Cole nodded.
Then looked toward Ellie again.
“What if you didn’t have to?”
The child frowned.
“What?”
Cole glanced toward the motorcycle outside.
Then back to the wheelchair.
“I said what if you didn’t have to sit on the back?”
Mark approached quickly.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
Cole looked up.
The father was perhaps thirty-seven.
Dark hair.
Work jacket.
Exhausted eyes.
The eyes of a man who had learned more medical vocabulary than he had ever wanted.
“I’m not suggesting anything yet.”
Mark folded his arms.
“You just told my daughter—”
“I heard what she asked.”
“So did I.”
Cole stood slowly.
The difference in size between the men became obvious.
Cole made no effort to use it.
Mark did not step back.
Good.
Cole respected that.
“I’m not putting her on my rear seat.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Rachel stared.
Cole looked toward the pink wheelchair again.
“I build motorcycles.”
Mark’s expression did not soften.
“So?”
“So maybe the answer isn’t making her fit the motorcycle.”
He pointed toward Ellie’s chair.
“Maybe the motorcycle needs to fit her.”
Nobody spoke.
Ellie’s eyes widened.
Mark looked at Cole like the man had proposed attaching wings to a tractor.
Rachel whispered:
“You mean a sidecar?”
“Maybe.”
“A trike?”
“Maybe.”
“What kind?”
Cole shook his head.
“The kind that doesn’t exist yet.”
Mark laughed once.
Sharp.
Disbelieving.
“You can’t just weld something together for a medically fragile child.”
Cole’s eyes hardened.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“My daughter has a progressive neuromuscular condition.”
Cole said nothing.
“She cannot support her torso reliably.”
“I heard.”
“You heard one sentence.”
Mark’s voice became rougher.
“You don’t know her medical history.”
“You don’t know her respiratory limitations.”
“You don’t know what vibration does to her.”
“You don’t know what her doctors told us.”
Cole took every word without interrupting.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
That seemed to surprise Mark more than an argument would have.
Cole continued:
“So I don’t build anything unless the people who know all that tell me what not to build.”
Rachel looked toward him.
Cole reached into his vest.
For one terrible instant Mark tensed.
Cole noticed.
His face closed slightly.
But what he removed was not a weapon.
A folded business card.
He held it toward Rachel.
BRENNAN MOTOR WORKS
CUSTOM FABRICATION & RESTORATION
TUNNEL ROAD — ASHEVILLE
“My shop.”
Rachel took the card.
Cole looked toward Ellie.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Ellie.”
“I’m Cole.”