Hidden Summit (Virgin River #17)(52)

“Sacramento area. You?”

“Colorado,” he said a bit uncomfortably. “Road trip, huh?”

“We do that kind of thing a lot,” Walt said. He dove into his stew again. When he came up for air, he asked Jack to write down some directions to the cabins for him and Jack slipped down the bar a bit where he had a pad of paper and began writing.

“And what do you do when you’re not planning a road trip?” Conner asked.

“Work in a bike shop. Big surprise, huh? I’m pretty good with a wrench. You?”

“Build and remodel kitchens and bathrooms. I’m pretty good with a hammer and saw. That your bike out there?”

“Not exactly,” Walt said. “I’ve been working on that bike for a customer. Kind of a pet project. I’ll be riding my own bike when we come back up here, but I told my customer I wanted to take his bike out on the road for a long ride before turning it over. Good thing I did, too. That bike isn’t ready.” He plucked out some fish, ate it, wiped his lips and beard with a napkin. “Gave me a pretty good ride, though. I’ll give him a break on the repairs.”

Conner tried to keep the suspicion from his eyes. “I took a friend’s bike out on some back roads along the Pacific cliffs recently and I have to say—I liked that. If I wanted to buy a good bike and was willing to go to Sacramento, where would you recommend I shop?”

Walt stood up to reach inside the pocket of his jeans. He had chains around the heels of his boots, a long chain connecting the wallet in his back pocket to a belt loop and keys attached to the opposite belt loop. He pulled out a pretty limp business card, worn from a long ride in the pocket of his jeans, and handed it to Conner. It said, Walt Arneson, Maintenance and Sales, Harley-Davidson.

“Call me at that number. I’ll meet you at one of the dealerships and show you some good stuff.” Then he put out his hand. “I’m Walt. And you’re?”

“Conner,” he said. “Conner Dan…Conner Danforth.”

“Look forward to it, Conner.” Then he turned back to the bar and put his hand out to Jack. “Thanks, man. That was outstanding. Thank Preacher for me.” He took Jack’s directions to the cabins, stuffed it in his pocket and shook his hand. Then he pulled out his wallet and put a couple of twenties on the bar.

“Whoa,” Jack said. “Put one of those back and I’ll get you some change.”

“Keep it,” Walt said. “The company was almost as excellent as the food. See you in about a month.”

“We’ll be here,” Jack said.

Walt left, and it was only a moment before the loud rumble of the cycle filled the afternoon.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” Jack said. “Your last name is Danson.”

“Yeah. Right at the last minute I didn’t feel like giving him my name.” Conner shrugged. “He looked a little, I don’t know, like a Hell’s Angel or something.”

“Yeah, he looks that way but I didn’t get a bad vibe off the guy. He’s got a job, he loved Preacher’s bouillabaisse, in fact, he was a nice guy for a big, hairy, tattooed biker. But then, I’ve gotten used to all kinds of strange characters up in these mountains.”

“Did I offend you?” Conner asked.

“Well, no. But that was a little weird. That you would be skittish like that. You got me and Preacher if you get scared.” And after saying that, Jack grinned.

Conner slapped a hand against his chest. “Oh, man, I forgot about that. Next time I’ll remember and offer the strange dude my phone and social security numbers.”

“Wiseass. You in here for a reason?”

“A beer, if it’s not too much trouble. You want ID?”

Jack served him up a beer. “You and Leslie going out to Dan and Cheryl’s this weekend for their housewarming?”

“Absolutely. I was wondering, what do you think I should give them as a gift? Do you think they’d like some good wine?”

Jack grinned. “Nah,” he said. “Dan has an occasional beer and as far as I know, Cheryl doesn’t drink alcohol.” The door to the bar opened, and the first of the dinner crowd ambled in. “Something for the house. Or something nonalcoholic. Hey, folks,” Jack greeted the newcomers. He moved away from Conner.

Conner drove down the mountain in search of bars for his phone for two purposes—to call Katie and the boys and to call Brie.

“Hey, Brie, Conner here. This is probably nothing, but I ran into a biker at the bar—big, kind of scary-looking guy from Sacramento. He said he was scouting out the area for a road trip. I got his business card—he works for Harley-Davidson. He asked my name and I fudged it a little bit.”

“Did you get the impression he was looking for you or something?” Brie asked.

“Not really. But it seemed an interesting coincidence. Can you check him out, make sure he’s not a hit man or something?”

“Finding out who he is won’t be the same as finding out if he’s a hit man, Conner. Hit men usually have a nice, legitimate cover.”

“Jack liked him,” Conner said.

She laughed. “Jack likes most people. What’s his name?”

“Walt Arneson. And here’s the address and phone number.” He read it off the business card. “Thanks. I appreciate it. Oh, and before I forget, I explained things to Leslie. And I told her you were my contact in case she gets worried or needs to talk to a woman.”