Wide front tire.
Leather saddlebags.
The rider looked almost as big.
He parked near the far pump and shut off his engine.
One by one, the others did the same.
The sudden quiet felt strange after so much noise.
Emma watched the lead rider remove his gloves.
He was probably the biggest person she had ever seen.
His leather vest stretched over shoulders wider than the back of her wheelchair.
A gray beard covered half his face.
Dark tattoos ran down both forearms.
There was a pale scar near his left eyebrow.
He looked like the kind of man cartoon villains would move out of the way for.
Emma was fascinated.
One of the younger riders laughed at something.
Another pointed toward the gas-station sign.
A woman wearing a black riding jacket walked toward the convenience-store entrance.
But the large gray-bearded man did not move toward the pumps.
He looked across the road.
At Emma.
She immediately looked down at her dandelions.
Then up again.
He was still looking.
Emma checked behind herself.
Nobody.
She looked back.
The man said something to one of the riders.
The younger man followed his gaze.
Then another rider looked.
Soon several of them were staring across County Road 17.
Emma’s confidence decreased considerably.
She wheeled backward.
The gray-bearded biker started walking.
Not toward the store.
Toward the road.
Toward her.
Emma’s hands tightened around the armrests.
“Grandma?”
No answer.
The biker crossed the gas-station lot.
A pickup truck passed between them.
When it cleared, he was standing at the opposite shoulder.
He waited for another vehicle.
Then crossed.
Emma considered rolling toward the house.
But curiosity kept her still.
He reached the driveway.
“Emma Martinez?”
That frightened her more than his appearance.
She pushed backward immediately.
The biker stopped.
Both hands rose away from his body.
“Okay.”
Emma stared.
“Don't come closer.”
“I won't.”
“How do you know my name?”
He looked toward the house.
“Is your grandma home?”
Emma did not answer.
Her father had taught her that adults who asked children whether adults were home did not get useful answers.
The man seemed to understand her silence.
“Smart.”
“What's smart?”
“Not answering me.”
“Then why did you ask?”
He almost smiled.
“Habit.”
The screen door slammed open.
Rosa came outside holding a wooden spoon.
The spoon still had pancake batter on it.
She took one look at the enormous stranger standing near her granddaughter and descended the porch steps faster than Emma had seen her move in years.
“Stop right there.”
The biker did.
Rosa positioned herself between him and Emma.
“What do you want?”
“Mrs. Martinez?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking.”
The biker glanced at the spoon.
“Should I be worried about that?”
“Yes.”
Emma said, “Grandma, it has pancake stuff on it.”
“That does not make it less dangerous.”
The biker nodded solemnly.
“Understood.”
Rosa did not smile.
“Name.”
“Cole Maddox.”
“Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Does Emma?”
“No.”
“Then you have about ten seconds to explain why you crossed a highway and walked toward my granddaughter while eleven men dressed exactly like people I would avoid at an ATM are watching from across the street.”
Emma corrected her.
“Twelve.”