“You at least have a number to call for roadside assistance?Anyone?”
His silence is answer enough.
I rub my arms, the friction doing absolutely nothing to generate heat.“No one?Not even Wren?”
He wipes his grease-stained hands on his jeans, his jaw ticking.“I’m not pulling her away from her evening.”His expression softens by a fraction, a brief crack in the armor.“It’s an important night.She’s in Helena.”
That’s interesting.
“And the principal?”
Before he can answer, Mr.Powell calls out from the warmth of the bus.“All I’ve got is the school’s main line, not sure if it’s still accurate, and the bus company had a number in here?—”
We both turn as he steps down to join us, waving a crumpled sheet of paper like it personally offended him.
He keeps his voice low, glancing back at the windows full of teenagers.“It’s for emergencies, but… I doubt it works.This thing is from the eighties.Besides, we’re told to follow the policies of whatever school we’re driving for.”
Of course.Because a bureaucratic, cover-your-ass loophole is exactly what we need in the middle of a biting Montana night.
“Thanks for trying.”Hartley’s jaw is still iron.“Even if the school line is correct, it’ll do no good at this hour.No one will be there.”
“Don’t suppose you have a number we could call?”The driver scratches awkwardly at his jaw.
“I should …” Hartley trails off, glancing into the darkness as if the admission is a physical weight.“But I don’t.Sorry, Mr.Powell.Stay warm on the bus.I’ve got this.”
The driver nods and retreats inside.
I wait until Powell is out of earshot, then shift closer, watching Hartley’s breath fog the air between us.“So, what’s the plan, Coach?”
His hand curls around the edge of the hood, tension rippling up his arm.“I’ll figure it out.”
I don’t miss the tautness in the words or the hint of something deeper threading through them.Not fear.Burden.Responsibility he carries like it’s fused to his bones.
Of course he’ll “figure it out.”That’s what men like Maddox Hartley do—carry the world on their shoulders until something breaks.Usually themselves.
“Look, I hate to break it to you, but that was Plan A—Fix it yourself.And Plan B appears to be… Heroic brooding.”
“Plan B”—he frowns—“is fixing this without turning it into a scene.”
I lift a brow toward the bus.The boys press against the windows, half tired, half buzzing, one already drooling against the glass.“Hate to tell you, Coach, but it’s already a scene.”
“Shit, the boys will be starving.Always are after a game.”He steps back, arms crossing, stubbornness radiating off him like an energy field.
Fine.
I pull out my phone, holding it up as I watch the bars for a signal.“Give me ten minutes.”
“Buchanan—” His voice cuts through the chilly air, deep and irritated, but I’m already walking toward a sliver of open sky where my phone might cooperate.
I walk for what feels like thirty minutes in this cold but was likely only a few.Then two bars flicker… couple more steps… a third bar appears.Hallelujah.
I scroll through my contacts, the list I built from years of LA chaos—tow trucks, last-minute drivers, sketchy but reliable “don’t ask” couriers, and the only national charter service that advertises 24/7 availability and includes the state of Montana.I make the call.
Twenty minutes and a painful credit card charge later, a replacement bus is on its way.Now, onto the next problem: Hungry teenagers.
I call every food option in a thirty-mile radius and get mostly laughter or no answers.But I finally find a convenience store ten minutes out, and when I offer a tip that would make most people run a marathon, the guy swears he’ll be here in twenty minutes with whatever junk food he can fit in the back of his truck.
Mission accomplished.