Continued from Part 1

It was the heat that penetrated the red haze in her brain. Her skin felt seared, heat penetrated through her jeans, her chest, her vest, and mostly her face. She felt like she was being cooked alive. Even without opening her eyes, that thought managed to cut through. Lying out in the open in the desert on a day like today was deadly. She had to move. Despite the agonizing clamoring in her brain, she managed to open her eyes, squinting into the killer sun. She tried to take a mental tally of her body, but she ached all over. Nothing hurt any more than anything else. Everything hurt like hell. She pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement made her gasp in pain as she realized that something did indeed hurt more than the rest, her right shoulder sent a nauseating jolt of pain through her body.

It didn't matter, she couldn't stay here. She struggled to her feet and stood swaying, dizzy with pain and heat. Her eyes searched for her bike. There it was, a mere fifteen feet away, handlebars dug into the soft gravel, head first in the ditch. She doubted she'd be able to get the thing back on its wheels. But she had to try. She stumbled through the soft dirt, trying to push the reality of her situation from her mind. She needed to focus.

"Okay," she breathed, psyching herself up as much as possible.

With her back to the bike, she crouched alongside it, her left hand grabbing the edge of the seat, her right hand closing around the center of the handle bars as best she could. Using her legs she lifted with all the strength she could muster. Her feet dug into the sand as she pushed upwards, a grunt forced itself from her lips. She found herself growling as she put her all into righting the heavy machine. The pain pulsing in her shoulder almost made her drop the bike, but she had it nearly vertical now. The sand shifted beneath the big Dunlops and the bike began to slide, tipping uncontrollably toward her. She fought to regain control, but her injured shoulder refused to cooperate and the soft ground beneath her gave her no stability. She went down, trying to roll away from the bike, but the massive Harley came down hard, pinning her from the knees down.

She could feel the heat of the engine burning into her calves. She clenched her teeth against the pain and found her mouth was full of sand. She tried to spit, but couldn't muster enough saliva. Tears of pain and frustration burned her eyes. She was face down in the desert, trapped by her best friend and doomed to die under the blistering heat if she couldn't manage to get her ass out of this sling. Panic began to rise in her chest, inexorably and beyond control. She pushed herself up and fought to free her legs. She writhed and tugged, raising a cloud of dust. She thrashed and wriggled, trying to worm from beneath the hot iron. Her breath was coming in short, barking gasps. She choked on the sandstorm she was creating, but continued to fight. She could feel her left leg slipping free, but the right had yet to budge. Pulling her foot free from its boot, her left leg was free. She braced her foot against the tank and pushed with every ounce of strength she could muster, pulling her right leg with equal force. The sharp pain in her shin alerted her to the fact that there had to be a rock lurking beneath the soft sands.

In despair, she collapsed onto the ground, cradling her face against her arms as sobs wracked her body. Finally choking back the unproductive tears she mumbled to herself, "C'mon, get a grip. You can do this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why me? Fuck!"

Clenching her teeth, she tried to roll over, hoping she could get her hands on the bike and somehow pry it up enough to free her leg. She couldn't get even halfway around before the strain on her knee joint proved too excruciating to go any further. She was back on her face, exhausted from her struggles. How long had she been fighting this? She looked at the hands of her dusty watch. It hadn't even been fifteen minutes? How could that be? Her watch must have broken on impact.

The heat had moved beyond merely unbearable to suffocating. She realized with dread that she had stopped sweating, the first sign of heat stroke. She needed to get calm and try to think of something to get her out of this situation before she found herself suddenly and irreversibly dead. There was a water bottle in her left saddlebag. If she could reach it, wet herself down and have a drink, that would help.

Pivoting as best she could, and by pushing with her foot and scrabbling for a grip in the soft soil, she managed to contort her body into a horseshoe shape. She could just get her fingers on the first buckle, but the pain in her shoulder was making her fingers less than cooperative. She fumbled with the leather strap, unable to maneuver it through the buckle.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed, "give me a fuckin' break."

She was beginning to feel weak and light headed. She was afraid the heat was frying her brain, quite literally. She had to get to the water or she was dead. In a last ditch effort she twisted her body until she felt a painful pop in her knee and felt a sharp jolt run up her spine as it too protested violently. Her fingers were on the buckle, but she couldn't manage the stiff leather with one hand. She roared her frustration and collapsed back into the sand.

This time there were no tears. Her head rested on her arm and she stared apathetically along the barren ground, thinking that it was an abysmal vision for her last glimpse of the earth. She watched a line of ants crossing the ditch, coming and going from nothing to nowhere. She watched, and waited. In what was left of her rational mind, she decided that if she could just rest for a brief moment she could gather her strength and try again to free her leg. She just needed a little rest. Her eyes fluttered closed, shutting off the blinding glare of the summer sun on the bleached, dead earth.

His eyes scanned the empty road to the horizon, always keeping vigil. Not that he had ever had to do much other than rescue the occasional injured animal, but even that broke the monotony of his shift along the desert highway. He glanced at the driver’s license clipped to his onboard laptop and chided himself for forgetting to return it to the tall redhead. He smiled and shook his head, his brother would have accused him of a feeble attempt to get a date. Well, maybe so. Not too often that he met a woman who didn't seem to have the stature of a twelve year old, as well as one that rode a nice bike with obvious skill.

Asphalt rolling black beneath her. Hot sun above changing to the silver of a cold moon. Scent of sage and dust and hot tar. Riding. Her destination unclear. Yellow center line passing in a series of rhythmic dots, hypnotic, keeping time with her pulse and the beat of the engine. Her heart, beating slower. The lines passing slower. Her speed lowering until she could see every detail of the sleek black road. Time to stop. The Deuce was tired.

He saw the sun glint off of something in the ditch about a mile ahead. Probably just a hub cap. But as he neared he could see it was far too big to be anything unintentionally dropped in the ditch. He sped ahead, the big V8 grumbling and eating up the road easily. What he saw made his heart stutter briefly. A purple Deuce and a motionless woman. He skidded to a stop and leapt from the car, leaving the engine idling. He was on his knees, feeling for a pulse at the hot, dry throat. It was thready and weak, but still beating. His eyes traveled down her body to the pinned leg. It wasn't too hard for him to lift the bike, adrenaline lending additional strength to his already formidable power. He set the bike on its stand and returned to the woman.

He carefully rolled her onto her back. Her face was covered with the pale dust of the desert, her lips darkened with grit. "Sarah, Sarah. Open your eyes. C'mon Sarah, open your eyes."

There was no flicker of a response from the limp, hot body. He knew she would die if he didn't get her cool. Overriding any thought of keeping her still to prevent possible further injury, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to his patrol car. He managed to open the passenger door and slid her into the seat. He closed the door and scooted around to his side. Once inside he cranked the air conditioning and grabbed the water bottle from beneath his seat. He poured the tepid water over her face and chest. He dribbled a little against her lips, washing away the accumulated dirt. After soaking her down good, he tried again to rouse her.

"Sarah. Damn it, open your eyes," he ordered, shaking her shoulder gently. "C'mon girl, look at me."

Still no response. He began to feel a touch of panic gnaw at his professional detachment. He put the car in gear and left a cloud of blue smoke.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, grabbing the mic. "Dispatch, this is Nathan 8. I have an accident victim, female, 38, suffering from what appears to be heat stroke. I'm taking her directly to Southwest Memorial. My ETA is 15 minutes."

To keep himself calm and businesslike he read her license information back to dispatch, hoping too that some family could be notified. People died quickly from heat, he had seen it more than once. But this was the first time it could happen to someone he had actually spoken to.

During the agonizingly long ride, he continued to talk to the unconscious woman, holding her hand, squeezing it gently, calling her name and cajoling her to open her eyes. The long straight road allowed him to push the cruiser up to speed, easily clipping along at 120 mph. He slowed only when he knew he was nearing his destination, but he ran with lights and siren, cursing the inattentive drivers who seemed to think his warnings were for anyone but themselves. He radioed dispatch, alerting them to his imminent arrival at the hospital. He wanted the ER team standing by and ready. He skidded under the breezeway outside the ER and leaped from his seat. A huddle of medical staff was at his side as he yanked open the door and caught the woman as she slid into his arms. He lifted her onto the waiting gurney and she was whisked through the double doors. He followed, jaw clenched and brows glowering.

He grabbed an attending nurse and tersely explained the circumstances in which he'd found the woman. She made brief notes then turned away. He felt summarily dismissed. He reluctantly returned to his car and headed back to the desert. The rest of his shift was tediously uneventful, except for calling the truck to pick up the scraped purple Deuce. He had to fight the urge to repeatedly call dispatch for updates on the woman's condition. But as his 12-hour shift neared its end, he knew he would not be going home right away.

Her head felt too large for her neck, as if her brain had swollen and distorted the skull. And everything hurt. The bike. She had parked her bike. Hadn't she? She wanted to open her eyes and see the bike, but her lids felt glued together. Her dry throat reminded her. She hadn't parked her Deuce, she had wrecked her beloved bike. The thought brought needed tears to her eyes, loosening the glue that kept them closed. But still she did not open her eyes. She did not want to be returned to the grim reality of her death in the desert. They would say, "At least she died doing what she loved." Bullshit. She didn't want to die at all.

It was the smells that permeated the pondering of her death. Not sage and hot dust but antiseptics and disinfectants. The unmistakable smell of a hospital. That forced her eyes open. The room was dimly lit but there was no doubt of where she was. She looked to her right and was startled by the sight of a giant of a man sprawled in a chair a few feet from the bed.

Her gasp alerted him. His eyes opened and he smiled, "Decided to rejoin the living?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words could pass the parched tissue.

"Need a drink?" he asked as he reached for a glass.

She sucked greedily on the straw, re-hydrating her mouth and rinsing the last of the grit from between her teeth. "Thanks," she whispered.

"No problem, I live to serve," he teased.

"My bike?"

"In my garage. Hope you don't mind, but it was that or the county lot. It's sitting happily next to my scooter, only a little worse for wear."

"Thanks."

"Like I said, I live to serve," he smiled again. "I'm just glad I got to you when I did or we might not be having this conversation."

She looked at him for a long moment, realizing the truth in the words and was briefly overwhelmed by a wave of mortality. But it passed as quickly as it came and she grinned back. "Guess I almost rode faster than my guardian angel can fly."