Part 1: The Escape
They say every scar has a story. Mine ain’t written in ink—it’s carved into the skin, burned into the bone, and buried in the nights I’d rather forget.
But that night… that night a different kind of story crashed into me. One I never asked for. One I couldn’t walk away from.
It started on a cold stretch of highway outside Amarillo.
Midnight. Wind cutting sharp as a blade through my leather jacket. Diesel—my pitbull—sat strapped in the sidecar, ears twitching at every sound. I’d been running errands for the club, head buzzing with the kind of silence only a man with too many regrets knows.
Then I saw her.
A little figure stumbling along the gravel shoulder, bare feet bleeding, hair tangled like she’d wrestled with a storm. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Thin as a ghost, shaking like she’d been thrown into the night with nothing but fear to cover her.
At first, I slowed just to make sure she wasn’t about to get herself killed. Out here, trucks thunder by without seeing what they crush. But the way she looked at me—eyes wide, skin bruised purple and blue, lip split—something in my gut twisted.
She froze when I cut the engine. Diesel barked once, deep and protective.
“Easy, girl,” I said, raising my hands. “Ain’t here to hurt you.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Please… don’t take me back.”
Back? To what? My stomach sank. I’d seen fear in grown men—men facing prison, men staring down a gun barrel—but nothing like the terror in that kid’s eyes.
I stepped off the bike slow, careful, like approaching a spooked animal. Diesel sniffed the air, tail stiff, hackles raised.
“Who’s chasing you?” I asked.
She shook her head, eyes darting down the road. That’s when I heard it. The crunch of tires, slow and heavy, rolling up behind us.
A beat-up Chevy truck pulled onto the shoulder, headlights glaring white. A man climbed out, tall and mean-looking, reeking of booze even from twenty feet away. His jaw clenched when he saw me standing next to the girl.
“That’s my daughter,” he barked, voice slurred but sharp enough to cut. “Thanks for stoppin’. I’ll take her home.”
The girl whimpered. “Don’t… please.”
I’ve been called a lot of things—ex-con, outlaw, bastard—but never anyone’s savior. Still, something about the way her knees buckled when that man stepped closer lit a fuse in me.
I planted myself between them. “She don’t look like she wants to go.”
The guy sneered. “She don’t get a choice.”
He took another step, fists balling. Diesel’s growl rumbled like thunder.
I’ve been in enough bar fights to know when a man’s about to swing. But this wasn’t about pride or ego. This was about a kid who’d run barefoot into the night rather than stay in that bastard’s house.
“Back off,” I warned. “Last time I checked, a girl’s got the right to be safe.”
He laughed, a dry, ugly sound. “Safe? With a biker trash like you?”
I felt the old rage climb up my spine. The kind that got me locked in a cell once. The kind I’d sworn I wouldn’t let out again. But then I saw her clutching Diesel’s collar like it was the last rope keeping her from drowning.
I couldn’t stand down. Not this time.
The man spat on the dirt and reached behind his truck seat. When his arm swung back, the steel glint under the headlights left no doubt.
A knife.
He pointed it at me, shaking with booze and fury.
“You move,” he hissed, “and I’ll gut you where you stand.”
And right there, under that pale stretch of Texas moon, I realized I had a choice.
Walk away like I’d done too many times before…
Or stand my ground for a girl I’d never met but who looked at me like I was her last shot at life.
Diesel’s bark shattered the silence, echoing off the asphalt. The girl gasped, pressing into my back.
I tightened my fists, the scars on my knuckles burning. My bike’s chrome reflected the man’s knife like a warning.
This wasn’t just some drunk with a temper. This was a predator. And predators only stop when someone bigger, meaner, and more willing to bleed says, enough.
That was the moment everything shifted.
That was the night The Runaway Girl crashed into the life of Rex “Big Iron” Dalton.
And it was the moment the knife in that bastard’s hand caught the moonlight… as he stepped closer.
Part 2: The Shelter
The knife glinted under the moonlight. Diesel’s growl rattled deep in his chest, low and steady like a storm about to break. The girl clung to my back, her small fingers digging through the leather like claws.
I’ve faced down men with guns, with chains, with bats. But nothing pissed me off more than seeing a kid tremble behind me while a drunk bastard waved steel like he owned the night.
“Put it down,” I warned.
He sneered, lips curling around rot-yellow teeth. “She’s mine.”
That word—mine—was enough to snap whatever leash I had on my temper. Before he could lunge, Diesel shot forward, teeth snapping in a flash of muscle. The man stumbled back, knife slicing air, not flesh. I stepped in hard, shoulder slamming into his chest, knocking him flat against the dirt. The blade clattered on the gravel.
He cursed, swinging wild, but I planted my boot on his wrist and pressed down until the sound of bone grinding against stone made him howl.
“You so much as breathe in her direction again,” I growled, “and I’ll make sure you never pick up another damn knife.”
For a second, his eyes flickered—not with fear, but with something uglier. Hatred. He spat blood and muttered, “You’ll regret this, biker trash.”
I let him up—barely—and kicked the knife farther into the dark. He scrambled back toward his truck, muttering curses, his pride more wounded than his body. The engine roared, and dust swallowed him as he peeled off into the night.
Silence rushed in, heavy and cold.
I turned. The girl stood there, barefoot, shaking like a leaf. Diesel nudged her hand, tail wagging, as if to say, You’re safe now.
But safe was a word I hadn’t trusted in years.
A Stranger at My Door
“You got a name, kid?” I asked, voice softer now.
She hesitated. “Naomi.”
“Alright, Naomi. Where’s your shoes?”
She looked down, ashamed. “I ran.”
I didn’t press further. Her arms wrapped tight around herself told me enough.
“Come on,” I said, motioning toward my bike. “We can’t stand out here waitin’ for round two.”
Her eyes darted to the chrome, to Diesel in his sidecar, then back to me. Fear flickered—of me, of the machine, of everything. But then she saw Diesel wag once more, tongue lolling, and her shoulders dropped just a little.
I boosted her onto the back, wrapped my spare jacket around her thin frame, and kicked the engine alive. The roar shook the highway, carrying us into the dark.
The Cabin
My place ain’t much. A cabin tucked behind a row of pines, far enough off the county road that no one bothered to look. It smelled like oil, leather, and the faint smoke of last night’s fire.
When we pulled up, Naomi’s eyes widened, like she’d stepped into some outlaw fairy tale. Diesel hopped out and bounded to the porch, waiting like he owned the joint.
Inside, I lit the old lamp. Warm amber light filled the room—scuffed wooden floors, a battered couch, shelves stacked with motorcycle parts, and a faded photo of my club back in the days before prison.
She hovered near the door, arms still hugging herself.
“You hungry?” I asked.
Her stomach answered before she could. A low growl. She looked embarrassed.
I tossed a can of beef stew into a pot, added some bread from the counter, and set it down in front of her. She stared at the food like it might vanish if she blinked. Then she ate—slow at first, then faster, like a kid starved for days.
Diesel sat beside her, eyes bright, drool dripping until she giggled and slipped him a piece of bread. It was the first sound of life I’d heard from her.
Questions I Shouldn’t Ask
“You got family besides him?” I asked.
Her chewing slowed. She shook her head. “Mom’s gone.”
I didn’t need more detail. The way her voice cracked said enough.
“Anybody gonna come looking for you?”
“Just him.”
I leaned back, rubbing the scar across my knuckle. This was trouble. No question. A runaway kid in my cabin, a drunk abuser hunting her down—it wasn’t the kind of heat a man like me should attract.
But then Naomi set her spoon down, and her eyes locked onto mine. Big, bruised eyes, too old for her years.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t send me back.”
Damn it.
I’d spent my life running from ghosts, pushing people away before they could cling to me. But now one was sitting at my table, asking for the one thing I’d never been good at—keeping someone safe.
The Knock
Hours later, Naomi was curled up on the couch, Diesel tucked against her legs. The fire had burned low, and the night was quiet except for the occasional howl of a coyote.
I sat at the table, staring at the bottom of a whiskey glass, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
That’s when the knock came.
Hard. Sharp. Official.
Naomi jerked awake, eyes wide. Diesel’s ears pricked, a low growl spilling out.
I opened the door to find two deputies standing there, badges gleaming under porch light.
“Rex Dalton?” the older one asked.
“Who’s askin’?”
“Sheriff’s office. We got a report you abducted a minor tonight.”
The words hit like a hammer. I felt Naomi freeze behind me, clutching Diesel’s collar again.
“She ran to me,” I said flat. “From a man who had no business raisin’ her hand.”
The deputy didn’t blink. “That man filed a complaint. Says you lured her. We need to ask her some questions.”
I turned. Naomi’s face was pale, tears welling, but she shook her head furiously.
I’d been here before—lawmen staring at me like I was guilty before a word was spoken. My record didn’t give me much ground to stand on.
But this wasn’t about me anymore.
The Choice
“Naomi,” the deputy said gently, “did this man take you against your will?”
The whole room seemed to hold its breath. Diesel pressed against her, protective. Her lip quivered, but her eyes burned with something I hadn’t seen yet—defiance.
She stepped forward, voice trembling but clear.
“No. He saved me.”
For a moment, silence. The deputies exchanged a look, scribbled something in a notepad.
“We’ll be in touch,” the older one said. “Don’t leave town, Dalton.”
Their boots crunched on gravel as they left, their cruiser lights fading into the trees.
Naomi turned to me, tears spilling now, shaking harder than before.
“Are they gonna make me go back?”
I didn’t have an answer. My chest tightened with anger I hadn’t felt in years. Because I knew men like her stepdad. Men who smiled for lawmen and neighbors, then turned monsters behind closed doors. And I knew how often the system looked the other way.
I crouched down, eye level with her. “Not if I can help it.”
She nodded, wiping her nose, trying to be brave. Diesel licked her hand, tail thumping, as if sealing the promise.
The Storm Ahead
That night, long after Naomi drifted to sleep again, I sat outside on the porch with Diesel at my feet. The stars burned cold above, and the pine trees whispered like they knew a storm was coming.
I’d tried to live quiet these last years, away from the club, away from fights that left scars deeper than skin. But fate had a way of dragging me back into the fire.
This wasn’t about me anymore. It was about a girl who had no one else.
I clenched my fists, staring at the dark road where that truck had vanished hours earlier.
If her stepdad thought I’d hand her back, he didn’t know Rex “Big Iron” Dalton.
Part 3: The Past Uncovered
Morning always tells the truth.
You can lie to yourself in the dark—say you’ve got this under control, say the ghosts can’t find you—but when the sun slips through the blinds and lands on the dust motes, the room shows you what it really is. Scarred table. Half-mended chair. A coat that isn’t yours hanging on a nail because a kid was too tired to carry it to the couch.
Naomi slept with Diesel’s head on her calves like a warm, stubborn rock. Every time she twitched, he huffed and settled heavier, as if pinning her to safety. I brewed coffee in a dented kettle and watched the steam climb, wondering how many bad decisions a man could stack under his feet before the floor gave out.
She sat up slow, hair in a snarl, eyes swollen from the kind of crying you don’t hear. For a second she didn’t remember where she was, and the panic came back. Then Diesel wiggled his eyebrows and sneezed into her knee. The smallest smile cracked her face.
“Hungry?” I asked.
She nodded. I set a plate—eggs, toast, the end of a jar of jelly—then slid a chipped mug across the table. She wrapped both hands around it just to feel the heat.
“Thank you,” she said, so soft it almost wasn’t there.
“Don’t mention it.”
We ate quiet. Out here, quiet isn’t empty. It’s pine needles whispering, a jaybird heckling, the old fridge humming like it might give up any minute. I let the sounds sit between us until she finished and pushed the plate away like she was afraid of taking too much.
“Got school?” I asked.
She stared at the wood grain. “Not today.”
I didn’t push. I’d learned the hard way that questions were like locked doors—you didn’t kick them unless someone inside was bleeding. Still, if the law came back—and they would—truth would be a better shield than silence.
“You can tell me what you want,” I said. “What you don’t want… stays yours.”
Naomi nodded. The room breathed with us. Then she reached into her backpack—really more a threadbare gym bag—and pulled out a pencil no bigger than a cigarette and a dog-eared notepad. The first page was scarred from too-hard strokes. She set them down like they were holy.
“Can I… draw him?” she asked, chin toward Diesel.
“Knock yourself out. He likes being famous.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor. Diesel rotated, posed like a celebrity who’d never said no to a camera. Naomi giggled again, the second time in twelve hours. Her fingers were delicate, fast. The pencil whispered, and the dog appeared—one ear a little crooked, scar over the eyebrow, that square head people judge before they meet. She caught all of it. The hurt and the silly.
“You’re good,” I said.
She shrugged. “It keeps my hands busy.”
“Hands busy is a fine way not to break.”
We stayed like that a long time. She drew. I cleaned a carburetor that didn’t need cleaning. Diesel snored with the confidence of a creature who’s earned his rest.
When she finally set the pencil down, she didn’t hand me the paper. She held it against her chest, guarding the dog she’d put there. And then the door to her words cracked a little.
“Mom used to say I draw with my bones,” she said. “Like I don’t have to think about it, I just… put what I know on the page.”
“Your mom sounds sharp.”
“She was.” The past tense hung between us like frost. “She got sick. After that he… moved in. Said we needed ‘a man around the house.’ He fixed the screen door. He broke the rest.”
The silence after that was different. It wasn’t wood and birds. It was the kind of silence I carried from yards where fathers drank dinners and mothers watched the clock and nobody said the word sorry because it was too small for anything that happened.
“You ever tell anybody?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “People don’t like hearing about bad things. Makes them part of it if they don’t fix it.”
There it was—the old wisdom kids shouldn’t have. I felt something old and mean wake up under my ribs. I thought of my sister, Lily. Ten years younger, wild hair and a laugh that made the dead dog next door bark. I thought of the night I didn’t come home because I was too busy being bulletproof for men who mistook cowardice for bravery. Thought of the bruise I saw on her collarbone the next morning and how the man who put it there was already gone and how the law said, prove it. I proved it three weeks later with my fists. The judge gave me eighteen months and a sermon. The man got a new town. Lily got quiet.
“You didn’t deserve any of it,” I said. The words felt useless and necessary at the same time. “You don’t now.”
Naomi swallowed. “He says I make him mad. That I push.”
“Abusers say a lot of things. They gotta blame somebody who’ll believe them.” I took a breath that scraped. “That ain’t you anymore.”
She watched me like she was measuring whether I believed my own mouth. “You’ve… been in trouble,” she said.
“Once or twice.”
“Jail?”
“Prison.” I didn’t dress it up. “Club life. Thought I was tough. Turned out I was just angry and dumb. Hurt people who didn’t deserve it. I aim to spend the rest of my life not being that man.”
She studied my hands. Scarred knuckles, ink like a past I couldn’t scrub. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because I kept waking up with the wrong blood on my boots.”
Naomi nodded like she understood more than she should. She reached down, slid her drawing across the floor. Diesel’s face stared back at me, half lion, half goof. In the corner she’d sketched a little badge—just a circle on a collar—but it looked like a medal. I felt something in me unclench.
“Can I… stay a few days?” she asked. “Just until I figure things out.”
“Yeah,” I said, before my brain could list the laws against it. “You can.”
Right then the cabin felt bigger, like the walls were relieved to do something useful again. I showed her the spare room—a mattress, a lamp, a window that stuck unless you used both hands and a curse word. She stood in the doorway as if stepping over an invisible line.
“You can close it,” I said. “Or leave it open. Your call.”
She left it open. Diesel parked himself just outside, chin on paws, pretending not to guard.
We spent the afternoon pretending normal. I taught her how to coax the sticky window without the curse. She taught me how to fix the broken lamp with a paper clip and stubbornness. We walked the tree line and looked for deer prints and found a rusted soda sign from before either of us existed. When we came back, I grilled cheese and burned one and we ate the burnt one together because that’s what you do when you have more heart than skill.
By evening, Naomi was talking without looking at me. That’s how trust starts—sideways. She told me about the art teacher who noticed her charcoal stains and asked nothing else. About the neighbor lady who called out, “Everything alright?” one night from a porch and then turned her light off when the truck door slammed. About her mom’s last hospital room, the fake flowers and the way the nurse braided her hair even when nobody visited. She told me her stepdad’s name—Crowley—and how he liked to make jokes in front of men about how “girls are dramatic” and how those same men laughed because it was easier than disagreeing.
“I used to think if I was quiet enough, I’d disappear,” she said. “Turns out, he could still find me.”
“Not here,” I said.
She met my eyes dead-on. “You can’t promise that.”
She was right. I hated that she was right.
After dark, I walked the perimeter twice, just me and Diesel and a flashlight that habit kept me from flicking on. The moon was a fingernail. The pines breathed. Halfway around the back fence line, I saw a porch light blink on at the next property over. Old man Hank Winters—Korean War vet, the kind who pretends his hearing is worse than it is so folks repeat the parts he cares about. He stood on his steps in long johns and a robe, looked in my direction, then lifted his chin once. Not a wave. More like he’d noticed and logged it and would speak when the ledger demanded.
“Evenin’, Hank,” I said, voice low.
He lifted a hand to his ear like can’t hear you, then went back inside. Which meant he’d heard all he needed.
I didn’t mind. Hank was the kind of man who remembered the shape of a person more than the gossip around them. If this got loud—and it would—it wouldn’t hurt to have his eyes.
Back at the cabin, Naomi had fallen asleep again. Diesel wedged into the crack of the couch like he’d been poured there. I pulled a blanket over both and sat at the table with a legal pad I used when I wanted to pretend I was orderly. I wrote down names: mine, hers, Crowley. Wrote Sheriff and underlined it twice. Wrote lawyer? then crossed it out because men like me don’t have lawyers—they have stories. Stories don’t win in court unless somebody brave tells them.
I was still staring at that list when my phone buzzed. Not many folks have my number. Fewer use it without a reason.
The text glowed like a tiny omen.
Unknown: You like playin’ hero, Dalton? Hand her over or we’ll make sure you lose more than your bike.
My jaw locked. Diesel’s head popped up as if the evil in the message had a smell.
I typed back, then deleted it. The man I used to be had replies that bled. The man I was trying to be put the phone face down and breathed until my pulse stopped knocking against my throat.
I stood, stretched the ache out of my shoulders, and went to lock the back door.
That’s when blue and red light washed across the wall.
It wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t a trick of my tired brain. The cabin flickered in police colors, the kind that make even innocent hearts sprint.
I stepped to the window and moved the curtain with two fingers. A cruiser idled at the end of my drive, engine low. Another rolled in behind it, slow as a promise. The driver’s door of the first opened, and Deputy Harlan—Crowley’s drinking buddy from the VFW—hoisted himself out, hat squared, mouth already in a smirk.
Naomi stirred on the couch. Diesel stood without a sound, the shape of a growl forming before it arrived.
Harlan looked straight at my porch, like he’d been waiting for my eyes. He raised a folded packet of papers and slapped it against his palm.
“Evenin’, Dalton,” he called, voice carrying neat through the pines. “Open up. We got business about the girl.”
The night held its breath.
And every scar I owned woke back up.
Part 4: The Stand-off
The red and blue lights painted my cabin walls like a carnival from hell. Naomi sat up on the couch, wide-eyed, hair sticking out in panicked spikes. Diesel stood stiff beside her, ears flat, hackles running down his spine like a saw blade.
Deputy Harlan slapped the folded papers against his palm again, smirk cutting across his bloated face. “Come on now, Dalton. Don’t make this harder. Bring her out.”
I opened the door, slow, shoulders filling the frame. “She’s not a runaway dog, Harlan. She’s a kid. You gonna tell me the sheriff’s office works nights for Crowley now?”
His smirk twitched. “You watch your mouth. He’s her legal guardian. Signed paperwork says she belongs in his care.”
“Care?” I barked a laugh sharp enough to cut. “You ever see his kind of care? Girl’s covered in bruises. You call that parenting?”
Harlan’s face darkened, but his hand stayed near the butt of his holster. “Law’s law. You don’t like it, argue in court. Not on your porch with your mutt barin’ teeth at me.”
Diesel growled low, a sound that always made men think twice. Not Harlan. He puffed his chest, like daring me to let the dog loose.
Behind me, Naomi’s voice broke the air. “I’m not going back.”
It was small but clear. The kind of voice you didn’t expect to hear in a showdown between men. For a second, the whole damn forest seemed to quiet.
Harlan blinked, annoyed more than moved. “That ain’t up to you, little miss. You’re fourteen. You don’t get to choose.”
Naomi stood, fists trembling, but her chin tilted stubborn. “Yes, I do. I’d rather sleep in a ditch than go back there.”
Pride punched me in the chest harder than any fist ever had. Brave kid. Braver than me at her age.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between me and Harlan until the papers in his hand brushed my vest. “You heard her. She’s not property. Not his. And she damn sure ain’t yours to drag off in the middle of the night.”
Another cruiser pulled in. Young deputy climbed out—Miller, barely twenty-three, still green, eyes too honest for this job. He looked from me to Harlan, confusion plain. “What’s going on?”
Harlan shoved the papers at him. “Custody order. Kid goes back with Crowley.”
Miller read fast, brow furrowed. He glanced at Naomi. Her split lip. Her skinny wrists. Then at me. “Sir… should we call CPS? Let them handle it in the morning?”
Harlan glared like he’d bite through him. “You questioning me?”
“No, sir,” Miller muttered, but the seed of doubt was planted.
I leaned close enough for Harlan to smell the coffee and cigarettes on my breath. “You know damn well if she leaves with him tonight, she might not live to see morning.”
Harlan’s jaw worked. He wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t care. Crowley was his buddy, his drinking partner, maybe even the guy who slipped him free rounds down at the Legion. That kind of bond rots deeper than law.
“Last warning, Dalton,” he snapped. “Step aside.”
Diesel’s growl rose like thunder. Naomi clutched his collar, tears streaking her cheeks but her voice steady. “If you send me back, you’ll be sorry. I’ll tell everyone. I’ll scream until somebody listens.”
That silenced him for a heartbeat. Maybe he saw the fire in her eyes. Maybe he just calculated the mess it’d cause. Either way, he lowered the papers an inch.
Miller cleared his throat. “Protocol says we log her statement, sir. If she’s saying she’s unsafe, we—”
“Enough,” Harlan barked. He crumpled the papers, shoved them back in his pocket. “Fine. Tomorrow morning, Sheriff will sort this. But hear me, Dalton—keep this up and you’ll find yourself in a cell so fast your head’ll spin.”
He spat in the dirt, stomped back to his cruiser. Miller lingered a second, looking at Naomi like he wanted to say sorry, then followed. Engines roared, taillights vanished.
The woods sighed relief.
Naomi slumped to the floor, clutching Diesel’s neck, sobbing so hard she shook. Diesel licked her ear like he was patching holes nobody else could see.
I sat on the step, head in my hands. I’d stared down worse odds in my life. But this? A girl versus a system stacked against her? That was a war I didn’t know how to win.
Morning in the Ashes
By dawn, Naomi was curled on the couch again, worn out from crying. I sat at the table with a black eye of coffee, staring at the old photo of my club brothers on the wall. We were young, dumb, dangerous. Back then, the world knew how to deal with us—bars banned us, cops arrested us, rival crews tried to bury us. Easy. Clear lines.
This was different. This was shadowed halls and legal papers, whispers and bruises nobody wanted to testify about. This was a fight fought in courtrooms, not alleys. I was the wrong kind of soldier.
The screen door creaked. Old man Hank Winters shuffled up the porch, breath fogging in the chill. He leaned on his cane, eyes sharp as ever.
“Rex,” he said, voice like gravel. “Had company last night.”
I nodded. “You saw.”
“Whole damn valley saw those lights. Word’ll spread.”
“Let it,” I muttered.
He studied me, then Naomi, then Diesel. “That girl’s got more fight in her than most men I buried overseas. But fight’s not enough. You gonna do right by her, you better find a way to make people listen.”
I rubbed my temples. “Don’t know where to start.”
Hank tapped his cane against the porch. “Start with truth. Folks trust stories more than they trust men like you. Give her the chance to speak. People hear it from her lips, they can’t pretend blind no more.”
He was right. Naomi’s voice had cut sharper than any threat I’d thrown at Harlan. That was the weapon. Not my fists. Hers.
A Decision
When Naomi woke, she looked older than she had yesterday. Pain’ll do that to a kid. She sat up, clutching the drawing of Diesel she’d made, eyes flicking to me like she wasn’t sure if the night had been a dream.
“They’ll come back,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” I said. “But this time, we’ll be ready.”
She frowned. “How?”
“By telling your story where they can’t ignore it. Judge. Court. Maybe even the damn town if we have to.”
Her lip trembled. “What if they don’t believe me?”
“They will.”
Truth was, I didn’t know if they would. But I knew one thing: the sound of her voice, steady against Harlan’s orders, had rattled something. And once rattled, cracks spread.
Diesel barked once, like he agreed. Naomi buried her face in his neck and nodded.
The Summons
Three days later, it came. An envelope slid under my door, stamped with the county seal. Court summons. Custody hearing scheduled for the end of the week.
Naomi read over my shoulder, hands shaking. “He’ll be there.”
“Good,” I said. “So will we.”
But in my gut, I knew Crowley wouldn’t play fair. He’d twist the town, the law, maybe even old secrets of mine. And if the judge wasn’t willing to listen, Naomi’s voice might not be enough.
That night, as she slept, I stared at the paper until the ink blurred.
One way or another, the fight was moving out of my cabin and into a place where fists wouldn’t win.