More Than a Rancher. Claire McEwen
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WHEN JENNA’S BEST friend described the scenery in the Eastern Sierra, she’d called it soothing and peaceful. But as Jenna stood on a dirt road next to a barren pasture, staring at the pancaked tire on her beloved Mini Cooper, those were not the words that came to mind. She muttered a few of the four-letter variety instead and looked around, wondering what to do next.
Sagebrush, punctuated by beige grass, rolled along for miles eastward. To the west, beyond the highway she’d left behind a few bumpy miles ago, the Sierra Nevada sheered upward in an empty, vast wilderness of gray granite. The mountains rolled on, peak after peak, as far as she could see. Jenna and Samantha agreed on most things, but today Jenna would have to take issue with her best friend’s feelings about this place. There was nothing soothing here. Intimidating was a far better word.
Sighing, Jenna walked around to the passenger side and opened the door, taking her cell phone out of her purse. No reception, of course. Not when she needed it most.
This was crazy. She should have called off the trip when her blender exploded this morning. Jenna wasn’t completely superstitious, but the smoothie spattered all over her kitchen walls had felt like a sign. As if the universe was telling her to crawl back in bed, pull up the covers and stay safely home in San Francisco.
While she’d wiped up the smoothie bits, Jenna had fought the temptation to call Samantha and cancel their plans. She’d been up late last night, hosting a Latin dance party at the ballroom where she worked, and her warm bed had looked incredibly inviting. But her friend was planning her wedding and wanted help. Plus, Jenna felt guilty that she’d never even seen the ranch that Samantha lived on with her fiancé. So she’d dismissed her premonition and forced herself to load up her car and get on the road. And that was when everything started going wrong.
First was the phone call from Jeff. During that disastrous conversation, Jenna learned that there was nothing like an ex-boyfriend confessing to numerous infidelities to make a girl wish she’d stayed hidden beneath her covers all day. Jenna had pulled over, thrown up, cried, then driven to the nearest convenience store for the most massive soda she could find.
Sugar, bubbles and caffeine had worked their magic and she’d managed to continue her calamitous journey. And now here she was, with a flat tire, stuck beyond nowhere. The smoothie volcano had been a sign. And she’d been a fool not to pay attention.
Jenna opened the glove compartment and rummaged around for the owner’s manual. Next time she would listen to her instincts when her kitchen appliances started erupting. This was crazy—she had no idea how to change a tire. Opening the booklet, she started reading. She hated diagrams and instructions of all kinds, but maybe if she stared at them long enough, a miracle would occur and she’d figure them out.
For an instant she was back in school, trying to focus on the textbooks while her teachers looked on in disappointment. Panic fluttered. One step at a time, she told herself. That was the way to get through anything complicated, whether it was a dance routine at the ballroom or a flat tire on a wrong-turn dirt road.
The manual said there should be a jack in the back of the car, so Jenna set the little book on the roof, opened the hatchback and pulled out her bags to uncover the compartment where the tool was allegedly hidden. As she moved her duffel bag, her iPod slid out and dropped to the ground. She picked it up and automatically put the earbuds in. Music was a huge part of her life. It soothed her, helped her think—and she needed all the help she could get right now.
The iPod was set to the song that she and Brent, her dance partner, were using for their upcoming competition. Jenna touched the arrow to play it. At least she could get more familiar with the rhythms while she tried her hand at auto repair.
Jenna walked over to the offending wheel, clutching the object she hoped was the jack. She set it gingerly on the ground and began reading the manual again. The words still weren’t sinking in. Instead the upbeat tune vibrated through her body, and her mind drifted from the dry instructions on the page to the cha-cha routine she and Brent were choreographing.
Maybe if she just focused