“Lookin for you. I went by the diner to see if you wanted to come for a ride. Your friend Calla said you went for a picnic by the river, so I was headed over to look for you, but by the time I got to the bridge it was rainin like a cow pissin on a flat rock.”

Emaline wrinkled her nose at the crudeness of the man. She wanted to ask him to leave, but she couldn’t turn him back out into the storm.

“Thanks for rescuing me from that rain, Mr. McCloskey. The storm gave me an awful fright.”

“Call me Jake.”

She looked him over warily. She was soaked through and wanted to get out of the wet dress. She ran her hands through her hair, wringing out more water. “I must look a sight.”

“Not to me, you don’t.”

“All right. You may come in. Take off that wet coat and your boots and have a seat on the davenport. Let me change into something dry.”

Emaline left him to unbuckle those complicated boots, slipped off her shoes, padded barefoot into the bedroom. She toweled off and ran a brush through her hair before she changed, but she was still damp and breathless when she lifted the lock and stepped into the parlor. He was sitting on the davenport with his long legs stretched out, those big, broken hands resting on his thighs, watching it rain. She had no dry towel to offer him, so she asked if he wanted a cup of tea.

“I’d care for a glass of water if you got one handy.”

She fetched him a glass of water and put a kettle on for her tea.

“I have to thank you again,” she said.

“You were in quite a state. What happened out there?”

“When the storm came, I wanted to get under the bridge, but there were these tramps under there hollering at me.”

“I’ll go back right now and give those birds a lickin.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re not there now. There is one favor you can do for me when the rain stops. I dropped my basket and fishing pole when I was running to the bridge. If you could just take me back, I’d like to get my things. I don’t want to go back there alone.”

“Don’t mind a bit.”

She could see the rain outside, pouring off his shiny blue motorcycle. “That’s quite a machine.”

“She aint new, but she’s a beauty. She’s a 1924 Henderson Model K. Royal blue. Eighty cubic inches, all the power in the world.”

He looked her square in the eye when he spoke. She liked that. His battered mug seemed more vulnerable now. “How long have you been a prizefighter? A long while?”