny, traffic was light and the deer had decided to take the morning off. The miles of decent asphalt rolled between the thousands of acres of forest that lined the way, only the occasional domicile to break the pleasant monotony of millions of ponderosa pines. It wasn't until she was nearing the small town of Chemult that a small glitch appeared in the form of a smoking Ford pickup. She had been cruising at an easy 65 and could easily smell it long before she caught up with the ugly, multi-hued truck rattling along at a sedate 55, burning a quart of oil per mile and belching black smoke.

"Jesus asshole, get some new rings," she choked, waiting for a chance to pass and sneering at the 'Bullriders do it in eight seconds' bumper sticker. "Can't keep it up either, huh?"

With clear road ahead, she accelerated to pass. The asshole bullrider accelerated to prevent her passing. She could see his grin in his side mirror, a wad of Copenhagen swelling his lower lip like a bee sting victim. His two buddies were laughing insanely at the driver's clever little jest.

"So you want to play it that way, dumb shit?" she said to herself through clenched teeth. No problem. Bob had more than enough power to easily pass the moron in the Ford. She rumbled past, flipped him off and didn't give another thought. She gulped in the clean air, ridding her lungs of the scorched-oil pollution. She took it to 70 and put distance between herself and the slack-jawed morons.

Stopping for gas in Chemult, she couldn't help but notice the spankin' new, purple pearl, Dyna Low Rider sitting at the pumps. She ran an appraising eye over the clean lines, glossy paint and rubber so new she could almost smell it. Bob still outclassed it.

"Nice Duo. You heading up for the Cascade Run?"

She turned her head to check the source of the soft voice. Cropped dark hair, clean shaven, broad shoulders, narrow hips, piercing blue eyes in a well-tanned face. He looked like a cop.

"Yeah. This must be your Low Rider. Nice."

"Just got it. This is kind of a shake-down ride."

Her eyes were pulled from the near hypnotic gaze of those crystal blue eyes by the arrival of a familiar Ford pickup. Three lanky young men in felt cowboy hats and dinner-plate sized silver belt buckles spilled out. A quick whispering conference and six greedy eyes raked over her long frame. She recognized the grin of the driver, who blew her a kiss and grabbed his crotch. Giggling, the three headed into the mini-mart.

"Friends of yours?" the Dyna rider asked, still in the sibilant voice.

"Not hardly. Just a group of mental midgets I obviously insulted by passing a few miles back."

She paid the attendant for her gas and kicked the warm Bob easily back to life.

"See you in Bend," the blue-eyed rider smiled, climbing onto his own bike.

"Yeah, whatever."

She was happy to be back on the road, but in her desire to rid herself of the three vapid young cretins she hadn't used the bathroom. Now a half-pot of coffee had filtered through her kidneys and the pressure on her bladder was agonizingly accentuated by the normally pleasing vibrations from the big V-twin. She knew a rest area was only a few miles up the road. She hated stopping again, but knew if she didn't Bob was gonna be irritated by her lack of control. Besides, she hadn't brought an extra pair of jeans. She had no choice.

Stepping back into the bright sunlight from the cool, dark recesses of the cinderblock bathroom, she sighed with the pleasure of relief. Her bliss was cut short when she saw three now-familiar goobs hanging around her bike. What the hell did she do to deserve this? Couldn't a gal go out alone without worrying about being harassed at every turn? Apparently not. She glanced around the empty parking lot. The only vehicles were Bob, the oil-burning Ford and a pretty purple Dyna, but its rider was nowhere in sight.

"Fuck this shit," she mumbled under her breath and pushed past the first young jerk to get to Bob. " ’Scuse me boys, that's my bike."

"Nice Harley, lady. Will you take me for a ride?" Brown eyes glittered avariciously from under the brim of the felt hat. A wide grin pulled the peach fuzz mustache thin.

"Sorry, no room," she straddled the bike and started it up, hoping for a quick escape, wishing she had backed into the parking spot.

Unfortunately, the young thugs were quicker. Rough hands grabbed the front of her jacket, hauling her from the bike. "Too bad, cause we're gonna ride you hard whether there's room or not."

She managed to reach down with her left hand and pull her old hardwood police night stick from its leather sheath along the right front fork. She brought the stick down with a crack across the wrist of the imbecile Yanking on her jacket. He let loose with a howl. When she switched her weapon to her right hand and snapped a shot across the side of his knee, the howl changed to a scream. Using the force of the rebound, she brought the baton across the bridge of his nose. The bone dissolved. He dropped like a rock.

"You bitch," his buddy hissed at her as he lunged.

Again she went for the knee, catching him across the top of the knee cap with a satisfying crunch. She thrust the hardwood tip into his solar plexus, then caught him under the chin as he doubled over. Glass jaw. He joined his friend on the cement.

The third acne-faced youngster was having second thoughts about pulling this particular train and turned to run. He met with the solid fist of the blue-eyed Dyna rider.

"You OK?" he asked in the same unperturbed soft voice he had greeted her with at the gas station.

"Yeah sure. No problem," she slid her nightstick back into the sheath, trying to hide her shaking hands.

"You gonna press charges?"

She looked at him, he even sounded like a cop. "No, I just want to get on the road."

"OK." He walked over to the idling truck, reached in and turned off the engine, chucked the keys into the grass. Then he stopped at the rear fender, pulled a nice little hunting knife from his belt and handily slit the back tire. "You don't want them waking up pissed and coming after you, do you?"

"I guess not." She got on Bob, backed him up and put him in gear. "Thanks. I guess I'll see you in Bend."

She drove slowly out of the parking lot. She watched him in her rearview mirror mounting his bike and following. She didn't need any one to ride with, but he had watched out for her ass. She didn't get too far up the road before the shakes hit. She began trembling so hard she was afraid she was going to ditch if she didn't pull over. She angled off at a wide shady spot, dropped the stand and staggered from the seat. Her stomach heaved. She clamped her jaw against the nausea, forcing her breakfast to remain where it was. The rumble of the Dyna penetrated her turmoil. She didn't turn, hating for a stranger to see her losing it like this.

A hand touched her shoulder. "Take it easy. You did good back there. I don't think I've ever seen anyone handle a baton quite like that."

She took a deep breath to prevent a tell-tale tremor in her voice. "Thanks. It's all in the wrist. My dad was a cop, it was his nightstick."

"Why don't you let me ride with you to Bend? I promise I won't get in the way," he teased. "I'd even buy you lunch if you let me."

"Sure, why not? It looks like I need a keeper."

He extended his hand, "I'm Dan."

She took the gloved hand, "Call me..."

"Red. I know," he grinned devilishly. "You can call me Smokey."