No Immunity

lot behind the saloon.
    “Not here,” she said to the group gathered around the truck. “Give me a test drive.”
    Before Jesse could object, Connie said, “Gallows frame,” and headed for a big Chevy pickup.
    The gallows frame held the huge bucket that had carried ore from the mountain down to the road. During World War II, Jesse told her, there had been a cable, and every few minutes a brimming bucket with manganese passed over First Street. Over half a century later the bucket was gone and the wood so dry and feathery she was surprised the vibrations of the truck hadn’t toppled it. But at least it provided a shield between them and First Street.
    Until she stepped out of the truck, Kiernan hadn’t realized how protected First Street was. Up here—two streets higher than the saloon—wind slapped branches of scrub pines against the building and iced her sweaty back. The Chevy pulled up and Jesse’s gang piled out of the back. So far so good—no procession of vehicles here. Still, noise carries.
    The dim light illuminated the defects of the truck for which Kiernan was about to pay five hundred dollars. It was old, with hood and fenders pocked and blotched with rust. Daubs of orange paint attested more to Jesse’s good intentions than to actual bodywork done on the truck. The engine had turned over on the third try, and even now it idled with an erratic grumble.
    “You’re getting a good deal, Jesse,” she said as he turned off the engine.
    “I don’t know. I just don’t see how I can be without wheels. I can’t—”
    “Jeez, man, stop the bellyaching, will you?” Glasses in hands, Jesse’s buddies stood around the engine as if unsure whether they were there for the christening of a new owner or the wake of the vehicle. Now they moved to the back, re-forming their arc around the bed. Behind them headlights seemed to wink, then darken, and Connie got out of a sturdier-looking truck.
    “You ready?” Kiernan asked before the momentum could falter and Jesse try a new stalling tack. The change of venue had bought her five minutes, no more. “Truck bed’s as good a spot as any for sit-ups. Right or left side, your choice?”
    “I don’t know. I got stuff back there.”
    “Your friends will clear it for you. It’s going to have to come out anyway.”
    “Not if I win, it won’t.”
    “Right,” she said, hoisting herself onto the bed. It hadn’t crossed his mind that he might lose this macho contest to a woman who weighed not a hundred pounds. It hadn’t crossed hers otherwise. If she lost, well, there was no Plan B.
    Jesse clambered onto the tailgate and stepped beside her. Wind flattened his plaid shirt against his chest. Standing there shoulder to shoulder, or more accurately the top of her head to his shoulder, she could see the definition of his pectoral muscles. She couldn’t make out his abdominals, but it was a rare man who worked his pecs and let his gut go to pot.
    She took off her jacket and handed it to Connie. “Feet against the cab, Jesse?”
    He plopped down mid bed, feet to the flat tailgate. “Hell, I don’t need that kind of wimping out.”
    “Fine.” Better, she told herself as she sat down next to him. Just like in gymnastic warm-ups, crunching scissor lift after scissor lift, her abdominals aching to get shoulders eighteen inches off the ground, feet higher—all that before the four-hour practice proper began. Of course, she was fourteen years old back then. So what? she assured herself. This’ll be a snap.
    “Okay,” Connie said. “A lift means your head goes higher than the truck sides. You two will probably pace together, but just in case, Craig, you count for Jesse. I’ll take Kiernan. Ready? Go.”
    Jesse was already moving. Kiernan inhaled fully. Jesse was on his second lift. The man was fast. Exhaling, she lifted her arms and chest. Her stomach knotted. Her breath caught and she forced herself to keep it flowing out. She shouldn’t have had that second drink.
    Jesse was moving up again as she lowered down. That had to be three to her one. Don’t look! Just do your own warm-up! The coach had screamed that at her day after day. She exhaled, lifted, inhaled, lowered down. Exhaled, lifted. Jesse was lifting, speeding past her. How could the little whiner be in such good shape? She inhaled and lowered, exhaled, lifted.
    “Way to go, Jess!”
    “Keep ‘em coming, man!”
    She exhaled, lifted. Her breaths were shorter. By the time she was upright, she