Read Wild Within (Wild at Heart #1) for Free Online Page A

many miles till you make camp?”
    “Don’t know yet. The trail tells me when to stop.”
    Lone Star reached out his hand and shook Shadow’s. “Good lesson for us all. Been a pleasure talking with you, Shadow.” The dark shape disappeared into the desert night long before the reverberating thud, thud of his footsteps died out. Lone Star stood and stared after him until the cold drove him back inside.
    Good night, Just Grace. This trail will bring us together again. You can count on it.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 6
     
     
    Early in May of the previous year, west of Oakland’s technical high school, Jerry Kriebel rolled his new mountain bike home toward the dingy single-family house he shared with seven acquaintances. Strong California sunshine reflected off the shiny metal.
    He lumbered up cracked cement stairs carrying his purchase, a plastic Stoke’s Spokes bag dangling from the handlebars. He leaned the bike against the living room wall next to the TV, grabbed a beer from the kitchen, and spread out an assortment of new gear on the grungy living room carpet. Biking shorts, shirt, helmet, gloves, and a hydration pack covered the threadbare floor. An extreamly tall young man in shorts and an oversize shirt walked through the room.
    “Shit, dude.” Jerry’s roommate examined the acquisitions with obvious envy. “You got yourself some banging stuff.”
    Jerry grinned. “If I can find a ride to Marin County tomorrow, I’m gonna take this baby out on the trails. See what she can do.”
    “Sweet.” The friend stroked the bike’s gleaming surface. “Bet you could do sixty down a good hill.”
    “Yep. Way better than my crap car.”
    “Your crap car’s totaled.”
    “That’s why I got the bike.”
    “Bike’s a better fit for those stubby legs of yours anyway.” The friend punched Jerry’s arm. “If you need a ride to Marin, Rasta might let you borrow his pickup. If you get it back before dark.”
    “Got no license, dude, remember?”
    “Don’t think Rasta’ll mind. He probably even knows where you should go. Just don’t total his shagging wagon.”
    They snickered at the shared joke of their roommate’s consistent failure to get any of his short-lived girlfriends to join him in the bed of his pickup, where he optimistically kept a mattress.
    The next morning, Jerry drove the pickup out of Oakland, crossed the Bay Bridge, meandered through fog-encased San Francisco and across the Golden Gate Bridge, and entered Marin. He was grateful for the stinking mattress protecting his new bike in the back of the truck as he navigated bumps in the pavement. The truck wound up Shoreline Highway and then along Panoramic. The Pacific Ocean lay to the left. But a dense white mist hung in the trees over the embankment.
    All these clouds. Can’t even see the ocean. It’s like I’m on top of the world.
    Jerry negotiated the sharp turns and steep inclines with squealing tires, often veering across the dividing line into the opposing lane. At seven on a Sunday morning, he encountered few other drivers.
    The GPS on his phone recalculated when he passed the Mountain Home Inn on Mount Tamalpais. He swerved on the fire road to the north and shot into the empty parking lot across the street. After dressing in bike gear in the front seat, he threw his street in the footwell. The cool air made him wish for a long-sleeved shirt. But it had seemed so unnecessary in sunny Oakland.
    He tucked his shoulder-length hair under his helmet, then pedaled up the fire road’s wide dirt expanse.
    Jerry rode toward the summit of Mount Tam like an agitated crab, all at right angles. Elbows pointed to the sky, short legs jutted to the sides, torso bent forward. Bulging eyes focused on the trail ahead. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he puffed for air. After ten minutes, he stopped.
    Screw all this climbing. I’m wiped.
    He jerked his handlebars to the side, nearly lost his balance, recovered, and pointed the bike