tailored wool coat she wore was darkening at the shoulders. She raised the hood, stared at a crowded arrangement of covers, hoses, and electrical connections, and realized that knowing how to run a company did not mean knowing which part of an engine might leave her stranded.
She had been standing there perhaps six minutes when an old pickup slowed in the right lane. Its faded blue paint was streaked with road salt, one headlight was clouded with age, and a toolbox was secured in the bed beneath a patched canvas cover. It passed her, then pulled onto the shoulder a safe distance ahead before reversing slowly into position behind the sedan. Its hazard lights began blinking through the rain.
Victoria straightened as a man stepped out, pulled up the hood of a dark work jacket, and approached on the side away from traffic. He was tall but narrow through the shoulders, with tired eyes, wet hair showing beneath his hood, and trousers marked by the sort of stains that did not come out in a normal wash. He stopped several feet away rather than crowding her. "Ma'am, are you all right?" he called above the trucks.
"My engine stopped," she said. "I have help coming, eventually, but they said it could be more than an hour." The man glanced at the dashboard through the open driver's door, then at the raised hood.
"Any steam before it shut down? Any warning about temperature?" he asked. She nodded, surprised that the questions sounded more useful than anything the roadside operator had asked.
"I own a repair shop," he said, pointing over his shoulder toward the barely legible lettering on the pickup's door. "Ethan Cole. If you want, I can take a look, but we ought to get you away from the traffic first." Victoria noticed that he waited for permission instead of putting his hands on her car. She also noticed the shaking in his fingers when he removed his gloves, although he was doing his best to hide how cold he was.
She told him to look, and he took a compact inspection light and a pair of work gloves from his truck. He studied the engine bay, followed a wet trail of coolant toward a hose connection, and shook his head with something approaching relief. "The clamp at this connection has given up," he told her. "The hose slipped enough to dump coolant, and the car protected itself by cutting power. We need to make sure it hasn't overheated badly, but this may be a lot less serious than it feels."