Page 10 of Bones and Ashes

If Diesel answers, I don't hear him.

Because I can't take my eyes off this man in front of me.

His mouth lifts at one corner—not quite a smile. Then he raises his hand, points one finger to the sky, and drops it fast.

Fifty engines cut at once.

The thunder that's been shakin' the dirt dies instant, leavin' a silence so complete I can hear the flag snappin' on our pole thirty yards back.

The man's still lookin' at me.

But now, in the silence, it feels different.

"You see something ya like… Legion?"

He uses my name like he knows me.

This is when it lands.

Because I've seen his face before.

In old photographs that came in yellow envelopes. Gifts—bribes is more like it—from Eleanor.

Because I'm lookin' at the face of my father.

"Open the gate," I tell Dusty. Not even lookin' at him. "I think we've got some business with these folks."

Dusty doesn't move.

"Go on," I tell him. "Open it up."

He glances at me, eyes uncertain, hands twitchy on his rifle. For a second I think he might argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he shoulders the weapon and drags the gate open, metal wheels scraping against dirt.

None of 'em move though. They just sit there like they're waitin' for an invitation.

So I start walkin'.

Diesel falls in beside me, a solid presence on my right. I can feel the tension comin' off him. "Legion," he murmurs, "we don't know what the fuck this is."

"Yeah," I say under my breath. "That's why we're gonna find out."

My boots kick up little clouds as we approach. I focus on June first—the woman I abandoned after her husband took bullets for me. The woman I should've visited a month ago with promises and condolences.

"June," I say, voice rough. "Funny. I was just on my way to see you. I meant to, ya know. See you. It's just…" I let out a little breath. "There was a lot goin' on and…I fucked up. And I'm sorry."

She frowns at me. I can't see her eyes, the sunglasses block 'em. But I recognize the signs of sadness even when it's wearin' shades. "It's fine," she says, looking to the side for a moment.

It's not fine. She and I both know this. But a club of fifty or sixty men don't ride three-hundred plus miles for nothin'.

And I'm not sayin' Havoc was nothin', and I do appreciate that he had my back. But he wasn't a child and I wasn't his president.

He and I were equals when the shootout happened. We both made the same risk assessment in the same moment and unfortunately, only one of us got out alive.

His death is not on me.

My lack of respect to June… is.

But again, an entire club doesn't ride from Custer to Terry, Montana on a whim or a prayer.