Redwood Bend (Virgin River #18)(12)

“Really?” Jack asked. He shifted his eyes toward Katie and said, “I thought maybe you were interested right now.”

With the enthusiasm Walt poured over Preacher’s dinners, Dylan might’ve wondered if he had been more influenced by the food than their routes. But he had to admit, the riding around here was awesome. And it wasn’t an original idea; they passed and followed a number of groups of riders while they were on the narrow mountain roads, the edgy cliff roads, beachfront, the dark paths through the redwood groves, the sunny hilltop ranch roads and the vineyards.

They stopped along the road to help bikers who had problems; Walt handed out a lot of business cards. None of his cards said President and CEO. They all said Harley-Davidson Sales and Maintenance. He drew attention away from himself. There really was a lot more to Walt than met the eye. Walt was an extremely successful businessman. Because of the look Walt presented, that of social outcast living hand to mouth, it was hard to imagine the amount of business acumen buried beneath that shaggy beard that would lead him to own five dealerships and build a small fortune. But he had.

“You have to remember, while the economy and fuel prices worked against you, they work in my favor,” Walt told the Childress Aviation contingent. “Motorcycles—fuel efficient—and sold in a moderate climate where there are very few days of the year they can’t be ridden.”

“Yeah, we couldn’t get away with that in Payne,” Dylan said.

The four bikers sat on a ridge in Mendocino County that overlooked vineyards and the ocean. Their bikes were propped up on stands, and they were in various positions of repose with big submarine sandwiches and cans of cola.

“I get that,” Walt said. “What’s up with the company, Dylan? Last time we rode together, you couldn’t shut up about it. This trip, you’re not talking in a real obvious way.”

Dylan took a long drink of his soda and lifted his head. “Sales are way down,” he said. “In this economy, not only is fuel too expensive to run a cost-effective flying operation, but people don’t hire charters as often. They fly their executives commercial. Coach. We’re not profitable—we’re barely above the red line.”

It was quiet for a minute.

“Bummer,” Walt said.

“We’re probably going to have to downsize. We’re going to have to give up the BBJ.”

“Oh, no!” Stu wailed. “Not the BBJ!”

That made Dylan smile. As a mechanic, Stu so loved that BBJ.

“What’s a BBJ?” Walt asked.

“A Boeing Business Jet—737 configured for luxury business travel. Instead of 120 passengers, more like 60. Perfect for a sports team, a group of executives, a rock band. We’ve been leasing it.”

“It’s sweet,” Stu said mournfully.

“We managed without her for a long time,” Dylan said. “And we talked about this before—that’s a damned expensive jet for a small company.”

“I don’t know if this’ll help,” Walt said. “My dad is real successful in lots of different businesses and one thing he taught me—always have an exit strategy. Just in case your current plan doesn’t work, always know what your endgame is and where you’re going next.”

“What’s your exit strategy?” Dylan asked.

“That’s part B of the plan,” Walt said. “My plan probably won’t work for anyone but me—but I never put all my eggs in one basket. I invested outside my franchises as well as in them, so I’d have a little nest egg in a worst-case scenario. The idea of being a president and CEO doesn’t mean anything to me—the only thing I’ve ever cared about are the people and the bikes. So with a little nest egg as a cushion, I can be real happy as a wrench. It’s what I’m best at anyway.” Walt took a long pull on his soda. “You just have to be clear about what drives you.”

“I like to fly. I like living in Payne. I don’t know what else there is.”

“I’m a different animal, Dylan. As long as I have my little house, my bike, my parents in good health, my brothers on my nerves and Cassie in my bed, I have just about everything I need. I can always find work. It wouldn’t be high dollar work, but it would be honest work.” His cell phone twittered and he pulled it out of his vest pocket. “Speak of the devil,” he said, grinning like a fourth grader. “Hey, baby…” Then he walked away from his group to have a private conversation.

And after all that baring of souls, all Stu had to say was, “God, I’d hate to lose that BBJ. She’s sweet!”

The afternoon ride was not only beautiful, but silent. That part was typical as bikers didn’t have conversations when they wound noisily around the mountain curves and broke single file for logging trucks. They ended their day as they had the three days before—at Jack’s.

“Has Preacher got the bouillabaisse going?” Walt wanted to know, because he’d been to the marina and delivered the seafood components.

“I think you’ll be satisfied,” Jack said. “I’ve been helping and I’m satisfied.”

“And how do you help?” Dylan asked.

“Every so often I wander back there, scoop out a little and let him know how he’s doing.”

They all laughed. Jack served up a couple of beers, a cup of coffee for Walt and a cola for Lang. By now, given the end of their fourth day in town, when people stopped by the bar, they wanted to know what the bikers had seen that day. And the men were more than happy to describe their ride, the views, the little towns they rode through, the other riders they ran into and sometimes rode with for a while.