What he really wanted to buy was mountain bikes. He’d already cruised the bicycle aisle—evidently he had gotten here hours ago—and made his selections. She couldn’t argue with his logic. They needed to get to Jake Forthrast’s compound on Prohibition Creek—or "Crick" as the Iowans insisted on pronouncing it. It was thirty miles as the crow flew, longer on the roads they’d be taking. There were no buses. But on bicycles, they could make it before nightfall if they set a decent pace.