Ooh-rah.
Epilogue
The newly-renovated garage on the highway south of Close Call, formerly known as Lezario’s Collision and Repair, now named Meier’s Custom Restoration, had just seen its latest group of veterans knock off for the day. The group of four—one Marine, two Navy, and one Air Force—piled into the shop truck to head back into town for dinner, drinks, and a room that didn’t highlight famous Southern lovebirds.
In the short year since the buzz surrounding Gulverson and the Company of Giants had single-handedly resuscitated the economy of a code-red town into a thriving tourist destination, Wes had talked his old garage buddy into selling and coming to work for him. The model was simple: vets who needed some space could bring any old car they wanted to restore, experience with cars not necessary. While the new restoration brotherhood helped each other set things to rights, the town welcomed them as if they were born and raised in Marin County—free room and board, free meals all over town, and free care that included mental health services, if requested. When the cars were restored, the vet had the opportunity to keep or sell. Wes’s only request was that the ones who moved on found a way to pay it forward to the next group. He still helped out at the ranch, stole Willie when he wasn’t busy because the guy could weave a story better than any therapy session, and worked on his own restorations to supplement the charity coffers.
Olive’s contribution was to decorate the place—not with art or girly crap or any of the other things Mona and January tried to talk him into. Olive’s contribution was to beautify. Every time she walked in the door, she still made him want to drop to his knees and give thanks that she became his wife.
Wes laid out on his back across the front bench seat of his latest beaut—a 1954 snow-white Packard Pacific 250 convertible—so that he could get a good look at the steering column. He believed the garage was empty.
Boy, was he wrong.
He heard the automatic bay opener sound. The door slid down and pinched out the late-afternoon sun. When the deadbolt slid into place on the shop door, he smiled but didn’t move an inch.
Well…
Through the windshield, he saw Olive set a picnic basket on the Packard’s hood. Her hair was twisted up; her lips were a ripe, unnatural shade of fuck me. She wore a black duster, cinched tight as all get-out.
It was June.
In Texas.
His cock damned near split a zipper.
He dropped his tools on the floorboard and placed his hands behind his neck to enjoy the show.
“What’re you doing, Amsterdam?”
She placed one white and black ribbon-laced combat boot on the old seat between his thighs, splitting the coat flaps and affording him a tantalizing view of flesh clear up to her...
“I brought you dinner.”
Wes laughed. “I see that. Did you finish making your next pecker out of clay yet?”
“I needed some…inspiration.”
After the nude subsequent to Gulverson and the Company of Giants, a museum in Copenhagen wanted four of them for a statement on civil liberties. Wes had no idea what four well-hung dudes had to do with civil issues, but he wasn’t above a little charity firmly directed at the cause.
She reached for the tie at her waist.
His mouth watered.
Her black duster fell to the garage floor.
“The mechanic blushes,” she said.
He reached for her hand. The moment she was his, he tugged her down into an embrace. They christened the convertible, taking full advantage of the no-roof option that the Packard Motor Car Company offered in 1954. And when the night was still young and the moon began its ascent, they rolled down the windows of Clem’s old truck going sixty, and Wes taught her a few more country songs.
Her hair lifted on the breeze, and she smiled at him. Artist as art.
End of Redeeming the Rancher