Page 62 of Forsaking All Others

“The swing set is up, if Theo is feeling up to it, you should take him outside. Put him on the slide. Shep used to love that thing.”

Her eyes go soft for me and guilt creeps in.

I don’t deserve that, and I deliver that reminder with what I say next.

“Leftie’s sister Mable works as a receptionist for a funeral home in Poplar Creek. She’s gonna help you with Colt’s arrangements unless you want to wait until I get back…”

She lowers her gaze and twists her wedding band around her finger. I wait for the tears to come, but she keeps them at bay.

“He didn’t want to be buried,” she murmurs, lifting her chin. Her face pales and her lips part as though she’s just realized something, but I don’t press the issue. Some things are only hers and I need to respect that.

“Then we’ll just have a service, that okay?”

She smacks her lips shut and her eyes find mine.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

I linger there for a moment just drinking her in. Her eyes are still swollen from all the crying she did but, man, she’s beautiful and seeing her there, in my bed, wearing my tee—well, it’s my undoing. I take my hands out of my pockets and step closer. Unable to help myself, I brush the back of my hand along the side of her jaw.

“On my knees,” I rasp.

Then I drop my hand to my side and turn for the door.

“Wait,” she calls.

I glance over my shoulder.

Eyes still soft.

“If I were sure our three children would be okay, I’d bury myself in the dirt with you, Maverick.”

In my veins.

Branded to my soul.

* * *

Eight hourslater and twelve bikes deep we roll up to Big Nose Kate’s. We barely have a chance to kill our engines and scope out the place before the front porch is loaded with Knights. It’s dark but the twinkling Christmas lights hanging from the rafters of the pitched roof illuminate the porch and the menacing scowls of the New York charter come into view.

“How are we playing this?” Ghost questions, coming up to stand beside my bike. He keeps his eyes to the porch and so do I.

“Their turf, their rules,” I reply, then I glance over my shoulder at the men straddling their bikes, waiting for my command. “Leave Torque and Ink out here in case things go south. The rest of us go in.”

He gives me a nod before tearing his gaze away from the other charter.

“I don’t see Parrish.”

Yeah, I noticed that too.

I throw my leg over my bike and plant my boots on the gravel. Lifting a finger in the air, I round up my guys. Ghost stalks toward them, ordering Torque and Ink to stay put and I start for the steps that are outlined with iron horseshoes.

When Parrish said his clubhouse operated out of a bar, this wasn’t what I pictured. From the outside the place looks like a saloon.

“Take it you’re Maverick.”

I lift my head and stare at the man addressing me. Tall, tan, and in need of a haircut, with tats crawling up both his arms, his kutte reads Blackie. Parrish’s son-in-law and the man who acted as his vice president when he held the gavel—er, mallet. There is no rank on his kutte these days, yet he’s the one commanding my attention.

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