No Fault of Mine

Chapter Two

Anger bit at my throat as I walked back to my car. Why would he think that about me? Do I have "desperate woman" engraved on my forehead? I didn't feel desperate, or was I? I remembered the fatigue and ache in my hands from the death grip I had on the steering wheel.

But when I saw the carnage done to my car, I stopped in my tracks. I remember being hit and nearly losing control, but damage to my car hadn't entered my mind until I saw the back panel on the driver's side. It and the hatch told the story of a collision and the attempt to push my car off the road. And, sure enough, the back bumper cover had been ripped off.

"That's a shame," he said.

"Gesh!" I said, startled. "Make some noise the next time you sneak up on a girl."

"I'll keep that in mine," he said.

"You might consider ditching that cap. It doesn't do anything for you." Trite for sure, but I couldn't let him get away with scaring me.

He stripped the cap off his head with one hand and handed me the purchases that I had left on the counter with the other. "I had a rude but humorous comment ready for this moment," he said, "but you now occupy that territory." He stuffed the cap's bill into his hip pocket.

I slumped with embarrassment and took the items from his hand. I folded my arms, nesting the items next to me. "I'm sorry," I said.

"So, the woman can admit she wrong?" He asked.

I couldn't look him in the eyes, but I felt that a candid answer would be the most human comment that I've made to him thus far: "I'm Mia," I said and turned toward him. I was surprised to see a smirk on his lips and laugh lines edging his eyes. I held out my hand.

"Well, now, Mia," he replied and took my hand. "I'm Stan."

Something in his touch electrified me. The feeling was so pronounced that I was sure it communicated through my hand into his. I withdrew my hand, but I couldn't unlock my eyes from his. Maybe this was the first time I saw him...I mean the real man who stood before me, not some clerk behind a counter in a tired desert town. The man who towered over my five-foot-six-inch frame, with thick black hair and shoulder and arms that a girl would like to feel wrapped around her.

He broke my hypnotic stare and inspected the damage to my car.

"I'm surprised a cop didn't ticket you. The driver's side lights are toast." He drummed his fingers on the twisted metal as he used his other to remove broken pieces of the plastic housing.

"Listen, I'm tired. Someone tried to run me off the road, but I can't stay here, hoping that someone will fix my car. I'm not feeling very safe right now. If it wasn't for this," I kicked at the naked bumper, "I'd be home in bed."

"Well, Mia, I agree you're not safe in this car until I fix your lights."

"Fix my lights?" I asked. "And what'll that cost me? I'm a woman on the run, remember." He had me over a barrel; I could only imagine what parts and labor would cost in this place.

"A woman in distress?" He smiled warmly. "I could have you on the road in thirty minutes, and it'll cost you nothing."

"And why would you do that?" I asked.

"Let's just say I like to help people."

I wanted to say, "Ya, sure," lock myself in my car and drive away. But I had to admit that I did need help. I was about to accept Stan's offer when I realized he was already walking toward the store.

While standing numbly next to my damaged year-old Ford Fuson, the driver's side door opened, and my son's feet hit the concrete. "Who were you talking to, Mom?" He asked with a yawn.