Horsepower

By J.J. Collins

Everyone is about to find out what "horsepower" really means...

Roy Tennison builds custom motorcycles, and lives with buried guilt. He couldn’t save his best friend’s life, and now the man’s uncle, not to mention the entire town, resents him. If they ever learn he’s gay, Roy’s life won’t be worth a busted tailpipe.

Then Dale Evanista walks into his garage, looking for a bike. Roy offers him a job instead. Besides being a cycle enthusiast, Dale’s a horse-shifter, also ostracized by the town. Man and horse-man come together over a mutual love of bikes that grows into a love for each other. And when the bigoted old man finds out, emotions good and bad are running high, and events rush toward a showdown.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Publishing
• Release date: Aug 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772339772

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Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2016 J.J. Collins

ISBN: 978-1-77233-977-2

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Melissa Hosack

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To all who serve, whether on four legs or two.

HORSEPOWER

J.J. Collins

Copyright © 2016

Chapter One

Well, now. Look who’s back.

Roy Tennison sat at the end of his gravel drive. He grinned and gunned his Harley’s engine. Across the road on the grassy plain, the black horse pawed the earth and neighed. Challenge accepted. Roy eased off the gravel and onto pavement, then put pedal to metal and shot up the road. The horse shrilled a No fair! whinny at him and launched itself in pursuit.

For almost ten minutes they raced, horse against horsepower. The wind tore Roy’s admiring whistle out of his mouth. Damn, that sucker was speedy. Not Kentucky Derby class, but up there. Roy coaxed a bit more hustle out of the Harley. Still the beast kept pace. What breed had that kind of staying power? He noted the broad chest and long legs and wondered if Noche might have some racehorse in him, after all.

Roy didn’t know shit about four-legged horses, but even he knew this was weird. He’d seen plenty of dogs chase cars, but a horse that chased motorcycles? That had to be a first, even for backwater Nebraska.

They kept up their contest for another few minutes, until Roy spotted his turnoff coming up. Fun over, back to the war. He had to slow for the turnoff, so picked that point for a glance to the side. The horse had come to the edge of the road. It thumped a forehoof on the blacktop and tossed its messy mane. Its whinny seemed to say, Catch you next time.

Roy waved to it. "Adios, Noche. See you tonight." He had no doubt he would. More and more often over the last three weeks he’d found the horse waiting for him on his way home as well as in the morning, shaking that mop of midnight mane and spoiling for a race. It was like the horse knew his schedule.

To test that theory, Roy had come out on two successive Sundays, when the garage was closed. No horse. Maybe it went to church or something.

Get a grip, Roy told himself. It’s not like he’s Trigger. He put the horse in his rearview and headed on to town.

****

Thoughts of the horse stayed with him for most of his ride into Burnside. He had no idea who owned it, if anyone did. Asking around had gotten him mostly grunts and sour looks from the locals. That wasn’t the horse’s fault. Roy wasn’t from around here, and the town had been slow to accept him, for that and other reasons.

There was a remote chance the horse might be wild, though Roy doubted that. Twenty-first century rural Nebraska wasn’t what a man would call mustang country. Maybe Noche was someone’s pet, some kid’s saddle horse. No wild horse would get that close to a running Harley, that was for damn sure.

This particular part of the state did have a local legend concerning spirit horses, magical creatures that could take on the forms of human men and women. Roy snorted. Maybe back when Wyatt Earp was making headlines, but not in this day and age. If the spirit horses left any descendants, they’d probably taken to driving cars just like everyone else.

He slowed to the speed limit at the town line and deliberately kept to a sedate pace for the last three blocks to the garage. Like the horse, they were waiting. Middle-aged men with sour expressions and their fists jammed into the pockets of their worn work pants. Only three today, Roy saw. Maybe he’d catch a break.

Then he spotted O’Casey across the street at the diner, sending glare-waves of nuclear death his way through the window. Roy considered snapping off a salute but decided not to push the man’s buttons. He parked his bike and took off his helmet instead. He let his Army-length crew do the talking for him. O’Casey glowered into his coffee mug.

Roy unlocked the garage, rolled up the bay door, and wheeled his Harley inside. The wooden sign above still read Mike’s Bikes, as it had for two generations. The American flag in the right-hand corner, though, was starting to flake pretty badly. He’d have to find some sign place to repaint it. There’d be no problem with that, at least, in this bastion of steadfast American values.

When he checked outside again, the other men were gone. They’d done what they’d set out to do, make their displeasure known. Look up small town on the web and it’d show a map of Burnside. Mike O’Casey had grown up here, like a dozen O’Caseys before him. He’d been a great guy, well-known and well-liked, especially by his doting uncle. Better the place had just closed down, rather than fall into the hands of an outsider, was Burnside’s majority opinion.

Roy could live with cold shoulders, as long as the townspeople never found out his real dirty secret. If they ever did, his life wouldn’t be worth the shit sure to hit the fan.

He opened up the showroom—an optimistic term—and checked his current inventory, three Subarus and two Hondas. Burnside wasn’t exactly on Sturgis terms when it came to biker love. Too many people automatically thought Hell’s Angels when they saw so much as a scooter. Mike had been Burnside’s exception.

But Roy wasn’t Mike, and the town wasn’t about to let him forget it.

He had three messages waiting on his business phone. A picker-up in Parnassus had a line on what might be a ’40s Indian frame, and a guy who’d gotten his name at a rally last month wanted an ’88 Harley restored. The third call was a hang up. One of his fan club, no doubt. He jotted down the contact info for the other two. He’d give them a call during regular business hours. Not everyone was as eager as he to think about bikes this early in the morning.

That seen to, he returned to the garage and discovered he had a customer. The back presented to him wore the standard Burnside uniform of boots, faded jeans, and flannel shirt. The guy had bypassed the showroom and was poking around Roy’s ride.

Roy’s shoulders tightened. He stepped into the garage with deliberate loudness. Help you, buddy?

The man jerked around like a startled horse. His sudden spin sent a long forelock of raven-black hair flying into his face. He flipped it back with a toss of his head, to reveal eyes of the most astonishing blue. That long face was closer to Roy’s age than O’Casey’s, and those eyes didn’t hold any hate. Something that looked like panic fluttered in them for an instant, then vanished. The man planted his feet and stood firm—not a hostile stance, just claiming the ground. That would’ve been okay with Roy if that ground hadn’t been right next to his bike.

He shook back the rest of his hair, a shoulder-length mess that could have used a brushing. Just looking, he said.

Showroom’s through here.

The man peered beyond Roy’s ear and made a derisive snort. Not that crap. Looking at this. He patted the Harley’s seat. Roy tensed in a flash of pride and possessiveness. I never seen a bike this sweet in Burnside before. How’s she run?

That one’s not for sale. You want a Harley, you’re gonna have to go to Parnassus. They’ve got a dealership.

Not looking to buy just yet. Just wanted to see what you got. The man matched action to words and peered around