In Roared Flint

“Damn you, Flint Durham!” Julie shrieked, beating against his back with her fist. “Stop and let me off this thing.”

“No way,” Flint shouted over his shoulder.

“If you don’t let me off, I’ll jump!”

“You’ll break your beautiful neck. Hang on,” he said, rounding a corner at a high speed.

She clutched his waist and leaned into the turn, instinctively recalling the technique even though she hadn’t been on a motorcycle in more than six years—not since Flint left. His long hair fluttered against her face and she automatically moved closer to him to avoid it, pressing her cheek against his broad back. It felt excruciatingly, maddeningly familiar. She stiffened.

She would not be drawn into his spell. Not today. Not ever again.

She began beating his back with her fists once more. “Stop! Stop! Let me off.”

“No!”

Julie couldn’t recall feeling so helpless. The feeling infuriated her. Sooner or later he had to stop—for a light, a stop sign, or something—and she would jump off this infernal contraption and call the police. Flint would never see daylight again. He would rot in jail.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Like one blessed, he hit every light perfectly as they roared out of town, her wedding dress hitched up to her thighs and billowing behind her. She frantically tried to signal other cars, people at a road-side fruit stand; they all smiled and waved back.

Flint turned off the main highway onto a secondary road that cut through the heavily forested area and headed in the direction of the huge Sam Rayburn Lake. Oh, dear Lord, nobody knew this backwoods part of the county as well as Flint did. He’d grown up on the banks of the lake and explored every pig trail in the woods. Even if Uncle Hiram came after her with a posse, they’d never find her if Flint didn’t want her to be found.

They took another fork, then another, in such a convoluted route that Julie was soon hopelessly lost. She leaned her forehead against Flint’s back and her shoulders sagged. “Please stop. Please, Flint, please.”

The Harley slowed, rounded a curve, then drew to a halt in front of a cedar cabin beside the water.

Julie scrambled off the back of the bike and made a dash for the road. His arm hooked her waist and lifted her from her feet. “Not so fast, love. We have to talk.”

“Talk? You must be kidding. I don’t have a thing to say to you! Put me down right this minute, or I’ll scream my head off.”

“Scream away, darlin’. There’s not a soul within hearing distance.” He started toward the door of the weathered cabin.

She tried peeling his arm from her waist. “Please, Flint. You’re hurting me.”

Looking contrite, he immediately set her down. “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry.”

The minute her feet hit the ground, she made a dash for it. Before she’d gone two steps, he caught her wrist. “Hold it. I told you that we have to talk.”

He tried pulling her toward him, but Julie set her jaw and dug in her heels—literally—sinking the backs of her peach-colored silk shoes into the spongy ground and giving him a venomous look. He wasn’t deterred for more than five seconds. He merely plucked her from her pumps, tossed her over his shoulder and headed up the steps to the porch.

“Dammit, Flint, don’t do this!”

He unlocked the front door, kicked it shut behind them, then set her on her feet. When she made a lunge for the door, he grabbed her again. This time he turned the key in the dead bolt and dropped it in his pocket. She struggled against his grip on her, and he let her go.

Glaring at him, she stomped to the front door and rattled the knob. Locked, of course. “Give me the key.”

Flint leaned against the mantel of the stone fireplace, folded his arms and slowly shook his head.

“There must be another door to this place.”

He gestured to the rear where the kitchen was. “It’s locked, too.”

Thrusting out her jaw, she declared, “Very well. I’ll use a window.”

“Be my guest.”

Marching to a window, she threw open the sash and met burglar bars. She rattled them. Locked. She whirled and glared at him some more. “Exactly what do you expect to accomplish by keeping me a prisoner here?”

“I expect to talk you. I told you that earlier. I’m determined that we’re going to get some things straightened out here, come hell or high water. Just listen to me for a few minutes. It’s important for you to understand—”

“I’m not listening to you, Flint Durham,” she shouted, covering her ears with her hands and marching around in circles. “I’m not listening to a single syllable that you have to say.” Keeping her hands over her ears, she started singing “Dixie” at the top of her lungs as she continued her barefoot stomping.

Flint grabbed her in the middle of a loud “look away” and plunked her into a large leather recliner. “Lord, woman, you don’t make this easy. Would you stay put for five minutes. I have something to show you.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

She scrambled up from the deep chair, and he shoved her back down. She popped up; he shoved down.

“Dammit, Julie! Can’t you just give me thirty seconds?” He pushed her into the recliner, then quickly lifted one heavy chair leg, crammed the tail of her dress under it and dropped the weight of the chair down on the yards of peach silk.

When she tried to get up, her caught dress held her down. She yanked and yanked, but she was pulling against her own weight, and she couldn’t get enough leverage to move and lift the chair. Struggling, she got halfway up into an awkward, twisted position, then lost her balance and fell sprawling into the chair. Somehow, in the bucking and wiggling and tugging, the recliner popped open into its most extreme position. A loud ripppp. Her head jerked back; her feet flew up; her arms and elbows went every which way.

She batted the tattered gown from her face and fought with the recliner—which had transformed into an undulating octopus—to get to her feet. One ragged part of the hem still held her prisoner. Feeling as helpless as a staked goat, she kept struggling until she saw Flint enter with a black designer suitcase. She lay back, exhausted.

“I brought something for you.” He opened the suitcase and dumped its contents into her lap.

She stilled. Her eyes widened.

Money. Banded stacks of bills. Dozens of stacks. Scores of stacks.

When she saw that most of the packets were in denominations of fifty and one hundred dollars, her eyes widened even further and she sucked in a deep gasp. “What is this?”

“A million dollars. It’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yep. I told you when I left that I would bring you back a million dollars.”

“But you were teasing and that was six years ago.”

“It took me a little longer than I expected.”

“It’s been six years, Flint. Six years without a word from you. Was I supposed to sit around and wait after you jilted me on our wedding day?”

“I didn’t jilt you, sweetheart. I explained that I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one that might let me offer you a decent living instead of one with a river rat. I couldn’t marry you and take you home to that shack my mother died in. I only asked you to wait, to give me a little time.”

“A little time?” she shrieked, bounding to her feet amid ripping and rending noises. Fists on her hips, she glared up at him. “You expected me to wait for six years without a word from you? Without a phone call? Without a letter? Without a simple postcard?”

“I did try to call you, and I did write to you. And I damned well expected you to wait more than six weeks to marry another man! Was he rich?”