Chapter 1: A Family Tradition-Rockingham 1990

A gray shroud hung low over the sand hills of North Carolina. Seagulls squawked and hung lazily inland in the wake of an early spring thunderstorm. An occasional chain of lightning could be seen far off, keeping track officials on edge and making pit wagon meteorologists out of the crew chiefs. For on this weekend, Rockingham had become a small city unto itself as the tribes gathered to watch the spectacle. As in the days of bread and circuses, the tribes came to support their heroes. For the next three hours, mini-dramas were unfolding as forty-three stockcars screamed around the track. A banshee’s wail arose as the swarm entered the front straightaway.

"You’re clear!" Came the spotter’s voice over the #17 Tide Monte Carlo. "Go low!" A blaze of orange and gold dove for the bottom groove in an attempt to overtake the leader. Ahead, Dale Earnhardt gave a cursory glance in his rear-view mirror in time to see the nose of Darrell Waltrip’s car in his flank. Darrell was about to bolt to the bottom when something loomed in the corner of his eye. Looking up, he could see the yellow #30 coming hard on his inside. "Goddammit Frank! I thought you said I was clear!" he roared.

Darrell lifted his car back up the track, motioning frantically for 30 to back off. The other driver did not back down but hung tenaciously at the side of Darrell’s car. "Damn, stubborn......that boy's gonna git us all killed" That boy, his brother.

The cars launched out of the corner like rockets. The #3 Goodwrench Chevrolet of Earnhardt started pulling further away. Darrell had a strong car; he could beat the man everyone called The Intimidator. He moved closer to his brother Michael’s car. Darrell motioned again-"back off!" He gave the 30 a bump. The ever-increasing threat of being moved off the track evident.

"Asshole!" Michael snarled. His Pontiac was no where near as strong as Darrell’s car and he knew it.

But his blood was on fire; he wanted and needed a win badly. Three and a half years driving in the Winston Cup series and a handful of barely made top 10’s to show for it. Living in Darrell’s shadow all of his life had put something of a chip on his shoulder. The long struggle to make a name for himself instilled a determination akin to a pit-bull terrier on a pork chop. The more daunting the challenge, the more Michael dug in. He could see Earnhardt sprinting ahead as he and his brother flew door-to-door down the backstretch. He looked up as the cars of Harry Gant, Sterling Marlin and his best friend; Kyle Petty closed in on him.

"Handsome" Harry Gant smirked "Time to put Michael to bed!" as he tucked the nose of his green and white Skoal Bandit 33 under the tail of Michael’s car. The ensuing events took only a few moments to unfold but reverberated around the garage for days after. Michael and Darrell’s cars were so close together, locked in a lethal embrace. As Gant’s steed tapped the bumper of the 30, the nose edged into Darrell’s Tide Ride-sending both cars spinning to the apron in a squeal of tires, smoke and curses. As the yellow flag waved, Dale Earnhardt’s trademarked Cheshire Cat smile spread slowly across his face and he shook his head. "Hope Jaws goes easy on the boy..."

An hour later in the garage, Kyle Petty had just finished helping his crew pack up and get ready for the long journey home. He ducked into the bay currently occupied by the Bahari racing team to see if Michael still remained among the living and no sooner was the word "Hey!" out of his mouth when he was promptly met with a flying wrench. "Watch it, dickweed! Just came by to see if Darrell kicked your ass yet!"

"Sorry, man-thought you were Darrell." Michael sat dejectedly on portable tool box. He ran his hand through his unruly dark brown hair and continued to glower. "I know I fucked up again-I was just fighting him for the sake of fighting, I guess.....I didn’t mean to wreck him." He angrily wiped at his eyes.

Kyle said nothing. Michael was one of his best friends along with their other partner in crime, Kenny Wallace. Together they were the clown princes of the garage, regular musketeers. Kyle was always the quietest one-the listener when shit hit the fan. "Ahh, he’s back at his coach with The Redhead. He’ll simmer down. Don’t sweat it, Mike. C’mon, man let’s go round up Kenny and have a few beers before we hit the road."

"You just keep on a-sweatin’ boy..." came the growl from behind Kyle. Both men looked up as Darrell Waltrip stalked into the garage. He stood, towering over his brother. Michael, who had previously considered making an apology returned his brother’s steely glare.

"’Bout time you started paying attention out there. Not only did you take me out, but you almost took Kyle and Sterling out too. When I motion you to back-off, I ain’t just shooing bees outta my car! That ain’t a signal for your piece of shit to start humping my car!" Darrell was in full cry now, there was no backing down. Now Michael lunged to his feet, already in whup-ass mode. "I deserve as much of that track as you!" he hollered. "You weren’t giving me any room!"

Kyle stood by helplessly as the two combatants continued to trade barbs. They were nearly at the "mom and dad always loved you best" stage when a tall, wraith like figure entered. "Hey Pop, what are we going to do with them?"

Richard Petty quietly stood there, regarding the brothers Waltrip. "Darrell, I just ran into Stevie. She said that supper’s ready and you ought to get to it. You need some time off here." He walked over to Michael, still so angry he was barely breathing. He gently laid a hand on the young driver’s shoulder as Darrell slunk out of the bay. (not without a parting glare-one of Darrell’s glares was said to knock flies dead out of the air) "Mike, why don’t you join us for dinner, son?" It was a well-known fact, nobody argued with The King.

The men walked back to the Petty’s rolling fortress as the rain started finally to fall. Another race, another day. The King looked at his two charges and smiled. Kyle was married and starting to settle into the more routine things in life. He was always going to be young at heart, but the exuberance was tempered somewhat by maturity. Michael on the other hand, pure piss and vinegar. There was a lot of natural talent there, but like anything else electric, he needed grounding. Badly. Off the track and away from his brother, he was as sweet -natured as Kyle. Always taking time to sign an autograph, (even if the fans had no idea who he was) share a joke, always a soft one for kids and animals. Strikingly tall, dark and handsome if cliches must be used-a perfect match for......King Richard went on with his musings. In a race, however, he was a tiger. The aggressiveness could be channeled, but the underlying demons of anger and bitterness must be exorcised. All of this, Michael’s natural impulsiveness and recklessness made for a lethal combination. He glanced over his shoulder; Michael had grown silent, still mad at Darrell. Richard could tell-Michael had a tendency to clench and un-clench his jaw, grinding his teeth. "Keep it up, boy and you won’t have a tooth left in your fool head-look just like Smoky Yunik!" he muttered. He reminded him of a young stud colt that Kyle attempted to break earlier in the off racing season. The wild creature ended up running through a fence, nearly breaking it’s neck. It’s only salvation was gelding-now the colt was as docile as a lamb-his grandson Adam’s pet. The King knew that breaking Michael’s spirit wasn’t a solution and gelding? Well, if ol’ Jaws had his way.....

"That boy needs to get laid!" Rusty Wallace exclaimed after being spun out by Michael a few weeks ago. "Maybe that will take care of some of that excess energy" This was Rusty’s general solution for all of life’s ills.

"Introduce him to that new gal that’s working down in the shop" offered Kyle, the other day. "I think they will get along just fine."

"We’ll see what happens" replied his father, "I ain’t in the match-making business and Rory don’t need any distractions."

The three were halted by Earnhardt’s hauler as a young scamp of a boy bounded around a corner and promptly leapt up behind Michael and smacked him in the back of the head.

"Junior!" Michael roared. "Knock it off, boy, I ain’t in the mood!"

"Shit, Mike-who pissed in your Post-Toasties?" Dale Earnhardt Jr. cackled. "You owe me twenty bucks, dude! Remember that bet we had? You said DW was gonna beat Dad."

Michael grumbled, "So I did-here, now beat it". Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out some crumpled bills and handed it to the boy. "Say ‘Hey’ to your dad, will ya?"

Jr. grinned like a jackal and scampered off into the night. He was basically a good kid, but loved nothing more than pestering the older drivers from time to time. When he could get away with it that is-any pestering during race-time and his father would light into him like a kestrel after a baby chick. Michael adored him like the baby brother he never had.

"Well...you gonna stand there, grinnin’ at the moon or are you gonna come in and eat?" commanded the King. His loyal subjects fell in behind him into the Petty’s motor home.

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Chapter 2: The Angel of Thunder Valley

The Spring of 1990 promised to be a cool one. Tendrils of mist clung to the Smokies of lower Appalachia that cradled the tiny half-mile bullring called Bristol Motor Speedway. It was early afternoon, the Friday qualification trials for this weekend’s races were about to commence. The garage compound was a flurry of activity as teams scrambled changing engines, dodging curious fans and the high-powered thoroughbreds that constantly charged back and forth during practice.

Rory McNeill deftly held a butane torch to a quarter panel on the #43 STP Grand Prix, repairing minor damage accumulated during the last practice. She worked with the slow patience of the saints, tiny hands molding the sheet metal into place as if born with the grace of Vulcan. Rory hardly looked the type to be seen hanging body work onto the chassis of race cars. Short in stature-all of 5’4"-with a tawny mane and wide blue eyes that spoke with the torment of the sea. Physically, she was as strong as some men-often seen hoisting heavy tool boxes with ease-those same tiny hands bore the scars of many an encounter with uncooperative machinery. Rory came from a long line of metal workers, blacksmiths and ship-builders who called Belfast home. With the generosity of the Pettys, she came to America as a teenager in a program called "Operation Children"-an effort to bring the children of war to a better place, far away from "The Troubles. Now 27, she had applied for her citizenship and won the lottery so to speak. Forever indebted to the kindness of the King.

Rory started fiddling about with a recalcitrant gearbox that belonged to Kyle’s Busch car-he would need it tomorrow. Above the din, she could here somebody calling "Kyle!" outside the garage. The same individual started banging on a support pillar-now annoyed Rory poked her head out above her den.

"I know y’all are back there! I gotta talk to ya about this party" the voice bellowed again.

"Jaysus! If he were here, don’t you think he’d be answering ya?" Rory shouted back, flustered. She had work to do, she didn’t need to be minding Kyle’s shiftless cronies.

She started around toward the door and barged nose-first into Michael’s chest. She looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen in her life. Michael likewise, caught her glaze and returned it. The two stood in the doorway, regarding one another. Surely, somewhere in the great beyond, Aphrodite in her infinite wisdom chuckled and high-fived Cupid on a shot well-done.

"Uhhh...I’m sorry. I reckoned Kyle was back there, messin’ around like he always does". Michael cleared his throat and stammered. Under normal circumstances, Michael was a notorious lady-killer. But for some strange reason, the usual cockiness stayed put. It was the only way the gods could keep his foot out of his mouth.

Unlike her newfound companion, Rory found her tongue. "Sure and you must be Michael. I’ve seen you around. My name is Rory; it’s nice to finally meet you." she said, extending her hand. She shook a stray curl out of her eyes and smiled, the soft lilt of her voice hypnotizing him. She sort of reminded Michael of Stevie Nicks but without the veneer of celebrity. He gently took her hand in his own large paw. "I’ve heard a lot about you, Kyle said you do the finest bodywork in the garage. I’m qualifying soon-tomorrow I’m running in the Busch race." he paused "If you get a chance, you’re more than welcome to come and hang by my pit-box".

"I would love to, Mr. Petty said I need to take a break more often" she smiled again. "Your brother usually keeps me pretty busy with repairs." she indicated the newly repaired Pontiac.

"That’s my brother! If ya can’t move fast enough , he’ll move ya himself!" he growled, Rockingham still dancing in his head.

"Sorry-I shouldn’t have brought that up"

The rest of the afternoon progressed as such, the two getting over their initial butterflies. Rory came out to watch as Michael’s car barely managed a 28th place to start in the Food City 250. The old adage that there is a soul mate for everyone played out as Michael and Rory came to know one another. Michael sat in rapt attention at as Rory related her life in Ireland. It was all so far away from Michael’s Owensboro, Kentucky childhood. Rory was reluctant to re-live some of her past, but her audience was captive. Michael had Rory in stitches as he regaled her with his mis-adventures. (Her favorite was the toga party Michael hosted in the absence of parents and Darrell’s race at Daytona. In a hurried attempt to clean up the house, he inadvertently polished the hardwood floors with Pledge-posting a hasty retreat as Darrell slid a full 20 feet down the hall on his back. Roaring to the world, "I’m gonna kill that boy!" as Michael and his teenaged companions fled the ensuing murder.)

Later, after a couple of burgers and beers, the two retreated to the motor home compound. Rory shared sleeping quarters with Kyle and Patti on the front couch. Pausing at the front porch, Michael leaned down and whispered, "Can I see you again, sometime? I’d really like you to come out and watch me tomorrow, if you’re free." He couldn’t remember the last time he felt like this, as if this tiny woman and this feeling were so fragile he might break them. He gently nuzzled the top of her head. "I really had fun today..."

Rory moved closer to him. She felt like a schoolgirl and emitted a giggle. His nuzzling tickled. She had decided she genuinely enjoyed the presence of this gangly, somewhat awkward knight. She looked up at him and caressed his cheek, looking deep into his large azure eyes. Her hand traveled up the side of his face and entwined in his dark curls. The beer was beginning to take command of her senses, time to go to bed. "I’ll see you tomorrow-I’ll be there, Mikey- I’ll always be there..." she said softly. He grinned and laughed gently. "What?" Rory returned the chuckle as she found his long arms encircling her.

"Nobody ‘s ever called me Mikey before!"

"Well, I’m callin’ ya Mikey, so there now!" Rory buried her smile in his neck. "My Mikey Blue-Eyes! Gangster of Love!" The two prospective lovers hooted at their joke as lights came on in the motor home.

"Hey! Some of us have to get up tomorrow! Some of us even have a race!" Kyle hollered. "Go to bed, Michael and leave our Rory alone!"

Michael offered up the one-finger salute. Rory, still laughing, suddenly pulled his handsome face to hers and boldly kissed him. Her boldness was rewarded by a sudden weakness in the lower extremities as he held her close. The quarter moon was rising through the clouds, the night peepers starting their evening serenade. It was the sort of moment that sustains mankind when adversity thwarts the human spirit.

"Goodnight, baby." one more tender kiss and he turned and walked back to his abode.

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The next afternoon found Rory perched atop the large war-wagon in the #30 pit box. Because of it’s short size, the cars buzzed non-stop around the track, the leaders quickly overtaking the stragglers in the back. One of the front runners, Robert Pressley was charging the upper-groove relentlessly. Michael’s car was badly loose; he was already three laps down and about to loose another one. "Damn car’s a real piece of shit!" Rory looked down to see Darrell Waltrip watching the action from below. He had just completed the final "happy-hour" practice for the Winston Cup race on Sunday and decided join the other drivers in watching the Busch race. Another up and coming star, Bobby Labonte roared into his pit-box for a new set of tires, several others following suite. Robert Pressley continued his warpath and loomed large behind Michael’s car.

Bristol is one of those places where tempers tend to run high and flare often. It was the nature of the beast and the beast decided this was as good a time as any to rear it’s ugly head.

Michael’s Pontiac started to fishtail violently. He dove high to avoid the traffic behind him, failing to see the cross-gate that was ajar ahead. Pressley’s car nosed into his flank once more and sent the 30 into the cross gate. The gate ripped into the front quarter panel, slamming the impaled car into the wall like an angry child. The car started disintegrating around him, sheet metal coming off in all directions as the undercarriage was twisted beyond recognition. The scream of the crowd was drowned out by the roaring in his own head. The acrid fumes of burning tires and gasoline overcame him as he struggled to remain conscious. He was failing, his world was going black. It seemed that the world was slowing down. He could see the car literally buckling beneath him; no longer were the floorboards in place, all he could see was the asphalt below his burning feet. He drew what he perceived as his last breath. He could hear somebody screaming-he didn’t know if it was a dream or not. The fight for consciousness was over....

Away from pit-row, Rory ran. Ahead of her, both Darrell Waltrip and Jeff Hammond charged up the side of the turn where the remains of his brother’s car lay smoking. The guttural snarl of an engine cutting off close by broke Rory’s reverie. Dale Earnhardt scrambled out of his car and headed for the wreck, no longer the Intimidator-just a man who may have just witnessed the death of one of his dearest friends. He spied Rory and grabbed her, his face white as a ghost. "No! Rory-don’t go up there! There’s nothing you can do for him now!" Now others, including Kyle and Richard Petty had arrived along with track officials and EMTs.

The EMTs were getting out the blue tarps to cover the wreck.

Hammond held Darrell tightly, tears streaming down his face, "My God....My brother....Michael!"

It was too much for Rory, she broke away from Earnhardt and bulled her way through the crowd as Darrell moved the shattered roof off the ruined car. Michael lay slumped over the bent steering wheel, the gearshift not two inches away from his chest.

"Get those tarps over here and keep that crowd back. Darrell, please move back-we need to get in there!"

Rory spun away from the scene, it was too much for her to bear. She buried her face in Kyle’s arms so she wouldn’t have to look anymore.

Darrell ignored the official’s commands. He reached down and gently removed his brother’s helmet. He sat there for a moment, cradling his brother as if he were a small boy. Jeff Hammond placed a hand on Darrell’s shoulder, "There’s nothing you can do, now. Let him go Darrell."

Suddenly Michael stirred and moaned. It felt as if every bone in his body were broken, but he was alive.

Dazed, he shook his head and looked up at the stunned throng around him. "Did I just wreck? What I hit?" he asked.

"Take it easy, son-they’re gonna cut you out of there" Richard said.

Looking up at the twisted roll-cage, Michael said, "If’n they do that, this piece here is gonna smack me in the head! I can crawl out down here!" He undid the straps that still held him to the seat and made his labored exit through an opening where the engine once sat. Soon, he was standing beside the wreck. Darrell gazed at him as if Lazarus himself had risen. The wrecker had come to pick up the debris that once was a racecar and Michael sat down on the stretcher as they prepared to take him to the local hospital for a complete check-up.

Earnhardt walked back to his car. " I don’t believe it! That crazy son-of-a-bitch ain’t even hurt!" he said grinning and shaking his head. The red-flag had been lifted and cars started moving again.

Rory wiped the tears from her eyes. "You gonna be OK hon?" Richard Petty inquired, "I can’t loose my best man, now!" His eyes were twinkling behind his shades as he gently put his arm around her. "Go on now, before they take him in."

Rory’s feet felt like clay as she pushed past Darrell to take Michael’s hand in hers. He looked over and grinned, "Now here’s what I call an angel! Y’know, Darrell just said I looked like an angel coming out of that car?!" He tried to laugh, but his sides hurt too much. Rory said nothing but continued to gaze into his eyes as if the prospect of never seeing them open again was too much to bear.

Darrell and Rory’s eyes met as the stretcher was put into the ambulance For all of his bluster, tirades, and ego, the love of his brother shone through. He barely knew Michael, having been a full 16 years his senior.

He was long since moved away from home when Michael grew up.

"Y’know Rory-me and Michael had a nice chat over breakfast this morning. I think he really likes you....you’re all he could talk about" It suddenly occurred to Rory that she may have gotten to know Michael a little more than his own brother did.

"Funny you said that-you’re all he could talk about. He worships the ground you walk on Darrell. He just doesn’t know how to show it." she shook her head and looked up and whispered, "I like him too..."

They sat together on the war-wagon watching the conclusion of the race. Some chap by the name of Ottinger won the race and has since been lost to the ages. Michael came back the next day, much to the amazement of all involved to race in Sunday afternoon’s race as if nothing had ever happened. His sides black with bruises and forehead slightly swollen, he managed to finish the race in one piece. Robert Pressley recovered from the imprint of Michael’s rather impressive size 15 boot that was promptly applied to his posterior. A little bit of Heaven and a little bit of Hell, such is the world. ‘Tis.

Chapter 3: Love and Victory

Daylight slowly crept upon the horizon, chasing the stars away. A series of thin, coral-colored clouds arced above the silent grandstand in the face of the retreating moon. A lone figure ran along the apron of Charlotte Motor Speedway as if chased by some devil that only he could see. In the distance, down in the garage, the stillness was broken by an engine coughing to life. The runner, oblivious to the cacophony, continued his charge; his long, muscular legs beating a tattoo into the asphalt.

The physical demands of the sport demanded that the driver be in the best possible condition. Michael had chosen long distance running as his method of keeping fit. Now, he ran to exhaust himself out of thinking about last night’s battle with his dear brother. It had started simply enough; a little ‘brotherly advice’ on the set-up of his car had quickly disintegrated into a shouting match.

"You never listen to a damn thing I say! Just go on and do your own thing, Mike, you always do." Darrell yelled, slamming his fist on the kitchen table in the motor-home he shared with his wife, Stevie. (aka-The Redhead) "But I’m warnin’ you now: stay outta my way out there! Remember, I’m only tryin’ to help you!"

"Help me?!!? Since when??" Michael countered angrily, "You ain’t never bothered helpin’ me before-why start now??"

Now Darrell glared at him. "Look boy, I’ve told you when you started this-if you can’t make it on your own name, you don’t deserve a damn thing! You ain’t racin’ out there-you’re just drivin’ around in circles gettin in everybody’s way! Shoulda stayed back home, driving for Pepsi with Dad! Shit-you couldn’t even manage that without screwin’ up! Give it up, boy-you‘ve no talent for racin’ - you ain‘t gonna amount to anything but a bunch of tore-up cars, wasted money and God-forbid, a fatality or two!"

"FUCK YOU! I HATE YOU!" Michael screamed as he slammed out the door. Darrell sprung to his feet as Stevie blocked his exit. "Leave him be, honey...leave him be"

That last statement haunted Michael as he trudged on, wishing to God he could take it back. He finally paused along the pit wall, his broad chest heaving as if his heart were ready to burst. The blood was pounding in his head so hard that he failed to notice the #43 Grand Prix as it slowly pulled up.

"Hey Mikey!" Rory dropped the window net and poked her head out. She furrowed her brow with concern when there was no response given. "You ok?" He looked over at the car, not quite comprehending a thing that was said. One look at his troubled eyes told her that nothing was ok.

Michael inhaled deeply, shook his head and removed the soaked t-shirt to wipe the sweat that was cascading down his face. Finally, he snapped back to the now and present as a quizzical grin spread upon his face.

"Rory! Hey, girl!" he paused for a moment, "What are you doing in that thing?? If the officials catch you, you’re toast!"

"Ach...Himself isn’t feeling too well-I just wanted to see how she’d handle with that new spoiler I fabricated. I thought I’d do a couple of laps and then bring her in before anybody saw me."

Michael poked his head in the window, instantly noticing the small cushions that Rory had tucked behind her back, her feet barely reaching the pedals.

"No way, I can’t let you out there." he was loosing the battle and he knew it with one look in those eyes....

Michael looked around-it was still barely daylight, just light enough to drive. "Just a couple of laps, ok? I don’t have a radio and I can’t spot for you, so be careful, alright?" With that, the 43 rolled away from the wall, down pit row and onto the track. She nearly disappeared from view.

Michael listened as the car took off screaming down the front straight and into the first turn. Inside the cockpit, Rory felt as if her heart had taken wing. The Pontiac hugged the track like a burr, not so much as the slightest shimmy. Michael watched as the car picked up speed on it’s second lap, the legendary 43 now a red and blue streak.

"Old man’s looking good this morning!" Michael looked up as Dale Earnhardt sat on the wall beside him. He never noticed the veteran driver approach. "I figured you’d be out here. DW got into you pretty bad, didn’t he?"

"How’d you know?"

"The whole world heard you two yellin’ last night. You’re gonna probably hate me for this, but sometimes he does have a point." The 43 roared by again, drowning out Michael’s response. "Go, baby...." he whispered.

Now Earnhardt looked at him. "What did you say? Who’s in that car?" he said, suddenly suspicious.

"Rory‘s driving. She just put a new spoiler on that thing and wanted to see how it handled. Don’t say anything." he looked over sheepishly, "Please...?"

The Pontiac started slowing, diving for the pit entrance. Rory saw Earnhardt standing there, arms folded. "Shit-I’m dead" she thought. However, Earnhardt and the wrath of Nascar’s powers that be could not dampen the elation she felt. Her mile-wide smile could not be contained. She brought the car to a halt and dropped the net, eyes shining. "Good morning, sunshine!" she chirped to Earnhardt. The Man continued his pretend scowling, his twinkling eyes belying the mirth. "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?" he barked. "Just for that infraction, your penalty shall be a thorough spanking administered by my friend here!" he jerked his thumb at Michael " Now take that vehicle back to the garage!"

"Yes sir!" the merry pranksters responded in unison.

"Oh, Mike?" Earnhardt turned, suddenly thoughtful, "Your brother means well, he’s just forgot what a pain in the ass he was when he first started. It’ll all work out. See you kids at practice." With that, he turned and was gone.

Back in the Petty garage, the car put away, Michael and Rory sat watching the sun rising above the track. Even in her make-shift firesuit, she was lovely; positively glowing after the morning run.

"What are ya lookin’ at, Bright-Eyes?" she slyly asked. Rory was in the process of brushing out the braid her hair had been in underneath her helmet. It cascaded down in front of her face in a wave of gold that took her consort’s breath away. He continued quietly gazing at her, a little smile of pure mischief curling on his lips. The war with Darrell and the weekend races were suddenly forgotten and duly shoved to the backburner. Rory cast a sideways glance at him, noticing his finely sculpted torso, the way his muscular chest rose and fell with each breath...

He caught her glance and moved closer, and pulled her near. He started nuzzling her, stubby morning whiskers tickling, his breath warm on her neck. Their lips found each other, Rory feeling the playful flick of his tongue which she in turn began to gently suck.

Over the PA, a general announcement was being made, informing all Busch drivers that there was a mandatory meeting about to commence in half an hour.

Michael and Rory reluctantly pulled away, composing themselves. He leaned close, those perfect lips nibbling her ear.. "So...how ‘bout that spankin’?" he grinned wolfishly. Bold as ever, Rory’s hands found themselves trailing slowly down his breasts, then flanks; coming to rest on his bum as she pulled him close again. "Only if I can spank you first...see ya later, Mikey." she smiled and walked out of the garage, leaving him burning.

The order of "Gentlemen, start your engines" resounded as Rory trotted down the line of cars. Slipping past the officials to side of the 30, she stuck her head in the window. "Good luck, Mikey" she said as the engine caught and fired. She waived and scampered back to the war wagon. Love you, baby, Michael mouthed the words as he cast a final glance towards his pit box. He caught the gaze of his brother as he drove by . Darrell gave a half-hearted wave as the cars rumbled toward the apron

The field circled slowly, cars snaking back and forth, forcing heat into the tires and cleaning off any excess debris. The pace car suddenly pulled away and the stampede was on.

Michael had a fair starting spot, 12th; not that much ground to overtake the leaders. He was starting to master the draft and hooked up with the bottom groove. The red Kool-Aid Pontiac surged forward, flying as if possessed by the supernatural. Lap after lap, he flew with Kenny Wallace and Dale Jarrett tucked in behind him. Steve Grissom pounded away out in front by a good two seconds. Michael had his wingmen pushing him and he quickly caught Grissom with 10 laps to go. The forces were mounting behind him-it was going to be a shoot-out.

3 Laps to go-Michael was charging in 4th. Grissom was now locked in mortal combat with Bobby Labonte. Suddenly as the white flag was waiving, a gap appeared between the leaders. Michael dove for it with Jarrett tucked under his tail. Three wide down the front stretch and Michael pushed the nose of the 30 under the checkers. The results posted on the leader board: 30-23-36-66. Waltrip first-the rest nowhere!

The 30 worked its way into Victory Lane and the masses followed. Busch beer, champagne and Gatorade spraying, the "hat-dance" commencing and two brothers embracing. "I always said you could do it!" Darrell hollered. Michael gave him a strange look with an upraised eyebrow. He let it go, Dale was right-Ol’ Jaws was getting senile.

Rory stood back, enjoying the celebration-this was his moment in the sun. The of elation on his face made her heart and spirit soar. He suddenly looked around and spying her in the back, he made his through the crew, his brother, his owner, the sponsors, to Rory’s arms.

Later, in Michael’s coach, Rory was preparing a dinner in honor of the victor and the vanquished. Two steaks nicely done, a bottle of fine Merlot and candles everywhere. (conveniently setting off the smoke detector-much to the annoyance of our lovers) She wore a simple gauze gypsy-style dress, with her long hair draping her shoulders in delicate ringlets and waves. To Michael, she looked as if she stepped out of another time. Himself in a pair of faded blue jeans and white silk shirt, emphasizing his ever-handsome features. Presently, Rory arose to dim the lights and stood behind Michael, massaging his shoulders. He was still tense and achy from the cramped confines of his car. He arched his back, her strong hands were working their magic; a low moan passing his lips. She continued rubbing his back and shoulders as he sat in front of her. Finally he turned and rose to his feet, taking her hands. Neither spoke, words were not needed. Once sequestered in the bedroom as Michael stretched out on the bed with a glass of wine in his hand, Rory untied the spaghetti straps of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Swallowing hard, he set his glass down and kneeled before her, kissing her breasts, her abdomen, his ever-inquisitive tongue exploring...As the candlelight flickered, casting shadows over her sacred body, he suddenly picked her up and gently laid her on the bed. As he slowly removed the fetters of his own clothing, she reached out and took his hand and pulled him to the bed. She rolled him onto his back, devouring his lips, his throat, working her way down....He uttered a ragged cry as he felt the warmth of her mouth taking him in. As she nearly had him at climax, Rory mounted him, riding him until she could no longer hold back , crying out his name. Michael rose kissing her, playfully nipping her as he gently eased her back. It was his turn to be in control.

Looking deep into her eyes as his own orgasm shook him like a bolt of electricity, their hearts, souls and bodies became one. They lay together, his long legs and arms wrapped around her, Rory snuggling down in this warm cocoon. "I love you, baby" he whispered. Rory kissed his neck, " and I love you too, my Mikey Blue-Eyes!"

Chapter 4: Season’s End ’90 Boys Night Out

As the Winston Cup caravan pulled into Atlanta Motor Speedway for the Napa 500, there seemed to be a collective sense of relief that it was finally over, at least for a couple of months. Despite a rather disappointing year, Michael was his ever optimistic self and for a good reason. Thanks to a little networking on his behalf by Dale Earnhardt, Pennzoil had agreed to sign with Chuck Rider and his Bahari Racing team with Michael at the wheel. Finally, maybe at last he would be able to drive a well-funded vehicle, finally able to finish a few races without the damn car blowing up. While supportive of the young protege’ driver, CountryTime Lemonade barely provided the funding that was needed to keep the car on the track. In addition to the good fortune with his team, Michael and Rory became even closer as their love matured beyond the giddy first few months. Neither could be spotted without the other; their tender passion for one another touched the hearts of the most grizzled veteran. Even old Junior Johnson was seen to remark, "Them two’s as cute as a speckled pup under a red-wagon!" Rory had no problem with the adoring females along pit-row-there was little she could do about it as "it came with the territory". Besides, she could step in with ease, should his fans become physical. Michael, on the other hand, was ever vigilant; bristling should any rival so much as give his sweetheart the time of day.

After qualifying a respectable 10th, he trotted back to his coach that Rory now shared with him. The smell of frying chicken was almost an aphrodisiac for the famished driver. Slipping up behind his mate at the stove, he offered up playful nip on the back of her neck.

"Hey! I missed you -we’re starting 10th, babe! The gang’s going out to Miss Kitties joint tonight for a post-season wrap. Kenny says to meet him in a little bit-that ok?" He was like a frisky pup, arms wrapping around her as he buried his face in her neck. She felt unusually warm and he pulled back, brow furrowing with concern. "You ok, darlin’?"

"Aye, luv...just a little worn-out...kinda off" she replied, tenderly kissing him. "I think it may have been that fish we had at Shoney’s for lunch."

Rory started rattling a couple of plates out of the cupboard. "Go on, luv... have fun with the lads tonight. You won’t see them for awhile. I’ll be ok."

"But Ro! I just can’t leave you here by yourself! That ain’t no fun for either of us!"

"Ach, Mikey-you want a wee bit o’ cheese with that whine? I said I’ll be ok-I just need a rest. Eat your chicken and go have fun."

He was already inhaling the food, "I won’t be late...I promise ."

"You be as late as you want, luv. I trust ya." she sat down on his lap and gently kissed his neck, running her hand through his thick hair. She gazed into his eyes, messaging the base of his neck. The couple sat quietly together, savoring the moment. Rory rested her head against his, loving every fiber of his being; his breath, the sound of his heart, the slightly musky scent of his warm skin. She gazed up at him, her eyes suddenly glittering with the leprechaun's mischief , "Besides, luv, I want to be all rested up for that lovely, big cock of yours." she said grinning with a dirty wink. She hopped off his lap before he could give her the spanking that she was obviously asking for.

Shaking his head, he gazed at this enchanting creature that chose to share her life with him. The eclectic mixture of gentle muse, earth mother and lusty wench was what delighted Michael about her. He was long tired of the type of girls he had grown up with-delicate women who wanted the world with a fence around it and the request of being put on a pedestal. Then here comes this tempest from Eire, charging into his world like Earnhardt’s black Chevrolet; taking no prisoners. He had never seen quite the like of her before or since....and no man had ever touched Rory’s very heart and soul as Michael had. Of her family, only her brother Kevin was she close to. He was the first to come to America, settling in as a working musician in New York with a Celtic rock band. Her father was an abusive drunkard who abandoned his wife and children for whores of Belfast’s waterfront. Her mother was too overworked from the long hours to say so much as a kind word to her brood. She had never really known a family’s unconditional love until she came to stay with the Pettys . Richard and Lynda opened their hearts to her and she in turn learned how to open hers. Ahh , but past is past and done is done....

"You’re gonna make me change my mind, woman!" he growled playfully. He made a grab for her behind as she swatted him.

"I’ll be kickin’ your pretty arse out the door if you don’t hurry! There’s that Wallace boy now!" she ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead. "Go now, Mikey!"

Kenny Wallace was boisterously tearing into the kitchenette of their coach. "Save it for later, kids! Atlanta’s gonna burn again tonight!" he chortled with that infectious, loony cackle. "Awww...my wild Irish rose ain’t gonna be joinin’ us for the festivities?" genuinely concerned as Rory sat down.

"I’m shagged Kenny, keep an eye on my boy tonight, will ya?" weary now, her voice was almost a whisper.

Michael bent low and kissed her on the cheek. "You sure you’re ok? You never get sick" It was a well-known fact that Rory had the iron constitution of a professional wrestler.

"I’m sure and you two are going now! I’ve got a few good books to catch up on".

"Love you" Michael looked back over his shoulder as he and Kenny made their exit.

"Love of my life"

Two hours later, said festivities were in full swing. At the booth in the BBQ hangout that was Miss Kitties in downtown Atlanta, Michael, the brothers Wallace, Ken Schrader, Earnhardt and Kyle were holding court.

Two attractive women continued to gaze affectionately over to the gent’s table. One was a sassy red-head, the other a rather prim looking blonde; her hair teased to the day’s standards.

"Who’s that blonde over yonder-she keeps starin’ at me and I swear I’ve seen her before." Michael remarked, belching from gulping his beer down to fast. Earnhardt looked over his shoulder, nosey as a Jewish grandmother. "Shit and damn, that’s Elizabeth Frank, Richard’s new secretary.. Her and Teresa are buddies-I’m surprised she ain’t here. I think that other one’s her sister." the infamous Cheshire cat grin again, "Richard’s nuts about her-calls her ‘Buffy’!" he snorted.

The Intimidator liked his women tough, not dainty Daddy’s little girls.

An evil plot had just hatched itself in Michael’s brain. Ever on the lookout for new ways to annoy his arch-rival Alan Kulwicki, Michael wandered over to the smiling women. He honestly didn’t really have a mean bone in his body, his jokes were never truly malicious. Alan was a tremendously gifted driver, a thriving independent in an age of multi-team franchises. He was every bit as dour and studious as Michael was a free-wheeling life of the party-and dear Michael loved nothing better than to pester him.

"Good evening, ladies" he grinned as he sauntered to their table. The girls started giggling and flirting, acting the coy beauties that they were. "May I buy you a drink?"

He spent roughly 15 minutes piling on the bull with these comely lasses, finally tossing the bait. He was charm personified-it literally oozed out of his very pores. That dazzling smile grew ever wider with the onslaught of drinks from the bar. It was beginning to look as if the crowd would have to go home and get their hip-waders and boots; it was getting mighty deep in there...!

"Thanks for the drink, but I don’t think I got your name-you look sorta familiar." inquired Buffy.

"Alan Kulwicki’s the name. Nascar rookie of the year in 1986" he stated proudly. "I own my own team-why don’t you two little ladies come on down and check out the race?"

Meanwhile the troops at the table were taking in all of the show, about to erupt in hysterics.

"Say , my colleagues and I need to get back to the track. If you’re around tomorrow-just ask for me" With that, the troops left-on to one of Rusty’s poker games and some more serious imbibing.

"I think you could’ve got ’em" Kenny said.

"Ehhh...not my type. High maintenance gals" remarked Michael, "they would cost me a fortune and I would still have to beg for a blowjob!"

As the night wore on, the lads were in high spirits. At Rusty’s, the cards were being dealt for the fifth time.

Schrader and Kyle having long since retired. Michael himself was a bit poorer and had also bowed out of the poke game.

"Shit! We’re out of beer!" Rusty exclaimed.

"Got anything else?" asked Kenny.

"Well-let’s see." Rusty started rummaging about his cupboards. "I’ve got two bottles of vodka and a shit-load of Countytime Lemonade! Jeez, thanks Mike!" he laughed. Since the soft drink company was no longer his sponsor, he distributed cases of the vile stuff to his cohorts.

"I got news for ya-I’m too shitfaced to go anywhere. Let’s drink what we got"

Kenny dug out a large 5 gallon thermos and proceeded to mix the contents of the cupboard. The lethal cocktail was dubbed "Antifreeze" both for it’s general color and taste. (Rusty would have preferred to dub the drink "horse-piss" but he was out-voted)

Two hours later, both Michael and Kenny were speeding through the infield of the track on Rusty’s golf cart. The unholy lemonade concoction was flowing through their veins as they ripped along. By this time, the rest of the group had long since packed it in for the evening, but Kenny and Michael were still going strong. Stopping along the way, the cavaliers were seen two-fisting beers with some good ol’ boys in a gutted school bus, completely plastered much to the delight of their fans.

Making their way back to the driver’s compound. Michael hopped out of the golf cart in front of what he thought was his own coach. He fired an empty can of Bud at the window, dropped to his knees and hollered at the top of his lungs.: "RORY MCNEILL, WHERE ART THOU???" he howled. Immediately a light came on in the coach. Michael’s eyes were closed and he was well into his cups. (otherwise he would have seen the look of utter horror on the newly sobered Kenny Wallace) " I LOVE YOU, RORY!!!! I‘M HOME, HONEY! GIVE DADDY SOME SUGAR!!!"

"Uhhh ...Mike?" Kenny stammered "Open your eyes, man. We’re fucked!"

The immense figure of Mike Helton, head of Nascar, towered over them . Michael looked up from his spot on the ground at the scowling visage, head suddenly reeling and promptly keeled over. Glaring at the terrified Kenny, "You both will report to the official’s trailer, now get him out of here."

Rory awoke to the sound of a the front door slamming and general sounds of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Looking up at the clock, noting the ungodly time of 4:15 am, she stumbled out to the living room. She nearly doubled over at the sight she beheld.

"Oh sweet Jesus!" she was trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter.

There before stood her Michael draped between Kyle and Dale Jarrett. (who was awakened by Michael’s early morning caterwauling; he was also the only one strong enough to assist in carrying the lad back home.)

"Want us to hold him while you kick his ass?" inquired Kyle sweetly.

"Nah-he’s going to be suffering enough" she said, still giggling.

"*URP!*"the love of her life grunted.

"Shite! Get him to the bathroom!" Rory yelled. The ensuing details of the next few moments shall be omitted, dear readers for the sake of knowing we’ve all been in a similar situation at one time or another.

"God, she must really love him" wondered Dale as he regarded Rory gently holding Michael’s head to keep him from falling face-first in the bowl. The strong scent of lemons assaulted her. "What were ya drinkin’, darlin’? Furniture polish?" she asked softly, stroking his forehead with a cool washcloth.

"Antifreeze.."

Rory looked at him with alarm. "Jaysus..Mikey!" she gasped.

"Not the real stuff, it’s a drink Kenny made up. God" he groaned, "I’m dyin’..."

Bidding farewell to Kyle and Dale, promising to cook dinner for the both of them for their efforts in bringing Michael home, she turned and sighed. "You poor, pitiful thing....ahh Mikey! Whatever did you do this to yourself for, baby?"

Michael stumbled back to the bedroom and flopped on the bed, balefully staring at the spinning ceiling.

Rory sat down beside him, moving his head to her lap where she continued to wipe with the washcloth.

"You’re too good for me...I wouldn’t blame you if you left..." he moaned.

"Stop it, don’t talk, just try to get some sleep."

"Ro..?."

"ssshhhhh...go to sleep" she said softly.

"I love you..."

"Love of my life, Mikey....sleep now..." she fell asleep herself against him.

Chapter 5: Consequences

Saturday arrived far too early. The day arrived with a persistent banging on the front door and a Nascar official requesting an audience with last night’s life of the party. Michael dragged himself to the shower, shuddering at the bedraggled image in his bathroom mirror. Helton and his henchmen wanted him and Kenny in the official’s trailer in an hour, final practice for Sunday’s race was at 11:00. This day could not end soon enough. He could hear Rory rambling about the kitchen; the aroma of fresh coffee and bacon wafting through the room.

He was leaning, dazed against the wall; letting the hot water wash away the sins of the night. God, he was too old for this nonsense, never again. The sound of retching broke him out of his stupor.

"Ro? Hon?" he poked his head out of the shower; it was now Rory’s turn at the alter of the porcelain goddess. He hastily slid to her side, wrapping a bathrobe around her.

"I’m ok...don’t know what came over me, thought I was over this." she sighed and leaned against him. "I was cookin’ the bacon and the smell just hit me and bbbbllleeechhh!...." she was trying to find humor in the situation. "Guess it’s your turn to hold my head out of the loo!"

The two made their way to the kitchen. In spite of his still-raw innards, Michael wolfed down his breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs. Rory sipped a cup of tea and munched on a bit of toast. "Gotta see what they’re going to do to me and Kenny. I ain’t lookin’ forward to this...."

"Time to pay the fiddler, luv."

Michael reached out and took her hand. "I’m not sure if I told you, but Monday afternoon do you think Richard can spare you from the shop? I have something I want to show you ."

Rory continued to nibble her toast. "I don’t think there’ll be a problem. Unless of course your brother wrecks his car again and I have to strip it down with the lads...what’s up?"

He gazed at her and grinned, "It‘s a surprise! Can‘t tell ya." He looked up at the clock.

"I better get goin’, I’ll see you later, baby." He bent low and kissed her forehead. Rory reached out and hugged him close, resting her head for a moment against his belly. "Love you".

"Love of my life, darlin’" he smiled and walked out the door.

A half hour later, Michael was walking back from the official’s trailer, $2500.00 lighter. Both he and Kenny were deemed as having committed grievous actions detrimental to stock-car racing by their lewd and disorderly conduct. They were both soundly chewed out by Mike Helton, who offered this parting shot to Michael; "Drunk and stupid is no way to follow in your brother’s footsteps, son". He needed that little dig like a moose needed a hat rack. His grousing was interrupted by the sound of a couple arguing. The usual din and fumes from the garage were not helping his hang-over and neither was the unfolding altercation ahead.

Alan Kulwicki was having an animated discussion with Buffy and her sister. Michael groaned, "oshit" he had completely forgot about the incident at Miss Kitties.

"But I am Alan Kulwicki!" his nemesis exclaimed.

"No way-I just spoke with him last night! You’re way too short! Alan is big and tall!" Buffy countered.

"That’s him over there!" pointing towards Michael, who was looking for a rock to crawl under.

Alan rolled his eyes heavenward. "I might’ve known!" Although he was for the most part a very intense, serious individual, Allan was not without a sense of humor. Having been the butt of Michael’s shenanigans on many an occasion, he had simply learned to deal with it. In fact, he sort of enjoyed the general goofiness of Michael and his cronies, the way one would enjoy a good Marx Brothers movie. He would simply rather enjoy the fun from the observer’s standpoint. "I’m getting confused here." Buffy was getting flustered.

"Oh, that’s just his mission in life-drive’s everybody in his path crazy." Alan laughed. "Michael, get over here and apologize to these ladies!"

Michael sheepishly looked at his victims. "Look, I’m really sorry I pulled that crap last night, it was just a joke and now if y’all don’t mind, I need to get to my car." He didn’t need any more misery today-just let this whole damn weekend end soon, the voice in his head was pleading.

He wasn’t quite off the hook. Buffy glared at him, "Jesus! That is the most asinine stunt I’ve seen. Were you born an asshole or did you have to practice?" she spat.

Michael sighed and turned towards his garage; the crew was just pushing his car to the pits. "Whatever-I said I was sorry about the joke ." Michael turned and returned the glare, "and by the way, I’m a natural asshole, it runs in the family!" he snapped. He didn’t need this. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway. He turned back to his car, hopped in and fired it up. The Pontiac screeched in protest as he peeled off towards the track.

"Well! Aren’t we pissy this morning! He must have been lit up like a Christmas tree last night." Alan chuckled. "Looks like I better get to my car, too." Allan, ever thoughtful, turned to Buffy. She was quite pretty in her denim shirt and jeans; she had that "girl next door" quality that he found pleasing. "Say, if you’re not doing anything later, would you like to get together for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, I feel like I owe you for all of the trouble that arrogant jerk caused!" she said.

"Oh he’s not so bad, he just has his moments. I’ll tell you, if you ever need help, he’s always the first to lend a hand. He’s just a prick with a heart of gold! By the way, where can I find you?"

"I’m working for Richard Childress-I’ll be by his garage today."

"Well I guess it’s a date then!" Alan grinned one of his rare grins. "I look you up after practice!" And he was off.

*************

While all of this little drama was unfolding, Rory sat on a workbench as Kyle puttered around under the hood of his car. She was always hanging around the shop, even if she wasn’t repairing wounded sheet metal She wanted to learn all she could about the set-ups, the engines and the magic it took to turn a pile of steel into a championship car. With her inquisitive mind and natural mechanical aptitude, she had dreams of becoming a crew chief like Jeff Hammond, Len Wood, and Larry MacReynolds. Or even building superior racing engines like Jack Roushe and Carol Shelby. While others dreamed of becoming the next Earnhardt, she knew without a doubt that a superior car was as essential as the driver. Rory could handle a car but driving did not thrill her the way watching a car that she helped build run at the front of the field.

"Hmmm..Ro? wanna hand me that 5/8 socket there?" came the disembodied voice from the car. Rory passed the tool to him. "Thanks, sis. Say, yer quiet today. Still feeling sick?"

"Aye....When are ye gettin’ that new rear-end for Pop’s car?"

"Don’t know, the supplier’s backed up. Don’t really know how much longer he’s gonna be zdriving...thinkin’ bout retiring again." Richard Petty had been on the verge of retiring for several years, but never could quite follow through. Outside, the late November sun was peeking through the clouds.

"Well, if that thing’s staying out, it will blow the set-ups all to hell." Rory muttered. The weekend had been cool and cloudy, but now showed signs of warming. She was a perfectionist when it came to the cars, she was already contemplating what may have to be changed on the 43.

"Y’know, you really ought to see a doctor or something on Monday if you don’t feel better. Can you hand me those plug wires, when you get a chance?" Kyle threw some damaged wires to the ground. "Think I’m gonna try those platinum tipped plugs that Bosch is selling. We were offered a boatload of ‘em to try for free."

"I think I’m in trouble, Kyle."

"Gotta call on Adam’s chassis for that midget car on Monday, too...." suddenly the sound of a cranium making contact with the hood of the car followed by an exasperated "WHAT?!...owww! Goddammit!"

Kyle went over to where Rory was standing by the tool box and put his arms around her. "Awww, sis...you’re sure? Did you talk to Mike yet?"

Rory looked at him, trying not to break down. "I’m sure, the home test came out positive. And no, I haven’t talked to him yet." She looked up into Kyle’s kind, concerned eyes. Now she lost it, sobs wracking her body. "Oh Kyle, I don’t know how to even talk to him about this! I don’t know how I could ever have let this happen...he’s got a new sponsor, he’s finally getting a chance to really prove himself next year! Surely, he doesn’t need a woman and a baby now!" she wailed.

"Shhh, now. Get a hold of yourself. I’ve known Mike for 10 years now. I know he’ll do the right thing." he paused, "Rory, you know whatever happens, we’ll be here for ya. I know for a fact that Michael doesn’t just love you, he worships you! Why on earth do you think that you would ever be a burden to him?"

Rory composed herself, she felt like an idiot. "I’m sorry, the slightest thing seems to set me to cryin’ lately.

Kyle, remember I grew up in the heart of poverty. A baby was rarely seen as a blessing. It’s just that I remember my mother informing my father about a new addition to the family. He celebrated this by getting drunk and staying away for days. When he did return, he beat her senseless." she sighed.

"Are you still going through with it?" he asked quietly. "Whatever your decision, me and Patti will be there for you."

"Kyle, of course I’m going through with it! I love Michael, I just don’t want to mess up his life! Not when things are finally falling into place for him."

"Mike loves kids, he would never look at this as ‘messing up his life’! I think he’d be thrilled! Wait until after the race, like when he picks you up on Monday afternoon to break the news. Trust me Rory, everything will be ok." Kyle hugged her close, "Really-you don’t have a thing to worry about. Just trust me on this."

Rory felt somewhat reassured on his word. Deep inside, she was still terrified at the prospect of informing Michael about his impending fatherhood. Well, done is done-one way or another life would go on.

Chapter 6: The Homecoming

Rory busied herself about the Level Cross, North Carolina compound that was home to Petty Enterprises. Both the Petty and Bahari racing teams had departed Atlanta much earlier than the others; Richard with an over-heated engine and Michael’s car fell out with a ruined transmission. As promised, Michael had phoned Rory from his small Charlotte apartment, informing her that he would pick her up at 1:00.

"You’re sure you can get away? I know you’re usually pretty busy down there in the shop on Monday." he asked nonchalantly as if nothing were in the works other than a casual lunch date. "Sure you’re feeling up to it?"

"Of course I’ll see you-there’s no race this weekend, remember? We’ve been emancipated until Daytona! I was gonna go see the village witch doctor this morning anyway." There was something about the tone of his voice that set Rory to wondering what Michael had in store. "You sound like you’re up to something. I don’t like surprises-spill your guts!"

Michael smiled to himself, "I’ll see ya at 1:00, hon-gotta go! Love ya, baby."

"Michael! Shit-Kyle’s callin’ me now! Love ya too, Mikey-see ya later." Rory hung up the phone. Kyle had just pulled in towing a trailer containing a new midget car for Adam. The vehicle was but a bare roll-cage on wheels. Rory brightened at this new project to keep her occupied-she loved Adam and couldn’t wait to get started on his Christmas present.

"Kyle! It’s going to be lovely when we get it done! I can’t wait to see his face when we finish it!" she exclaimed.

Kyle grinned, "Yep-chip off the ol’ block! That boy’s the future of Petty Enterprises! Kid’s gonna be a champion someday." They started unloading the trailer. "You talk to Mike yet? He still pickin’ you up later?"

"Aye, he’ll be here around 1:00. He’s up to something, I know it! Has he told you anything?"

"If he did, do you think I’d tell you?" again that mile-wide grin. Surely the Pettys have had their smile trademarked.

"Damn, look at the time! I got to be at the clinic in 20 minutes. I’ll be back as soon as I can." With that, she was in her old pick-up and on her way to town. Men! She shook her head, didn’t think I’d get a straight answer out of him. Kyle and Michael would cover up for each other until doomsday.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory returned to Level Cross an hour and a half later. Her pregnancy was confirmed, she was about a month along. The anxiety she felt on Saturday in the garage with Kyle, returned in earnest, eating away at her emotions. It was half past noon, Michael would be here at any time. The feeling of pure dread was as thick as day -old grits. She walked to the shop and started aimlessly puttering around. Kyle and Patti must have went into town themselves-except for a couple of hired hands, the place was deserted. Which was fine with her, it gave her a chance to quietly think about how she was going to present this situation to her beloved. All too soon, her solitude was interrupted by the snarl of the high performance Trans-Am that charged into the shop yard.

Rory heard the car shut off. She still sat in her little workshop/office flipping through a parts catalogue. Michael slipped up behind her and planted a tender kiss on the back of her neck. She turned as he held up a lovely bouquet of burgundy roses in a Waterford vase. Rory gasped, "Oh, Michael!...They’re beautiful..." she whispered. "You shouldn’t..."

" Oh no! Now don’t y’all give me that! Are you ready to go?" he laughed. "Y‘know, I should do this more often."

They walked back to his car, he graciously opened the door for her.

"Whatever are you up to, Mikey?"

"You’ll see" again that sly grin, his eyes shining.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

They traveled north along Lake Norman, past rolling tobacco farms, race shops, mansions and small towns.

It was in short a lovely day for November, the sky was like a great inverted blue bowl above them. The stereo was blasting out Bruce Springsteen’s latest album. Michael gently held her hand on his lap as they sped along. Finally, they pulled into the small town of Sherrill’s Ford and up the long driveway to a plain white farmhouse. Rolling hills, tall pines and a barn surrounded the place. The house itself was a bit worn, it’s paint peeling in places and the roof looked as if it had seen better days. Split rail fences and a couple of live oaks dominated the perimeter of the lot on which the house stood.

Michael shut the car off and started fishing in his pockets and pulled out a set of keys. Rory sucked in her breath. "Michael...what is this?" was all she could manage.

He came ’round to her side of the car and opened the door. He gently took her hand , pulling her to her feet.

"C’mon baby," he said softly. They walked to the front entrance. Once inside, their footsteps echoing on the hard-wood floor, nearly as loud as Rory’s own heart. "Michael-" she started.

He turned and held her close. "It’s home, Rory-our home, your home." he looked deep into her eyes, gently wiping the tear that started down her cheek. "That is, if you’ll have me. Would you marry me, Rory? I don‘t know a helluva lot, baby. But I do know that all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you ."

She looked up at him; he was nearly crying himself. "So this is your surprise, you brilliant devil!" she said softly. He was barely breathing as she caressed the side of his face. "Of course I’ll marry you, Michael." she leaned against his chest and looked up at him, " I’ve a surprise for you too, luv." He gently took her hand and pressed it to his lips, eyes closed. "I think I can guess." a smile was spreading across his face. Mischief again. "Let’s see-you spent the past few mornings sick as a dog, you’re crankier than Darrell with a bad case of hemorrhoids, Aunt Flo hasn’t come to visit in about a month and a half..." she was laughing now, as his voice cracked and went up a couple of octaves and his West Kentucky twang . "It’s a baby, ain't it?" Smiling broadly, he kissed her full on the lips, "Oh baby! Woo-hoo! We’re havin’ us a li’l , ol’ baby!" He wrapped his arms around her tightly, Rory burrowing against his warmth. Time stood still as they continued to hold each other, contemplating their future.

It was starting to get dark outside.

"I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’m getting hungry." he said after a while. "There’s a roast that Stevie put together for me in the fridge and I brought some wine" So far, there was hardly a stick of furniture in the house. Rory and Michael enjoyed their dinner sitting on the floor in the dining room, by the light of an amber hurricane lamp. Paper plates, a couple of Dixie Cups and a single rose in an empty Miller Lite bottle rounded out their setting. Willie Nelson was crooning away on a portable boom-box in the corner.

"This is wonderful, Mikey. I wish this night would never end." she sighed. She stretched out on the floor, her head in his lap. All her earlier apprehensions had been banished. It was so peaceful, neither wanted the moment to end. Michael finally stretched, his joints popping from sitting on the hard floor for so long.

He looked down at Rory, she returning his gaze. "I think it’s time we called it a night." he said rising to his feet, taking Rory with him.

They walked up the stairs to the master bedroom. A simple king-size sleigh bed occupied the room. Michael bent low to start the fireplace while Rory stretched out on top of the comforter. Michael laid down along side her, his tender kisses devouring her. It was as if they had never made love before this night, discovering each other anew. Every glance, every kiss and embrace was slow and deliberate, every sensation was savored as if this were their last night among mortals. At last, his strength spent and Rory already blissfully dozing, Michael reached over in the bedside dresser and removed a small velvet box. He placed a simple gold claddaugh ring on her hand, his lips tenderly lingering on her tiny fingers. He stretched out beside her, watching her sleep. God, he thought, what did I do to deserve her? He tenderly caressed her bare midriff, marveling at the life she now bore within. Swallowing hard, suddenly overcame with emotions that he never felt before, he lay his head on her shoulder. Rory stirred and looked over at him and brushed the damp curls out of his eyes. "Is something wrong, luv?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing’s wrong., baby...it’s just that I’m so damn afraid of fucking everything up like I usually do. I’m so damn stupid sometimes....and I love you so much Rory. I fell hard for you the day I met you." he swallowed again, "If anything ever happened to us...." his voice broke.

Rory held him tightly. "Shhhh...I’ll not leave you, Mikey. Get some sleep, luv." she suddenly spied the ring.

"God, Michael-you even have the heart facing the right way!" (*A/N-the correct way to wear a claddaugh ring if one is betrothed, is with the heart on the ring facing the wearer-it means that someone has already taken your heart-you’re no longer available!) She tenderly kissed the tears off his cheek and held him close.

Soon, both were sleeping peacefully.

Ain’t love grand?

Chapter 7: Back to the Beach

Darrell Waltrip was in a particularly testy mood that February Sunday when the masses returned to Daytona for the start of the 1991 season. Throughout his career, he had delighted in ruffling the feathers of the "old guard"-Richard Petty, Cale Yarborough, Bobby Allison and even his old boss, Junior Johnson. By doing so, he also invoked the ire of the fans. There was clearly a line drawn between those fans who pulled for the brash driver from Kentucky and those who hated him with a passion. Those fans could be spotted by the very t-shirts they wore: "I hate warm beer, cold women and Darrell Waltrip!" Darrell had a chip on his shoulders the size of a ‘59 Buick, an opinionated, cantankerous disposition and a mouth that wouldn’t stay closed for all the tea in China. Cale Yarborough dubbed him "Jaws" for his relentless attacks on the establishment and his equally relentless moves on the track. The miserable twist was that Darrell was a brilliant driver. At his peak, even Earnhardt couldn’t run with him.

Now he stood by his car, scowling at the booing hordes in the grandstand as his name and car were announced; looking for all the world like the Grinch with sideburns. Stevie, his devoted wife of nearly 20 years, stood by his side; tears streaming down her cheeks. The hostility bothered her to no end-she could only see the loving husband and father that Darrell was. Darrell fought his way through the establishment to three championships and 84 wins; his dues were long paid-he owed none. Unfortunately, today Darrell had to start 26th and it wasn’t setting well with him at all. He looked up the rows of cars to see who he could get by and who he could work with. He spied his brother 4 rows up on the inside. The #30 was gleaming with it’s new Pennzoil paint scheme and it’s driver posed for pictures; grinning ear-to-ear with his new bride at his side.

"Ain’t t they cute?" Lynda Petty, who also stood by her husband’s car, said smiling to Stevie. The sight of the newlyweds lifted Stevie’s heart. Both of the veteran wives watched as Michael cupped Rory’s face in his hands and kissed her. They had just exchanged vows on St. Valentine’s Day at a small, private ceremony on the beach. One last, lingering gaze and Michael climbed in his car.

"HHHMMMPHH!" snorted Darrell. "Maybe she can smack some sense into that boy’s pointy noggin! Lord knows I’ve tried!’

The introductions were about over and the call for all drivers to their cars rang out. The National Anthem was being belted out over the loudspeakers. Rory walked back to the Pennzoil pit box and climbed atop the war wagon; the taste of his kiss still lingering. She waived at Stevie, who was headed back to the driver’s compound-she had seen enough from the pits in all the years she followed Darrell, she preferred to view the action from her motor coach. Changing her mind, Stevie joined her new sister in law on the wagon.

"Hey, kiddo! What are you doing on this thing in your condition?" she said, grinning. The command of "Gentlemen Start Your Engines" rang out and 43 cars barked to life. "I missed the track! Couldn’t wait to get back-if I were gonna watch it on the telly, I’d stay home!" Rory couldn't for the life of her figure out why the majority of the wives watched the race from their coaches. She lived for the sights, sounds and even the smell of the races. "Besides, Himself wouldn’t hear of it! Sit with me, Stevie. We’ll watch our men together!"

"Lynda! Get over here! We’re havin’ us an ol’ hen’s party!" Stevie hollered as Lynda walked by. The three women now occupied the top tier of the wagon, joking for all the world as if it were just a simple bridge get-together instead of the biggest race of the year. They watched as the pace car led them all by on the parade lap, the crowd wild, saluting their heroes. The mobile kaleidoscope shaking the stands.

"Sheez, I’m surprised you could lift you legs high enough to climb this thing after the past couple of nights!" Stevie remarked smartly. Rory turned beet red. "What can I say, luv-I’m mad for him! Head over heels or is it heels over head?" The three cackled aloud-Michael’s crew chief was shaking his head and blushing-he knew well where this conversation was going.

Lynda Petty took a slug from her Coke. "Y’know, Ro-when you two said ’I do!’, you could hear the hearts breakin’ from Richmond to Talladega!" She grinned wickedly, "I’ll tell ya what, if’n I was about 30 years younger, we’d be goin’ rounds over that man!"

On the track, the cars were completing the 20th lap. Ken Schrader in his #25 Budweiser Chevrolet was challenging Mark Martin for the lead, Dale Earnhardt was breathing down his neck. At this point, there were now three draft lines streaking across the track. Further back in the pack, the spectacle was terrifying. On all sides, cars were but inches apart; traveling any where between 185 to nearly 200 miles per hour. Kyle was leading the bottom draft, with Michael latched onto his rear bumper; the nose of the yellow Pontiac barley touching Kyle’s car. Further back, Darrell was struggling; his car was a dog, try as he might to stay behind Lake Speed, he was having difficulty maintaining the draft. An unearthly wail arose from the thundering herd as they mounted the towering 33 degree banks and flew down the straights.

Suddenly, a car dropped like a stone to the apron-Jimmy Spencer was off the pace with a cut tire. Earnhardt, spying the floundering vehicle, took full advantage of the momentary distraction , blasted by Schrader seconds before the yellow flag waived.

Then they were off again. Michael was jockeying between the bottom and middle draft line. He was now closing in on eighth . He was setting up a good run, Bill Elliot had also dropped in behind him. Michael had sailed effortlessly around Terry Labonte and bolted in front of him. Terry, now furious at having to check up, screamed over his radio, "God damn that reckless son-of-a-bitch! That’s the second time he’s done that to me!" "I don’t think anybody’d cry if you tapped him into a wall-teach ’im some manners!" came the reply from his crew chief. "Sure as shit, that’s Darrell’s brother! He ain’t gonna win friends out here today!"

Over Michael’s radio, his owner, Chuck Rider warned, "Easy, Mike-you’re starting to piss people off. Got word from the officials-if you don’t behave, they’re gonna black flag you. It’s early yet-bide your time and finish in one piece! You’re still lookin’ good!" Rider grinned to himself, the car was a contender. Inside the 30’s cockpit, Michael bristled. There’s an old saying that race car drivers are schizophrenics; they are completely different people outside of their cars. This normally sensitive, cheerful young man was now clenching the wheel, baring his teeth at the message over his radio. Furious, he punched the car’s accelerator; the Pontiac nearly mounting Schrader’s car. Blood boiling, he dove beneath the 25, now on Earnhardt’s heels. Awesome Bill Elliot was never one to shy away from any opportunity. "Boy’s gonna wreck hisself-an’ Ah’l jest pick up the pieces!" he chuckled. He dove behind the 30, pushing the Pontiac past Earnhardt. Michael was now leading the Daytona 500 for the first time in his life.

Back on the Pennzoil wagon, the three "ol’ hens" were shrieking their encouragement to the winds.

"JAYSUS MICHAEL, PUT SOME DAYLIGHT ON HIM!" Rory bellowed. "DON’T LET HIM GET UNDERNEATH YA!" She grabbed Stevie’s binoculars just n time to see the Goodwrench Chevrolet poke her black nose into Michael’s flank.

"Uh-oh, looks like Dale’s about to give him some ‘drivin’ lesssons’ ." Lynda remarked.

Indeed, Dale Earnhardt loved nothing better than a good pissing match. Granted, he loved Michael like the kid brother he never had, but this was racing and all bets were off. The black 3 moved even closer to the side of Michael’s Pontiac. So close, that Michael could reach out and touch her if he wanted. Ahead, there erupted a blue plume of smoke as a car lost it coming off the third turn.

"TROUBLE OFF TURN 3! RICHARD PETTY HAS GOTTEN TOGETHER WITH LAKE SPEED!" the PA system blasted. Nobody was really listening, all eyes on the track. Cars scattered this way and that to avoid the inevitable tangle. Earnhardt dove low, missing the wrecked vehicle altogether. Michael made contact with the rear-end of Bobby Hamilton’s car, fatally wounding the Pontiac’s aerodynamics. The front quarter panel was now chewing away on the tire, steam also spewed forth from the hood, the coolant hose crushed.

On the wagon, Lynda was already leaping off-heading for her husband’s pits. The 43 sat dejectedly in the infield, The King was uninjured and already crawling out of the car. Rory was also ready to head for the garage when Stevie grabbed her. "Oh no, you ain’t goin’ anywhere! Remember, you’re barred until that baby comes!" Both Michael and Richard Petty had forbade Rory from working in the racing garage-to their way of thinking, it was dangerous and absolutely not the place for expectant mothers with the threat of toxic fumes, bolting cars and fires ever present. She had hence been put on administrative duty and overseeing the sheet metal apprentices. She looked up as the 30 rolled into the pits, steam belching from the bowels of the car. The sickeningly sweet odor of coolant was filling the air. It was all she could do to stay on her perch as the crew went to work on the fender. While the crew worked feverishly to repair the vehicle, Michael put his window net down as he grabbed a water bottle. Rory caught the look of his blazing eyes as he removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his face. As their gazes met, he smiled, his countenance softening. I love you, he silently mouthed the words to her. Not that she could’ve heard him above the din.

Finally, the car was as ready as it was ever going to be. It was terribly tight, steering difficult at best. He was now 4 laps down-all hope of a victory or even a respectable finish vanished. Now, as Darrell had so often told him, he was just putting his time in, riding around in circles. It was now lap 178, it was almost over. Suddenly, the draft line in front of Michael buckled-it looked like as if God himself decided enough was enough and about a dozen cars collided at once. The Pontiac’s steering problem had grown even worse as Michael struggled to hang on to the car. As he plowed into the fracas, the smoke and oil blinding him, all he could was hang on for dear life and listen to the sounds of metal on metal.

Meanwhile, Darrell had regained a few spots when the unfolding wreck took him. He held his breath and grabbed the roll bar as his car headed for the wall. Somebody was pushing him. "Dammit, get off’n me!" he cursed. The smoke was so thick behind him, he couldn’t tell who it was that hit him. Traveling at nearly 120 miles per hour, the wall engulfed Darrell’s Chevrolet and the lights went out.

Rory and Stevie stood on the wagon clutching each other as their husbands’ cars became one. The crowd roared its delight when the PA blasted, "DARRELL AND MICHAEL WALTRIP WRECKED OFF TURN 2! GEOFF BODINE IS NOW OUT OF HIS CAR......."

"Listen to the bastards, they’re lovin’ this!" Rory growled, thoroughly disgusted with the fans. Stevie still stood there silently, her face stark white. She was relieved that Michael was uninjured-he was climbing out of his car and walking over to Darrell.

"Stevie, c’mon. They’ve got the ambulance!" Rory was heading for a golf cart. Stevie broke out of her paralysis and together they headed for the wreck.

______________________________________

Chapter 8: A Change of Heart

In the waiting room of the hospital, Michael paced a hole in the floor. "He’s gonna kill me! Jesus, I ran right into him...how could I be so fuckin’ stupid?"

"Mike, you had an inch of oil on your windshield! There was nothing you could do!" Jeff Hammond countered. "Besides, if he hasn’t killed you by now, he never will."

Darrell was knocked senseless by the impact. He did have a mild concussion , a couple of cracked ribs, and some minor bruising but otherwise the only thing mortally wounded was his pride.

Inside the tiny room, Stevie sat on the edge of Darrell’s bed. "Stevie, all I wanna know is who put me in that wall." he said finally.

She sighed, "Mike was behind you-he couldn’t help it, Darrell! His car was so tight, he couldn’t steer it, plus he was blinded-didn’t even see you until it was too late." She looked up, expecting to see that steely glare, but Darrell simply stared benignly at the ceiling. "He’s really taking this hard-you should’ve seen his face when they brought you out of the car." she said quietly.

"Another thing-did I actually hear those people cheering because I wrecked?"

Stevie signed again, "Yes, hon-God it hurts so much to hear them being so hateful! You could have been killed!" her voice broke.

Darrell reflected quietly, "It’s my fault-I created this monster, now I gotta own it..."He looked at Stevie.

"It’s time I started mending a few fences around here. I mean it and the first place I’m starting is with my baby brother. Is he out there?" His wife nodded. "I wanna talk to him-send him in and leave us alone for a few minutes, hon." Stevie hesitated a moment. " Please? It’s ok-I won’t rip him up too bad." he said with a pained grin. With that weathered expression and the old twinkle returning to his eyes, Stevie bent low and kissed him on the forehead and left the room.

She walked out to the waiting room. Michael had finally roosted on a couch; his face buried in his hands. He still had his sweat encrusted fire-suite on from the track; he looked for all the world like a man awaiting a slow execution-far from the shining warrior who had just climbed in his new car just hours ago. Rory sat quietly beside him rubbing his shoulders; his only comfort was in her company. Jeff Hammond was snoozing upright in a chair across from Michael, also awaiting news of his driver’s recovery. In short, it was about the sorriest crew Stevie had ever seen in her life. She walked over to Michael and put her hand on his shoulder. "He wants to see you."

Michael looked balefully up at her. "It’s ok. He knows what happened. Go on in, now." Stevie took his place on the coach next to Rory, who was about to keel over at any moment. The fatigue from the pregnancy and the stress of the day were too much; with Stevie’s urging, she finally dozed off.

Michael went into Darrell’s room and quietly sat down. He hated hospitals -everything about them from the antiseptic smell to the air of sickness and death. He inwardly shuddered at his brother’s pale, bruised visage propped up above his bed covers. Neither spoke for what seemed like an eternity between themselves.

"Dayum! It’s colder‘n a witch's tit in here..." Darrell muttered. This unexpected statement delivered in Darrell’s unique way of phrasing things brought out a stifled snort of laughter out of Michael. Darrell glanced at Michael’s fire suite. "You’ve been here all this time-since they brought me from the track?"

"Yeah...I just wanted to make sure you were gonna be ok...Darrell?" he looked up from where he had been memorizing the floor tiles. "I’m sor-"

"Save it, boy." his brother was shaking his head. He looked at the younger reflection of himself. "Racin’ deal-nothin’ you could do ‘bout it. Done’s done." He paused a moment. "’Bout the onliest thing ya coulda done is take a shower before you left, for Chrissake! You stink! I’m surprised they even let ya in here!"

The two looked at each other and chuckled, like a pair of Sunday school boys snickering over a fart in the middle of a sermon. The more they thought about the possibility of typhus riding in on that putrefied uniform, the more the chuckles turned into full blown belly laughs. Darrell grimaced, "Shit! I think I done busted a couple more ribs!" This set them to cracking up again. Outside in the waiting room, Jeff looked up, "Hhmm-now that doesn’t sound like Darrell rippin’ him a new butthole! Sounds more like they’re havin’ a party in there!"

Finally, wiping tears from his eyes, Darrell looked up at Michael. All those years of not really knowing his own brother. He missed out on watching the pesky little kid chase him around like a puppy while he chased his own dreams, won his races and became a legend. Now that kid was gone and was replaced with someone Darrell was barely acquainted with. Here was a man that Darrel had dismissed for years, who’s own dreams Darrell had done everything in his power to discourage, who continued to idolize him none the less. "Hey..." he reached out and placed a hand on Michael’s arm. "I almost died today. I almost left this world and you know what? People were cheering! They were happy that I damn-near kicked the bucket!"

"Darrell-don’t say that...."

"Ol’ Jaws was pretty near pushin’ up petunias and they were ready to party!" he continued. He looked at his brother square in the eyes. "Michael, am I an asshole?":

"Well...you do have your moments..."

"That’s the point I’m tryin’ to get at! All those years of being hell-bent on makin’ a name for myself and what do I have to show for it?"

"About 80 wins and 3 championships and a shitload of pole awards..." Darrell nodded, "Yep and a shitload of people who hate my guts. That’s not the legacy I want to leave, Mike."

"I don’t hate you. I know I might have said some things I didn’t mean, but I never really hated you.. You’re my brother-when they pulled you out of the car half-dead, I thought the world ended!" Michael was trying vainly to swallow the lump that was forming in his throat.

"It’s not just you, Mike-I’ve hurt a lot of people. All the championships, all the shit that goes with it-hell, boy it just ain’t worth loosing family and friends over. When I die, I want folks to remember me with a smile, not, ’thank God! The old bastard’s dead! Hell, I wanna take it all back! I want to be there for Stevie and the kids, for you and your family, too!"

"Please stop talkin’ like that! You ain’t goin’ nowhere!" Michael said firmly. "Now I get your point! This is getting depressin’!" The two were quiet again, reflecting on aforementioned fences that were mended and those yet to be repaired. After nearly 30 long years, a moment of understanding and bonding cemented itself between them. A gulf had finally been bridged.

"Welllll I am goin’ out of this place! I wanna sleep in my own bed tonight!" With that Darrell hopped out of bed and headed for the door.

Michael’s eyes widened as he watched his brother exit. "Darrell-!"

On his exodus, Darrell had neglected the fact that his hospital gown offered a full view of his rather barren back yard. The moon was out early in Daytona, so to speak.

"Stevie! Get my things-we’re goin’ home!" he hollered.

"Jaysus!" exclaimed Rory as she caught sight of Darrell’s pearly cheeks as he waddled out in the waiting room. "Humph! It’s drafty out here!" he grunted. Regarding Rory’s still-open mouth. "Y’all are gonna catch flies if ya don’t shet that pretty little yap!" Jeff Hammond shook his head, there was little that Darrell could do to surprise him anymore. In short time and much to the relief of the hospital staff, Darrell Waltrip was discharged to the custody of his wife and thus departed with his crew chief and the rest of the Waltrip clan.

Chapter 9: The Visitor

Late July arrived lazy and muggy in the Pocono mountains of Central Pennsylvania. Rory sat at her kitchen table in the coach thumbing through the latest issue of Winston Cup Scene, drinking her morning cup of Earl Gray and munching on a raspberry Pop-Tart. A delighted smile spread across her face.

"Ah-hah! Michael-come here! We’re listed in the Personal section!" Michael ambled out of the living room-he had just come back from his morning run and was about to hit the shower. "Look, hon-it’s right here!" she said, pointing at the article.

"The stork pays a visit to Sherrill’s Ford: Congratulations are in order as Michael and Rory announced the birth of their daughter, Caitlin on July 9th. The newest member of the Waltrip family made her grand entrance at home, coming in at a healthy 7lbs 8ozs. Mom, baby Caitlin and proud poppa Michael are doing well. Equally proud uncle Darrell dedicated his recent pole award to his new niece...."

The new addition to the family made her presence known with a hearty squawk. Rory tenderly lifted her out of her pram and snuggled her to her breast. Time for breakfast-again! "Look at her! I can’t believe the appetite on her!" she chuckled. Michael knelt next to them, gazing in wonder at his wife and the living embodiment of their love. Still, he couldn’t resist a little fun....

"That’s a Waltrip! Just set ’em on a nipple and life is good!"

"Oh, you brute! Behave yourself!" she playfully admonished. "Look at those blue eyes! Oh, Mikey-she’s you all over again!" Indeed, with her dark, curly hair and dazzling eyes, there was no mistaking her bloodlines. Michael leaned close and nuzzled Rory’s neck, "But she’s got her momma’s beauty." The vision of Rory nursing Caitlin in quiet contentment filled Michael with a sense of peace that all was right in the world. Finally, Caitlin had her fill and Rory rose to put her down for a nap. As she patted her back, Caitlin emitted a healthy belch. "Aye, that’s Daddy’s girl!" she grinned.

With Caitlin sound asleep, she turned and noticed Michael was still standing in the doorway, smiling warmly. He pulled her into an embrace, seeking her lips. "Mmm-mm ...raspberry!" he could still taste the Pop-Tart she had for breakfast. Rory gazed into his eyes, "Aye, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it luv?" she pressed close to him, kissing him deeply, tongue already melding with his own. His hands traveled down her back , firmly caressing her bottom; pressing himself against her. She moaned as she felt his arousal, "oh Michael..." as his kisses increased in intensity. "love you, baby...god I want you", he whispered. He gently pushed her down on the bed; undressing her, wrapping himself around her as time came to a halt for a few moments. After a bit, Michael rose and walked to the small guest bedroom to check on Caitlin-she was sleeping like a stone. Slipping out of his sweatpants and t-shirt, he stretched out beside Rory, entwining his fingers with her tiny hand. "Is she still asleep?" she asked, between tender kisses. "Like a baby!" he grinned. "We’ll have to keep it down..."

"mmm..easier said than done..." she murmured as she felt the ecstasy his tongue and lips were bringing to her. She slid ‘round and re-positioned herself to return his favors in kind, relishing the slightly salty taste of him. Michael pulled himself into a sitting position, drawing Rory up against his chest, his long arms completely encircling her. He buried his face in her long hair, breathing her essence. He sighed, "Baby, I must be the luckiest man alive..." She grinned up at him, "Nah-just the most talkative! Now ravish me!" She pulled him back down on the bed; "mmm..don’t have to twist my arm...." he growled playfully...

It was around 10:30 later that morning, Michael was in the midst of getting dressed for practice and afternoon qualifying for the Pennsylvania 500 when there came a knock at the coach’s door. Rory casually opened the door , a gasp escaping her.

"Kevin!" The initial shock at seeing her brother standing in the doorway gave way to a wry, "so- to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" she inquired as she stood there, arms folded.

Kevin McNeill was the atypical musician. Medium height, slender build with a crop of spiked strawberry blonde hair and Lenonesque wire-rimmed glasses; dressed in the punk rocker’s uniform of black t-shirt, Levis and Doc Martens. He spoke with the same soft lilt as his sister; accentuated by his gritty Manhattan existence, cheap cigarettes and Guinness as a main food group. "Ach Rory, I live but a couple-hours away-sure’n couldn’t I spare a day with my sister?"

"I sent you invitations to my wedding in February-we would’ve flown you down but you never so much as responded with a call! I call to inform you of your new niece and you disappear for days!" she said tightly-she kept her voice low so she didn’t disturb Caitlin’s rest, but the her tone couldn’t belie her fury. "Now you show up expecting open arms!" she hissed.

"Hon! Who’s at the door?" Michael called out from the bedroom.

"Is that the husband, now?:" Kevin asked innocently. Rory glared at him. "Aye...Michael, come here, luv. I’ve somebody I’d like you to meet." Michael entered the living room; eyebrows arched, regarding the stranger suspiciously. Kevin sucked in his breath at the sight of his brother-in-law, regarding the cool stare directed at him and the way his muscles rippled beneath the white t-shirt he wore. Jaysus, Kevin thought, he could rip me in two if he took the notion! Best to play nice with him.... "Darlin, please meet my brother Kevin, he came all the way from New York and his oh-so-busy schedule to see us," came Rory’s dry introduction.

Michael caught Kevin off guard his a quick, toothy smile and grabbed Kevin’s hand. Rory knew from experience that it was no ordinary, nice-to-meet-you smile. No, this was more of the one-wrong-move-and-I’ll-tear-your-head-off smile. "Hey! Nice to meet ya! Heard all about you," the pressure on Kevin’s hand was killing him now, "To bad you couldn’t join us in Daytona!" This fact that none of Rory’s family had bothered to send so much as a card in response to her wedding infuriated Michael to no end. "Shoot-look at the time-gotta run, practice starts in 15 minuets." he leaned over kissing Rory passionately on the lips and then planting a kiss on his daughter’s head.

"I’ll join you in a little while, dear. This won’t take long" Rory whispered to him.

Michael gave Kevin a slap on the back, so hard it nearly sent him reeling. "Nice meeting you, bro! We’ll have to do some catchin’ up later!" He grinned but the look in his eyes was pure ice.

After Michael left, Kevin shook his head. "Jesus, Rory! The size of that one!" he grinned. "I’ve seen a better head on a pint, though! How ever do you two manage...? Well, obviously you do..." he looked over at Caitlin. He sighed, "You’ve done well for yourself, sister. Lovely daughter, good home, overly protective husband...."

"How did you get back here, anyway?" Rory muttered as she started preparing macaroni salad for lunch. It was going to be a hot one today, so there would be no cooking .

"Oh, I’ve got my ways-one of the club owners had connections and when I told them my sister married a Nascar driver, he gave me a pass on the condition that I get Earnhardt’s autograph." he grinned. Rory rolled her eyes. "So Kevin, what really brings you here? You had all sorts of opportunities to visit me but you never responded to any of our invitations."

"Been busy, like I said. But I wanted to tell you this-Mother’s not doing well at all. She may have to go to a nursing facility in Drumcliffe. Da’s gone underground-wouldn’t dare show his head anywhere in Ulster."

"So-how’s the revolution going-are you still chasing that mad dream of Father’s?" Rory said quietly. There was a time when Rory would have followed Kevin and their father in their quest for a united Ireland, free from British rule. But all of the bloodshed of the sectarian war that has played out in the six counties of Northern Ireland for decades had opened her eyes to the futility of violence. The only way that peace could be achieved in her eyes was by ending the terrorist maneuvers and silencing the guns on both sides. Their father, Daniel McNeill, was a legend in the more extreme factions of the IRA. It was a heritage that Rory was reluctant to discuss with anybody.

"So it’s a dream now, is it? If we had the funds to mount an effective campaign against the occupation, it would be no dream!" Kevin countered angrily.

Rory rose and gathered the still-sleeping Caitlin and took her to the bedroom. Closing the door behind her, she turned and snarled. "So this is why you are here, isn’t it?" Her face was a dark mask of pure fury. The very idea that her beloved Michael and the Pennzoil Pontiac could be used to bring in funds for the IRA sickened her. Funds that would buy the bullets for the AK-47’s, shrapnel bombs, torn and bleeding young men, fatherless children....."Damn you, Kevin!"

"Rory, I thought you still believed in The Cause! I can’t believe you’ve forsaken the fight!"

"I want no part of this! My husband’s car will not fund the bombs, and the guns nor the madmen who use them to bring about more suffering! I won’t have it!" Her nose was inches from Kevin’s face, "Kevin-it was lovely to see you, my brother but you’re time is up here!" she escorted him to the door. "Please leave! When you can enter my life without ulterior motives, then try to contact me!" She looked into the weary eyes of her brother. "Jesus Rory, you’re startin’ to sound like that bloody pacifist Bono!" With that he turned and before he left, he added. "I’ll write you and keep you up to date on Mother. Good bye, sister."

Rory returned to Caitlin and held her close. She glanced at her wedding picture that stood on the little night stand next to the bed. In it, Michael was holding her in his arms, their eyes locked together, Daytona Speedway in the background. Any involvement with Kevin or his dream would end up in automatic deportation-stripped of her citizenship or worse.

A sob caught her throat- if she ever lost Michael or Caitlin, she may as well be dead.

Michael found her curled up in the bed with Caitlin in her arms. "Hon? You ok?" he lay down and curled himself around her and the baby. "If that little shit hurt you, I’ll kill him!" he growled.

"No Mikey, I’m fine-we did have words, but I’ve sent him packing. He was just lookin’ for money and sympathy! It’s ok luv, he’s gone.."

Michael nuzzled her-he was still troubled for some reason that he couldn’t put his finger on. The tranquility in his life had somehow been violated and he knew not how to set it right or if it would ever be right again.

Chapter 10: Under a Blood Red Sky

Sunday had dawned heavy and still with the oppressive atmosphere typical of the Mid-Summer doldrums. Nary a blade of grass or the mammoth flags above Pocono Raceway stirred, but hung limp like dead things. Dawn was just creeping across the backs of the Pocono mountains. The early morning mist and thin cirrus clouds reflected pink, gold and crimson against the rising sun. Smoke drifted lazily from grills throughout the campground as the multitudes started their day. From the bowels of the garage, a couple of engines awakened with throaty roars, shattering the stillness.

Inside his coach, Michael sat drenched in sweat and bolt-upright in bed, shaking violently, face in his hands. It was that damned dream again. The only thing he remembered with any clarity was standing in Victory Lane, with family, crew and friends. He remembered turning to embrace Rory-but she wasn’t there! He looked over to Dale-he was waving at Michael, smiling that old devil smile. Michael shouted something out to him but a look of such sadness suddenly crossed Dale’s face it halted Michael in his tracks. Dale Earnhardt suddenly turned his back on one of his best friends, and simply vanished before Michael’s eyes. "Dale? Dale!" Michael remembered calling his name; searching the crowd for both his friend and his wife, a nameless fear suddenly gripping his heart. He looked over at Darrell, who suddenly looked like a very old man-his brother just shook his head. It was always at this point that Michael would wake up; overcome with an unbearable feeling of despair.

In the darkened bedroom, still in post-dream panic mode, he realized that he was alone in the bed. Nearly hyperventilating, he yelled, "RORY!"

"Ssshh-ssshhh, dear! You’ll wake the baby!" Rory emerged from the bathroom with a cool washcloth and tenderly pressed it against his temples. "That awful dream again...It was bad this time, Mikey. You woke up screaming." This dream had plagued Michael off and on ever since his brother’s violent crash at Daytona . It always seemed that stress would trigger it-in this case, the disturbing visit of Rory’s brother.

But what troubled Michael most of all that it didn’t seem so much of a dream as a premonition.

"Here-drink this." Rory held a mug of chamomile tea sweetened with honey to his lips, "It will help soothe your nerves." While Michael drank, she gently messaged the back of his neck. In this state, he was in no shape to be driving anything faster than her old pickup, let alone pilot the Pontiac on one of the fastest and most dangerous tracks on the circuit.

Michael finished his drink and somewhat more composed, lay back down; his head in her lap. Eventually, the calming chamomile took effect and he dozed off peacefully. Rory quietly continued to caress him. She tried to take her mind of the events of the past 24 hours and focus on the positives. Michael had qualified 3rd-one of his best starting positions of the year. He was becoming something of a crowd favorite, in spite of the fact that he has yet to win a race in the Winston Cup Division. However, his new-found popularity was with by and large with the ladies, Rory thought dryly. She had never been the jealous type, but since their wedding, she didn’t let him too far out of her eyesight either. He even had a public relations handler now! Indeed, things were finally falling into place for him. She glanced out the window, noting the reddening sky-what was that old saying? "Red sky in morning, sailor take warning." She closed her eyes; get that thought out of your head right now! she chided her self angrily. Tenderly kissing his still-damp forehead, she curled around him and dozed off.

It was nearly 8:30 and about an hour away from the mandatory driver’s meeting. Michael shook himself awake and stumbled into the shower. He was groggy, the remnants of the dream had blessedly faded for the time being. Being one who enjoyed flexing his vocal chords at the drop of a hat, he was always one for a song, particularly in the shower. Both he and Rory shared a love of Kentucky bluegrass music and Rory’s traditional Celtic folksongs ("bogtrotter’s music" she called it).

"I won’t get drunk no more,
I won’t get drunk no more
Way down the ol’ plank road...!"

So came the caterwauling from the shower. Rory chuckled, "there’s my boy!"

Presently, Michael felt gentle hands soaping his back, embracing him. "Mmmm-g’mornin’ sunshine!" he purred.

"Ya feelin’ better, luv?" Rory held him close as the warm water cascaded down. "You gave us a quite a scare earlier....mmm behave yerself now! I’d like to finish washing my hair while we still have hot water!"

She giggled as she felt his playful advances; butterfly kisses dancing along her lips, throat and beyond.

"Whatever am I going to do with you? You’re incorrigible!" she squealed, slapping his hand.

"mmmm-mmm..just horney!" he chuckled, gently lifting her so she had no choice but to wrap her legs ‘round his waist. "Drop me and so help me, Michael-" he silenced her with a deep soul-kiss. Moaning, she clutched him tightly as she felt him gracefully slide himself into her; her nails biting into his shoulders as his powerful hips ground into her with each slow, rhythmic thrust. The water was beginning to cool, feeling refreshing in the muggy atmosphere of the shower. Michael continued, driving hard as he gazed into his wife’s eyes; driving the last vestiges of the unpleasant visitation of Kevin and the dream away. Her unconditional love was his salvation. Finally, unable to hold back any further, ecstasy took them both; climaxing together. They stayed locked in an embrace, feverishly exchanging kisses; entwined as the cold water sluiced down on them like sleet.

Panting, he rested his head against hers, lips curling up into that mischievous smile, "mm-God, I love you so much, baby..." he sighed. "If we weren’t already married, I’d ask you to marry me..."

Rory grinned as she finally shut of the faucet. "Ach-we’ll catch our death with that ice water! You’re such a mush! Don’t know why I put up with ya" She wrapped a king-size towel about them both and pulled him close, "Come here, darlin’. You’re the keeper of my heart, Michael. I love you, baby ." Lips meeting, he said softly, "Always ’n’ forever?". Patsy Cline was singing "Crazy" on the radio as Rory draped her arms around his neck and started swaying to the music. "Until the end of time, darlin’", she whispered, burying her face against his neck. She happened to glance over at the clock, "Jesus! The time!! You’ve a meetin’ to go to!" she jumped and grabbed his sweatpants. "Here-throw these on! You’ll loose your starting place if you don’t hurry!"

Michael was already hopping comically about trying to pull his pants on, tripping and crashing into the nightstand. The resulting crash and oaths brought forth a wail from the newly awakened Caitlin. Above the din, the phone was ringing-his crew chief wondering "Where the fuck are you?!" Nearly as rapid as the Pennzoil Pontiac, the Waltrip household went from heaven to chaos in a matter of seconds.

Michael quickly threw on a rumpled button down shirt and a pair of flip-flops and bounded off the steps of the coach, heading to the MRO center where the driver’s meeting was being held. He tore through the compound like a madman, rounding the official’s trailer and running smack into Darrell. Darrell regarded his brother’s disheveled appearance-still wet hair sticking up on end, the collar of his shirt twisted and flopping in the breeze, buttoned haphazardly-with the exasperation usually reserved for a father of an errant teenager.

"Nice going, Stud-boy! You blew it again." Benny Parsons remarked as he sauntered by with an ESPN camera crew. They were on their way to the media center, preparing to set up for the day’s race. "Darrell, when’s that brother of yours gonna get his head glued on straight ? The one on his shoulders, I mean."

"Benny, don’t you have a cow to eat or somethin?" growled Darrell. Parsons waddled off, still laughing at his joke. Michael opened his mouth with a deadly comeback, "Fuc-" and immediately closed it when he saw the look of disappointment in his brother’s face. Still, he couldn’t resist one "Fat-ass!"

"Congratulations, Michael-you just went from 3rd to 43rd." he spat. "I don’t care if you were dyin’ back there, you know damn well you can’t miss these meetings!" Michael hung his head, he was busted and he knew it. Darrell signed, he knew deep down Michael was trying to focus on the business at hand, trying to take things more seriously. He laid a hand on his shoulder, "Well let’s check in with His Immenseness to let him know you’re still among the living, then we’ll see what that woman of yours has planned for breakfast!"

Mike Helton looked up from a stack of paperwork as Michael and Darrell walked in.

"Sorry I missed the meeting, I-um kinda over-slept...." came the even sorrier excuse.

Helton sighed and shook his head. "Consider this a learning experience, Michael and consider yourself lucky that I don’t put you on probation after the number of stunts you and you companions have pulled over the past year . The rules stand-you will start at the back of the field." he went back to his forms.

Darrell hedged, "Ahh, c’mon Mike-he’s got a new baby and she was keepin’ him up all night. Cut the boy some slack."

Helton looked up and glared at the elder Waltrip. "Hmmm, I’m sure his ‘baby’ was keepin’ him up all night and I don’t think it was the little one from the looks of him. Ruling still stands, sorry Darrell, but you know better than that! Intercede on his part again, and you’ll be startin’ right back there with him!"

They headed back to the garage, it was nearly 11:30-still enough time to get some food in their system before the race. Team owner, Chuck Rider collared them, glaring at Michael- "You’d better plan on drivin’ your ass off out there, Waltrip-you fuck up one more time and you’ll be out of this ride and back to runnin’ late models in Kentucky!"

Michael looked at Darrell, "Shit-can this day get any better?" he muttered.

Darrell, meanwhile had been regarding the darkening sky to the west. Past the clouds, the sky still held an odd pinkish cast. "hmmm? dang-look at that sky-gonna be a real frog-strangler later!"

Chapters 11-21