Rich said as we bumped along the gravel road toward Parkfield. It was open range, and I had to stop more than once for a lazy heifer or bull wandering across the road to where the alfalfa was undoubtedly greener. Above us, turkey vultures swooped low in the sweet-tasting air, so close we could almost count their wing feathers.I laughed. “I guarantee that Parkfield isn’t a tourist trap on the level of Morro Bay and I doubt that it ever will be. In the summer, it can get up to 110 degrees out here. The people who live and ranch out here are tougher than me by a long shot. Tough as baked-in-the-sun bull hide.”He looked out the window, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Somehow, I think you might give them a run for their money, Benni Harper.”“You’re just being flattering ’cause I know the way back.”“Could be,” he said with a chuckle.In a half hour we pulled into the tiny town of Parkfield—population 34—with more earthquake-predicting gizmos than could be found even at Cal Tech.
