This mirage was made to order. A cherry-red Mustang Mach One sat by the side of the road in the Mojave Desert. Waves of heat rolled off the asphalt like x-rays. Its hood was up. 

My eyes were sore from squinting. One side of my throat was tickling the other. I took the last swig from a plastic gallon I’d bought at Twentynine Palms. Scored a three-pointer against a saguaro. The jug rolled like a tumbleweed. I had been hitching on I-10 east from LA. They might be looking for me on the interstate, so I took this back road through the Sheep Hole Mountains toward  Vegas. Not one damn car in an hour.

Cowboy boots hate asphalt and sand. Fact is, they’re not big on walking period. I hoisted my duffle over my shoulder and headed for the car. The sun beat down like honey. Too dry in the desert for sweat to even bead. Thank God it was April, not July. 

 “Damn it to hell!”  a rough voice yelled. The rear plate read Ontario. My mirage was near perfect. Canucks are helpful, and they’ll swallow hard-luck stories. Then the hood slammed down.

A wiry woman barely five feet with a wide straw hat and sunglasses puffed on a cigarillo. Female. Three for three. Leading with my “trust me” grin, I approached.

 “Where did you come from, cowboy?” she asked, tapping the ash and smiling with a plump red mouth. My boyish look makes women want to mother me.

 “A lady in distress?” I took a mock bow, sweeping off my hat. It was battered and stained from a beating I’d rather forget.

Why was she out here alone? Where was she heading? Surely as far as Utah. Canada was way past that.

“You look like a man who knows horses. How about Mustangs?”

Smiling, I trailed a finger over the dust on the door. Hand-buffed and detailed. Someone loved it.  “Let’s take a look.” Raising the matte-black  hood with that sexy scoop, I fixed the safety rod.

She took off the hat and fanned herself. The cat’s eye sunglasses made her look like Cher. Throaty laughter said hard years of liquor and tobacco.  “It’s fate. Looks like we both took the wrong road. Nothing’s come along but a couple of vultures ready to pick my bones.” She pointed to a circling bird.

“Shame to waste such pretty bones. Anyways, it’s a red hawk. You can tell by the whistle.” I reached in and turned the key to watch the gauges. “Not outta gas. Oil’s good. Not overheating. What happened to her?”

She shrugged and flipped her plastic tip towards a sagebrush. “Got herky-jerky at first. Nearly slowed to a stop.” She wore a white linen skirt and a floral blouse. Silk scarf around her neck. Like she’d come from a business meeting. Not many women could keep their cool alone in the desert.

I tossed an appreciative glance just to let her know I noticed. “One thing’s sure, we gotta get out of here. Start her up.”

The engine caught right off. But instead of a purr, she sounded like she had the hiccups. Not in the starter, then. No backfiring or pinging either. Dirty fuel line? I signaled to turn off the ignition. Spark plug-connections were good, carburetor flap moved easy.  When I removed the distributor cap, I knew what was wrong. “More gas. Nice and easy. She’s talking.”

Give Daddy a paper clip, a screwdriver, duct tape, and a hose, and he’d get anything with wheels moving.  From my jean pocket, I pulled a penknife with a bone handle. Then I exposed the points and scraped. “Try her now.”

Listening, I held up a hand and she read me loud and clear. The engine stopped. I scraped again. “She’s hurting but back in business.”

The Mustang had enough life to get us to a town. The woman revved the motor. “You’re one damn miracle worker. I’d like to shake your hand, kind sir.”

I took out my last handkerchief and cleaned my fingers. “Glad to help.”

“I’m Gladys Ryan.” She had a firm grip, like she knew what she was doing. It’s a western thing. I’m all for being equal. Some women I’ve seen could ride and rope circles around me. Credit where credit due, and all that. She wore a real strange ring on her third finger, left hand. Like a cigar band, only coloured metal.

“Rick Cooper.”

“Gary Cooper. Tall, dark, and handsome.”

“No relation, ma’am.” Mama used to like that dude. Another good sign.
“Looks like we both caught a break. Hop in. You drive,” she said.

I tossed my duffle into the trunk beside her set of fancy luggage marked YSL.  Maybe it was secondhand. Then I eased into the seat and took the leather-wrapped wheel. Daddy always said he’d teach me to drive, but I was only ten. Looking at the gearshift, I did a double take. “The hell’s that?”
She gave a little pound to the dash as she laughed. “That’s the future, you get old enough. A steel hip joint.”

“I’ve seen custom, but this beats all.” I found first and juiced the gas. Went through all five gears, double-clutching at the top to show off.

Her tiny hand reached out to adjust the air conditioner. Blue veins. Not so young then. Maybe a rough fifty or a prime sixty. That could work in my favour.

 “It was my late husband George’s. He had a hip replacement and a wicked sense of humour.”

“Uh huh.” That explained the weird ring. Must of been a cheap bastard.  “I do admire the car. She’s choice.” Fifty thousand miles on the odometer. Babied big time for twenty years. “No rust neither. Saw your license. Don’t you have salt on the road up there?”

“We used it only for special trips. George had a sister in San Diego. We went down once a year.” Her voice took on a sad tone. “I’m...coming back from her funeral.”
“Sorry for your loss.”

“That’ll hit the spot. Saw your plate. Lots of snow where you live?” I finished the brew in a couple of gulps.

“We don’t all live in igloos like Yanks think. But it snows plenty.” Next came a paper cup of crushed ice and a bottle of Smirnoff. She poured herself a generous slug and toasted me.