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Frank drove carefully down the jeep track through the wind-whipped, driving rain, periodically blinded by the vivid flashes of lightning that momentarily silhouetted mountains in the distance. This wasn’t the usual afternoon thunderstorm, where few raindrops survived the long descent through dry desert air without evaporating. This was the product of a full monsoon front sweeping up from the Gulf, the kind the ranchers relied on to refill their stockponds and green up the grass again for their cattle.
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The jeep track was now a freshet of cascading runoff, and he eased the heavy truck along slowly in first gear until he reached level ground. But the going there was no better, as the red clay of the road had dissolved into a morass of borshcht. The rain continued unabated as he pulled into Eureka, spattered with mud up to the windows.
The trip to town had taken much longer than expected, and Frank was getting hungry. Might as well take advantage of an opportunity to get a hot meal out of somebody else’s kitchen for a change, he thought. The epicurean offerings of Eureka being limited, Frank decided he’d try the most hopeful looking alternative, which was the Jackson House Hotel, next door to the restored Opera House. Inside he found a large dining room with a bar. This being August, a sprinkling of tourists and locals was in residence.
rank was trying to decide whether having a buffalo burger was a local attraction to be sampled or avoided when someone appeared at his elbow. Expecting to see a waitress, he looked up and found to his surprise that he was gazing at a very wet and bedraggled Josette.
“Please, may I sit down?”
“Of course,” he said, standing up, flustered. Full Story |
