so far beyond her budget, she couldn’t bear to think about it. Besides, she was trying to be hopeful, and right now, her optimistic soul was rooting for a loose coolant cap or hose as the source of all her problems. A quick rest was all this silly sprained ankle needed. Once she got to town, she’d climb down out of the tractor and just… walk the pain right off.
She refused to look at the swelling that was turning her trim ankle into an orange-sized abomination. As long as she didn’t look at it, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as her gently massaging fingers and the residual pain were telling her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said again, firmly this time, stubbornly, without stumbling, so they both might believe it.
“Suit yourself.” The lady farmer cast her leg a practical if dubious stare. This was farm country, though, and in farm country, people minded their own business.
The rest of the rumbling, bumpy drive into Solstice Springs was done in silence. Georgia did her best not to wince, gasp or groan as the throb in her leg got steadily worse, and the lady farmer did nothing more than caster and her leg knowing tight-lipped looks.
Her phone was dead, so Georgia had no idea of the time, but the sun was well and truly gone by the time they reached town. The sky was a bruise-like indigo going on Indian ink, and not a star could be seen because all the streetlights were on. All six of them lined up in a neat row along the only commercial street, bisecting this tiny town. The welcome sign planted beneath the first streetlamp put the established date at 1886 and the population at 296. Tacked beneath that figure, however, was a hand-written change on a square of plywood. The baby-blue paint read: ‘297! Congratulations, Donna Jo and Earl!’
Six city blocks made up the sum and total of the rural town—post office, feed store, gas station, and grocery. A bookstore doubled as a coffee and sandwich shop. A quilt shop advertised sewing lessons every Thursday, and on Saturday mornings, the Stars and Garter Sewing Circle welcomed anyone and everyone to come ‘stitch a square.’
Then there was Dad’s Garage, which looked like a fifties-era gas station, complete with the original blockish Texaco gas pumps still out front and all the old motor oil advertising signs hanging on every available inch of wall space not currently occupied by either a window or a door. It had a single repair bay, and thankfully, the door was still up, and the neon in the window was flashing ‘Open.’
“You’re in luck,” the farmer said as the tractor rumbled to a stop out front. “Looks like he’s home.”
“Thank you so much,” Georgia said, grabbing her purse. She opened it, knowing she ought to offer something, but her relief when the woman waved against payment was equal parts humbling and shame-filled. She didn’t have any money to spare. She almost never carried cash, and there was just enough on her debit card to fill her gas tank two more times. It would get her to her interview, then home again. That was about it.
“Put your money away,” the older woman said firmly. “You don’t owe me a dime. Just take care of that foot and have yourself a good night.”
“Thank you,” Georgia said again and slid down out of the cab as carefully as she could onto her good leg. She really, really, really didn’t want to put weight on her ankle, but there was no help for it. She limped backward to give the tractor room enough to move on without fear of it running her over. The second her ankle had to take the worst of her weight, though, she knew this wasn’t something she could just ‘walk off.’
She’d hurt herself. She’d really hurt herself, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it in the middle of nowhere with a broken-down car.
As the lady farmer drove away, Georgia physically braced herself to endure, mentally wedging herself into those stupid, metaphorical, big-girl panties again, and made her way to the garage.
She glanced through the open bay doors. The place was brightly lit and fairly clean for a working mechanic’s shop. Shelves full of car parts in varying stages of newness lined both the back wall and any surface flat enough. Every available inch of wall space was covered with something, turning the garage into what looked more like a museum dedicated