What the hell was he thinking? Obviously he wasn't. Because here he was, idling down a long, narrow, graveled road at ten o'clock at night in the middle of nowhere. Shit, they didn't even have streetlights out here. He should have just stopped at the motel out on the highway, called her, thanked her for her kind offer and forgotten the whole deal. Instead he was looking for the driveway of "the widowed wife of a friend of a friend." Sarah McGill-Morrison. He knew she had two grown kids and he had built up a mental image of a motherly, graying, plump woman in her late 40s. He was about to turn the bike around when his headlight hit the white address sign. This was it, no turning back now. She would have heard the rumble of his V-twin by now.

He could see the house 100 feet off the road. The garage door was open and light streamed out into the moonless night. As he idled up to the house, his gaze was drawn into the well-lit garage. Half of it was taken up by an immaculate, forest green '54 Chevy pickup. The other side was obviously the scooter side. He could see the glossy black Hydra-Glide, a newer Sportster XLH1200, a pile of parts in the corner that might someday make a whole bike, as well as bits and pieces hanging on the walls and piled on shelves. To his surprise, someone unfolded from a crouch along side the Hydra-Glide. A tall redhead in jeans and a black tank-top smiled at him and waved him inside. He pulled in and cut the engine.

She wiped her greasy hand on her jeans and extended it in greeting, her bright blue eyes almost level with his. "Hi. If you're not Poodle I may have to call my rottweiler. I'm Gil."

He returned the grin and took the proffered hand in a firm shake. "Don't call out the dog, you invited me."

Her eyes roamed over his 6-foot-4, broad-shouldered frame and settled on his hazel eyes. "With a name like Poodle, I was expecting someone small, obnoxious and trembling nervously. You don't quite fit the bill. Park your scooter," she said, closing the garage door and returning to her bike. "I just got another bolt or two to tighten on the valve cover. Just a sec."

He watched as she knelt along side the old bike, the ratchet in her hand moving rhythmically over the top of the old Panhead. She finished, pulled a bandanna from her hip pocket and wiped a few infinitesimal motes of dust from the chrome. She eyed the glossy black tank and wiped a smudge.

"There, I'll finish later. You hungry?"

He had been so engrossed in the muscular lines of her shoulders and back that the question barely registered. "Huh? Oh yeah. I guess I am. I haven't eaten since lunch, I was trying to make time."

"You must be tired, Frisco's a long haul. C'mon inside, wash the bugs out of your beard and I'll dish you up some dinner."

He followed her up the steps, watching her shapely hips swaying inspirationally. The black, greasy handprint on her right hip pocket beckoned. He shook it off. She wasn't his type. He preferred 'em small, brunette and bitchy, at least that's what he always ended up with. Shit, this one was at least 5-foot-10 in her stocking feet and looked strong enough to kick his ass if she wanted to. The long red braids and dusting of freckles on her tanned cheeks made her look about 16, but he knew that with two grown kids she must be more like 40-plus.

They stepped into the warm, clean kitchen and he immediately thought of his grandma as his nose was assaulted by the mouthwatering fragrance of hot food and warm bread. He was almost drooling.

He looked around. "So where's the rottweiler?"

She smiled. "Little white lie. My old dog died last winter and she was a geriatric, amiable black lab. Anyway, bathroom's last door on the left," she pointed him down the hall.

He washed the road grime and bugs from his hands and face, his stomach grumbling at him after the tantalizing whiff of real food. He was a typical bachelor; living off of fast food, pizza, cold cereal and beer. Maybe staying here for the rally weekend wasn't such an idiot idea after all.

He rejoined her in the bright, comfortable kitchen. "Have a seat," she offered.

He sat at the oak table. She set a large bowl of thick, chicken noodle soup, heavy on the chicken, and a basket of homemade rolls in front of him.

"I wasn't sure what time you'd arrive, but I knew if I made soup and bread it would hold up until you got here. You want something to drink? Milk, beer, water? I don't have any soda, that stuff'll kill you."

"A beer would be great, thanks." He was a little overwhelmed. He hadn't been treated like this since he was a kid spending a weekend at his grandma's.

"Don't wait for me, I ate an or so hour ago. Shit, I'm used to feeding two teenage boys as well as their horde of ever-hungry friends, so we don't stand on formalities here." She opened the fridge. "I've got Haystack Black or Mirror Pond Golden. So amber or stout?"

"Amber sounds good."

"Yeah, definitely goes better with white meat," she joked. "The stout's a little heavy for a dinner beer."

She settled herself across the table from him, sipped her beer and kept him company while he wolfed down the rich, garlicky soup and ate half a dozen rolls dripping butter. When he finished the first bowl she served him seconds. Finally, stuffed and feeling as if all was well with the world, he pushed the empty bowl away.

"Man, I don't think I've had anything that good since my grandma died. Thanks."

She dimpled appealingly. "No problem. I almost made an apple pie but I was afraid you might get a little weirded out by my over-domesticity. But my youngest son just went off to OSU two weeks ago and I've been a little at a loss."

"Apple?" he asked with a wistful sigh.

She dimpled again, "Yeah, maybe I should have followed my instincts. Oh well. Want a little after dinner Scotch instead? I know that by reputation you're a Jack Daniel's man, but I'm afraid all I have is Bushmill's single malt."

Gee, what a tragedy. "Sounds good, sure. I still feel pretty wired from the ride."

She took his dishes, piled them in the sink and pulled two tumblers from the cupboard. "Rocks? Or not?"

"Rocks."

She added a handful of ice to each glass and poured a couple of fingers of amber fluid into each. She handed him one, both took a sip of the smooth, smoky liquid and sighed. She swirled the ice cubes around in her glass, watching them spin. "The Scots call this uisgebaithe, you know. It means 'Water of Life'. They certainly have their priorities in order. Say, I've got to finish up with my scooter. I don't want to have to deal with anything in the morning. I don't function real well before noon. Feel free to watch TV or whatever, or if you want a shower."

"Actually, I was just thinking that my bike should be cool enough that I can tighten everything down before I hit the sack."

"Cool. I'll even let you use my tools if you say please."

They took their Scotch and a fresh beer out to the garage and spent the next hour in companionable near-silence as each focused on their respective rides; she on her '53 Hydra-Glide, he on his '98 Bad Boy. They spoke occasionally, passing tools, locktite and WD 40. A radio on the workbench played the oldies, she sang softly along with her favorites, he got the idea that she was singing to the machine she was working on. Time passed in a happy haze.

They straightened from their tasks almost simultaneously and turned to grin at each other. He caught a tantalizing whiff of her fragrance under the comforting smells of oil, gas and exhaust.

"Done?" she asked.

"Yep. Ready to head out in the morning."

"Good. I've decided to take you into Bend, the back way, more scenic and no traffic. You just have to watch out for deer and suicidal chipmunks."

They returned to the warmth of the house and stood shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen sink washing the grease from their hands with Orange Goop. She showed him the hide-a-bed already made with clean white sheets and a softly worn quilt then headed upstairs to her room. "If you need anything, my room's the last one on the right," she said from the bottom of the stairs.

He listened to her steps as she climbed the stairs. He could think of something he needed, but knew better than to try. Besides, she wasn't his type. Sleep was slow in coming.

He was roused from a light drowse by the familiar clicking of a computer keyboard. A dim light filtered in from the family room. He heard a sigh and a rustle then the sound of the computer being shut down. He slid from his warm bed, slipped on his jeans and stepped into the family room just as she rose from her seat at the desk.

"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?"

She was wearing a green, satin robe and clearly little else. He could see the shadowy suggestion of her nipples through the thin fabric. His jeans were suddenly a little tighter. "Not really, I always have trouble sleeping after a long ride."

He saw the flash of an easy grin. "I know what you mean. I just have trouble sleeping, period. As usual, I couldn't sleep so I came down to work on my latest novel. It's building to the exciting climax. I had to sneak down and put in a little time."

He had moved a little closer, now he could smell the sweet fragrance rising from her warm body. He took another step. "I know what you mean. Half the time I write my articles at three in the morning. There's no risk of interruption, the world is so quiet. And I'm a chronic insomniac."

She took a step closer, her robe opening another inch to give him a tantalizing view of soft, white cleavage. Even in the dim room he could see the light in her eyes. "I've always thought there was only one cure for insomnia."

"Warm milk?" he asked.

She stepped up to within an inch of him, smiled into his eyes and whispered, "Not exactly."

Her hand settled lightly on his hip. The smile left her lips but remained in her eyes. He tugged gently at the belt of her robe. It slipped loose, the robe fell open and she stepped easily into his arms. Her mouth was sweet and insistent. His hands roamed over her satiny smooth skin feeling the muscles sheathed in feminine softness. Without losing contact with her soft lips, he pulled her into the other room and gently pressed her down onto his bed. She pulled him after her. He began exploring his way along her throat, across her broad shoulders and slowly between her breasts.

His mouth found a delicate rose-pink nipple, kissing it gently as his hand softly cupped her white breast. She moaned softly. He continued his exploration, his tongue finding the line of fine, downy hair that led from her navel down to her red curls and buried his face into the soft, sweet flesh. She gasped softly as his tongue worked its way into every crevice; exploring, teasing, arousing. He felt her tense, heard her moan and reveled in the intense spasm that wracked her body and made her cry out softly.

Her fingers were twined into his hair an he planted a soft parting kiss before allowing her to pull him away. She brought his mouth to hers and, kissing him hard, whispered breathlessly against his lips, "My turn."

She rolled him onto his back and slowly, torturously worked her way down. Her breasts rubbed softly against him, her lips left a tingling trail.

Reaching her objective, she took him gently in hand, kissing the single drop of fluid from the tip. A shiver ran through him as her warm mouth slowly, carefully, brought him near the exploding point. He almost cried out as her mouth pulled away, her soft body rubbing against him as she slid up along his body.

Straddling his hips she leaned down, covering his mouth with hers, her silky hair blanketing them both as he slid inside her. Moaning against his lips she rode with long, slow strokes. He fought the urge to rush her, despite the pleasurable agony that was building beyond human tolerances. He came with such explosive force that he bit his own lip as his teeth clenched against the rush. She arched her back, her hair wild about her face, eyes closed, lips parted as her breath hissed between her teeth. Finally spent, they collapsed against each other, sweaty and trembling.

Still joined at the pelvis, he rolled her onto her side, sharing the pillow. He brushed damp hair from her forehead and she smiled drowsily at him with kiss-swollen lips. They fell asleep without speaking.

He woke as she quietly slid from the bed. He tried to grab hold of her but he was still groggy with sleep. It was daylight.

"I'm gonna start coffee then take a shower. C'mon up if you want to join me. I'll wash your back," she smiled over her shoulder as she headed into the kitchen. "Don't forget, you got a rally to report on."

He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to her run water and move around the kitchen, then soft steps as she trotted up the stairs. The sound of running water made him acutely aware of how much he needed a shower. He slipped on his jeans and went up to find her. It wasn't hard, he followed the sound of water. Last door on the right. Her bedroom was devoid of anything to show that a man had ever been in here, but he knew she had been married for a long time before her husband died. Likewise, there were no blatantly feminine things in sight, except the leopard print bra and panties on the bed. He could hear her singing softly in the shower. He went in to join her.

Neither spoke as he stepped into the shower. She was wet and glistening, her hair slicked back against a shapely skull. She let him into the hot spray and began gently soaping his back. He turned to face her and she continued with the soap, washing his chest, his stomach, gently lathering as her hands slipped over his body, waking him thoroughly. She handed him the soap, he smiled and began washing her shoulders, breasts and stomach, warming to his task and returning the favor. He pulled her slick, soapy body against his and her hands slid across his shoulders as he tipped his head to kiss her. She wrapped a long leg around his hips and with one hand guided him inside her. The hot water beat down on them as they swayed in rhythm until he gasped against her wet neck and came so suddenly his knees almost buckled. They stood, locked together for a silent moment, his face burrowed into her neck, her lips breathing softly against his ear. She unhooked her leg and he slid almost painfully out of her.

She smiled devilishly and carefully soaped his now-flaccid penis. He gritted his teeth against the excruciatingly sweet touch on the oversensitive flesh. She giggled. They finished washing each other, kissing and caressing until the water began to cool. They finally stepped out and she handed him a soft, white towel. He dried off and wandered into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she carefully rubbed lotion over her shoulders and breasts, across the hips, down the long legs and clear to her toes. She emerged, her hair turbaned in the towel. He continued to watch as she dressed; leopard bra and panties, Levi's, white T-shirt and Doc Martin boots. She draped the towel over the doorknob and began brushing out her long hair, which almost reached her waist.

"Coffee should be ready," she offered. He grabbed his jeans and followed her downstairs.

As he dressed in the living room, he could hear her clattering around, the refrigerator opening and closing several times, the ring of metal against ceramic, the hiss of something hitting a hot skillet, then a tantalizing aroma. He joined her as soon as he was dressed.

"Have a seat. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black." It was the first word out of his mouth since last night. He was beginning to think he was deep inside an acid-induced hallucination. Then the thought occurred to him that it was still last night, he had hit a deer and was lying in a ditch with a head injury slowly succumbing to shock and hypothermia. But shit, what a way to go.

She set a large mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He took a careful sip and sighed, "That's really good."

"One thing about Oregonians, we're coffee and beer snobs. And I'm one of the worst. I only drink micro-brewed beer and fresh-roasted, fresh- ground coffee, no canned shit for me."

She was moving easily around the kitchen rustling up breakfast. "I hope you're not watching your cholesterol, I'm doing biscuits and gravy. I've had a craving for it lately but it's not something I'm gonna make for myself."

"Sounds good." He watched as she cooked and drained the sausage, mixed buttermilk biscuits from scratch without a recipe and stirred the cream gravy.

"Eggs?"

"Sure."

"Scrambled or fried?"

"Either."

"Scrambled."

In less than fifteen minutes he was looking down at a plateful of golden biscuits, creamy gravy and fluffy eggs flecked with fresh ground pepper.

He took a bite, his eyes rolled and he almost moaned. He had finally succumbed to his injuries, died and gone to heaven.

She topped off his coffee before she sat across from him with her plate. "There's plenty, so eat all you want. I'm used to cooking for a couple of bottomless pits. Is everything OK?"

"Perfect," he mumbled around a hot mouthful of flaky biscuit and rich gravy. After a second helping and his third cup of coffee he was ready to nominate her for sainthood. He eyed her over the rim of his coffee cup. She sipped her coffee, caught his eye and smiled.

"We need to hit the road pretty soon. Going the back way it'll take over an hour to get into town." She stood and gathered the dishes.

He followed her to the sink, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. She turned in his embrace and her arms moved naturally and easily around his shoulders. They stood nearly eye to eye, her lips tantalizingly within reach. He kissed her, tasting coffee, smelling her clean hair, feeling her strong body in his arms. She really wasn't his type. But he wasn't sure he wanted to leave the house, especially to join a crowd. Not today anyway. He had her pinned against the counter, their Levis button-to- button.

"You're not thinking about bagging the rally, now are you?" she teased.

"What would your boss say?"

"Depends on what I tell him," he said, staring into her bright blue eyes.

"Don't you want to ride?" The ultimate carrot on a stick. "It's a sunny day, a beautiful route, no cops and smooth asphalt."

She knew the right buttons to push, he sighed in defeat. "All right, you twisted my arm."

She kissed him warmly. "Good, I haven't been out on my bike for three whole days."

"That long?"

"Yeah, I decided last minute to take the old boy instead of my Sporty, and he needed some help, so I've been hard at it in the garage. The only advantage of celibacy is ample nervous energy."

He thought about that for a second, "I take it you're not dating?"

"I haven't even come close to a date since," she paused, her eyes suddenly bright, "since my husband died almost three years ago. I haven't had the inclination, nor the time really."

"Why'd you invite me to stay? I mean, you had no idea what you were getting into."

"Friend of a friend. Tom thought it would be a good idea. Plus, you ride a nice bike and I've read enough of your stuff to know that you're not a total psychopath. Granted, I had no idea you'd be a broodingly handsome guy that smells good enough to eat raw. But then, maybe I was due for some good luck," she grinned.

"Brooding? I'm always told I look pissed off."

"I don't think so, more introspective and pensive. Now, enough chit-chat. We gotta hit the road, Bubba."

He watched her as she braided her hair into two long plaits. He was beginning to suspect that they were two innocent participants in a conspiracy; his boss Harold and her friend Tom, both busybodies. Not that he minded, now. They added a few more layers to offset the morning chill still clinging to the thin mountain air, grabbed their jackets and headed into the garage. They pushed their scooters out into the brilliant morning sunlight. He started his Bad Boy easily enough, with its electronic ignition. It took her a half-dozen kicks before the old Panhead grumbled to life. She gently revved the engine, a smile of sheer delight lighting her face. They sat and let the engines warm until she crammed her brain bucket on, flashed him a grin, blew him a kiss with two fingers and kicked it into gear. They rode side by side out the long winding road. When they reached the main road, she turned left, away from the highway that had brought him, and deeper into the pine forest. He followed. Once on the main road she cranked the throttle, her braids flowing behind her like living creatures. They blasted along through the cool morning air, easily hitting 70 on the tree-lined road. She was right, the road was smooth and scenic. The trees thinned and suddenly the surrounding buttes and lava domes came into view, the rocky crags of the Cascades shimmered blue in the distance. Ten miles down the road they came to the Cascade Lakes Highway junction. At the stop sign, she hollered to him, "We're going to head towards Sunriver. Once we get close there'll be a few cops that are not real bike-tolerant. So when I slow, you'd better too."

He flashed her an OK sign. She took off to the right. Mile after mile of virgin forest and no traffic to speak of, it was bliss after battling the vicious, bitter car-people of the Bay Area. The air was so clean he could smell the occasional creek or wildflower beneath the ever-present spice of pine. There were plenty of suicidal chipmunks, waiting at the side of the road only to dash in front of their tires at the last second, being missed by mere inches.

He saw the sign, Sunriver two miles, and they both slowed to a sedate 55. She smiled at him, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Before they saw any signs of the fabled Sunriver, she signaled a left turn and they headed up a narrow but smooth National Forest road. Back into the virgin old-growth ponderosas. She cranked the throttle and cruised back up to 70. They wound through the beautiful hills, his head pivoting from side to side taking in the scenery. He saw signs of old wildfire damage, burned snags rising up through verdant meadows and charred, giant survivors standing as lone sentinels.

Too soon they reached signs of civilization; massive, overpriced homes dotting the hillsides, an exclusive golf course and luxury condos. Too bad. But the road widened and was smooth and clean as they headed down the hill and into the west side of Bend. She took the lead, slowing as they entered a commercial district, and pulled into a Chevron. He pulled in behind her to fill his tank.

The attendant, a young man of about 17, eyed the bikes covetously. He smiled a greeting, "Fill 'em up?"

"Yeah, premium." She unscrewed the chrome cap and neatly wrested the nozzle from the dumbfounded youngster's grasp. She flashed the boy an apologetic smile, "I'm just a little paranoid."

"Yeah, sure lady."

With the gas bought and paid for, they played follow the leader across town.

She knew the road less traveled, the path of least resistance. He followed trustingly, knowing that if he tried to find his way back, he'd never make it. He was entirely in her hands. As they progressed through traffic, he noticed more bikes. Brother riders waved, smiled and fell in behind. Before long they were a couple dozen strong, all heading for the Bears and Roses H-D dealer. He could see bikes ahead and nothing but headlights in his rearview. He stayed just to Gil's left flank.

He knew they had arrived several minutes before he actually saw the dealership. The small side street was lined with bikes parked tail to the curb. They slowed with the congestion and she pointed to an opening in the wall of Milwaukee iron. She rolled her bike easily into place and he followed suit, parking along side of her. They cut the engines simultaneously.

Even with their own engines silent it did little to diminish the baritone din of the multitude of scoots passing. The occasional tenor of a Japanese bike cut through the sonorous rumble, but they were few and far between. The two sat silently for a few minutes watching the parade of humanity, leather and chrome. He finally dismounted, strapping his helmet to his seat. He stood over her as her eyes scanned the crowd. She finally swung her long leg up over the tank, sat side saddle for a moment, then rose to stand next to him.

"I should have told you, I'm not much for crowds," she apologized.

He looked at the gathering of perhaps 300 and said in her ear, "Then you really don't want go to Sturgis. Don't worry, I'll protect you," he added facetiously, putting a protective arm around her waist.

"Thanks. I feel so much better now," she retorted, her eyes sparkling.

"Poodle? Shit man, it is you," a burly blond with a full, red beard descended upon them. "What the hell you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you. Isn't this a little off the beaten track?"

"Naw, we moved here last year. Good schools and low crime," he shrugged his broad shoulders, his eyes ran over her tall frame. "Who's your friend?"

"Angus, this is Gil. Gil, Angus."

"Pleasure to meet you," he extended a beefy hand.

Taking it in her usual, firm grip she smiled into his brown eyes.

"Thanks, nice to meet you too. You're a local?"

"Yeah, sort of. Poodle drag you up here from the Bay Area?"

"No, actually, I'm a local gal. I've lived in the south end of the county for over 15 years. Poodle's a friend of an old friend. I offered him three hots and a cot if he'd come and do an article on the Run for the Cascades, as a favor to some friends of mine here at the dealer's."

Angus flashed a quick look at Poodle, then back to Gil. Their calm demeanor gave nothing away. He elbowed Poodle. Knowing his taste in women, he asked sarcastically, "So, can she cook?"

"Oh man, you should taste her biscuits and gravy. She can even rebuild an engine," he flashed her a grin.

"Yeah well, with an old-fashioned upbringing and three brothers, I kind of had to do it all. Besides, with an old scooter I knew I'd either have to handle a wrench, have a mechanic on retainer, or trade engine work for sexual favors," she winked.

Angus grinned. His eyes reluctantly left Gil's piercing blue eyes and were pulled to the black and chrome beauty leaning jauntily on its stand, "Hmm, nice ride." He eyed the foot gear change. "Fifty-two?"

"Fifty-three, actually. I've had him now for about three years and have him about back to showroom new."

The big man was impressed, but kept his face neutral. "Not bad. Pretty nice, actually. I had a '65 Duo-Glide. Loved that bike, but now that I'm an old man I wanted something that had a little less vibration, a little easier on my old bones. Got me a '99 Heritage Softail."

"Those are beauties. But a little rich for my blood," she smiled.

The three left the parked bikes and drifted into the crowd. Poodle glanced at Gil as she chatted easily with Angus about her Panhead and he bragged about his Big Twin and suppressed a smile. The rough blonde was blatantly smitten with the tall redhead.

As she stepped over to inspect some leather vests, Angus said out of the corner of his mouth, "What gives, buddy? She's not your type. I don't think I've ever seen you with anything that weighs over a hundred."

"Uh huh," he grunted noncommittally, "anything bigger doesn't ride pillion as easy."

"I always thought you were a closet pedophile," he said, elbowing his friendgood naturedly. "But Gil looks like a grown up. What gives?"

Poodle shrugged casually. "She's a nice lady."

"And she's got her own bike, so no need for two up?"

"Uh huh."

"You heading back to the Bay tomorrow?"

"Probably."

"So then what about Gil? You gonna keep seeing her?"

Poodle shrugged. But knew what he wanted.

"So then, she's kind of available?"

"You're married Angus."

"Oh yeah."

Gil rejoined the two, unaware that she'd been discussed. They continued to mingle, losing Angus along the way. They ran into several people Gil knew, as well as several more that knew Poodle. Each time one introduced the other there were speculative looks, appraising glances and raised eyebrows.

Poodle found his mind was not on his job. He was more than a little distracted, and not in the usual ways. He hadn't been drinking, had slept some and had eaten well. He tried to make mental notes on the gathering, but couldn't corral his thoughts well enough, his mind refused to focus on the task at hand. He looked around, seeing nothing but a bunch of happy bikers and beautiful bikes. The lack of uniforms added to the mellow mood. Must be the altitude and clean air. You'd never get this peaceful a gathering at sea level. He decided to kick back and just savor the day. Having Gil quietly at his side added to the enjoyment. At one point, without realizing it, he took her hand and they strolled along, fingers laced together, relaxed and content.

The Run for the Cascades was equally mellow, as mellow as 500 or so big motorcycles can be. There were few idiots and fewer maniacs. Everyone held tight formation as they wound their way up the Cascade Lakes Highway toward Mount Bachelor, speed increasing gradually as they moved away from town until the front half of the pack approached race speed. The air thinned and cooled as they rode, despite the bright, late summer sun. The ponderosas gave way to fir as they rose. The smell of exhaust couldn't cover the pungent scent of pine. The road was smooth and everyone was happy.

Poodle was disappointed to realize they had hit the summit and were coming down the back side. He saw Gil signal him. He grinned and nodded, acknowledging her plan. They turned right, off of the scenic highway and on to the familiar road they had traveled this morning.

Away from the chorus and back to a duet, the world suddenly seemed so quiet. There was only the rhythmic throb of their two bikes to startle the ravens from their roadkill. The empty road stretched ahead of them, at least for today.

The End