Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
Unless there was something he was missing, River didn’t see January James, the biker woman, as wanting to kill him. She was more like someone who’d been kicked around for a long time and just didn’t want to be kicked anymore. He took her home, showed her where the shower was and threw her clothes in the washer. Then he drove the Indian over to the department store and did a little shopping.
When he got back, the woman was sitting on a rail with a towel wrapped around her.
Gone was the road grime.
Gone were the tangles in her hair.
Gone was the bandana.
Soft hair blew over her face and she didn’t brush it away.
River handed her two May D amp;F bags and said, “I got you some things.”
The words surprised her.
She looked inside, pulled out a pair of shorts and checked the size, which was right. Next came out a pair of jeans, two tank tops, two T-shirts and five button-down blouses. Under all that were a half dozen pair of panties and bras.
She checked the bra size-34C.
“I think you gave me a little more credit than I deserve.”
“I took my best shot.”
She dropped the towel into her lap.
Bouncy breasts came into view, one with the tattoo of a rose on the cleavage side. She paid no attention to River and put the bra on. It was too big but not by much. She tightened the straps.
There.
Good enough.
In the other bag were more feminine clothes-three dresses, nylons, garter belts and black high heels. She held up the simple short white one and said, “I haven’t worn a dress in a hundred years.”
River turned his head.
“Try it on.”
“Why?”
“Because I pictured you in it,” he said. “I want to see if I was right.”
He focused on two BNSF workers turning a wrench under a flatbed coupler as the woman rustled behind him. Then she said, “Okay, turn around.”
He did.
What he saw he didn’t expect.
Take away the tattoos and she’d be a pinup girl.
“Were you right?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“No, I wasn’t even close.”