Page 116 of Thunder's Reckoning
I ROLLED TOa stop behind the old grain mill,the engine of my bike tickin’ as it cooled, the sound swallowed by the kind of silence that only lived this far out in the sticks.
The mill rose up outta the earth like a carcass left unburied too long, red brick split and crumblin’, rust bleedin’ down warped tin sheets, kudzu stranglin’ every inch. Windows gaped hollow, black holes starin’ back at me.
The moon hung low and mean behind a bank of clouds, spillin’ just enough light to keep a man guessin’ what might be waitin’ in the dark.
My fingers hovered near the pistol inside my cut, the weight of it solid. Every damn thing about this screamed trap. Hell, itshould’vebeen a trap.
But I came anyway.
From the far side of the mill, a shape peeled outta the shadows. Slow steps. Hands raised. Movin’ careful, like he knew one wrong twitch would drop him flat.
He stayed in the open. Shoulders squared. Head high.
Moonlight slid over him, catchin’ on silver hair that didn’t belong on a man his age. My hand tightened on the grip of my pistol.
Closer he came—calm, controlled, palms empty—but the tension rolled off him like barbed wire pulled too tight.
Then he stepped into the spill of moonlight.
And my gut near bottomed out.
He looked like me.
Not a little. Not a hint.Me.Same jaw cut sharp. Same ice-blue eyes. Same silver streaked through his hair like frost. Like starin’ into a warped mirror, showin’ me a man made by a different road.
But he wasn’t untouched. Scar cut through his eyebrow. Another dragged down his jaw into his collar. Knuckles busted, healed, busted again. Hands that’d known fire and fists both.
And the way he watched me—steady, unblinkin’—hell, that wasmy own starecomin’ back at me. Only his carried a shadow, like he’d spent too long hidin’ in corners.
I forgot to breathe till my lungs clawed for air.
“What the hell,” I muttered.
He stopped ten feet away. Didn’t push closer. Didn’t flinch.
“I know,” he said, voice low, practiced. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Seeing yourself standing across from you.”
My jaw locked. “Start talkin’.”
His mouth tilted—not a smile, not really. Just tired. “I’m Ash. Your cousin. My father was your mother’s brother.”
The words hit like a fist to the chest. My mind balked, stuttered, suspicion clawin’ cold down my spine.
“You’re full of shit.”
Ash didn’t flinch. He moved careful, slow, reachin’ inside his coat like he knew one quick twitch’d get him dropped. Pulled somethin’ small, worn soft with age, and held it out.
I took it, my fingers brushin’ his, long enough to feel the tremor he couldn’t hide.
The photograph was thin as old cloth, folds nearly torn through.
And the second I saw it, the air slammed outta me.
A chapel. Wooden slats weathered gray. Flame symbols carved into the doors. Scripture painted ‘cross the trim like a warning.
Two men stood in the center.
One was my daddy. Behind him, my momma—braid pulled tight, eyes soft and kind.
