Chapter 12
The morning sun cut sharp, golden lances through the high canopy of Ponderosa pines, flooding the cabin clearing with light and burning off the thin layer of mountain dew clinging to the grass. Inside, the fire in the woodstove had burned down to a bed of glowing red embers, filling the room with a comfortable, steady warmth.
Jax was standing on the back porch, working the hand pump to draw a bucket of ice-cold spring water for washing up, when he heard it—the distinct, low rumble of a heavy motorcycle engine idling at the end of the dirt logging trail.
He froze instantly, his hand locked around the wooden handle of the pump. The sound was wrong. It wasn't the rhythmic, reliable purr of his own flat-black Softail; it was the sharp, aggressive, modified exhaust note of a modern custom bagger—the kind ridden by men wearing the colors of the Iron Skulls.
Jax released the pump handle, grabbed the heavy wrench sitting on the porch rail, and walked quickly back inside the cabin. Leo was sitting at the table, finishing the last crust of Martha’s apple pie from the night before. He looked up when Jax walked in, sensing the sudden shift in the air pressure around the room.
"Stay here, Leo," Jax ordered quietly, his voice hard as iron. "Don't look out the window, don't make a sound, and if the door opens, you get under that iron cot and stay there until I tell you it's safe."
"Who is it?" Leo asked, his eyes widening slightly, though his voice remained remarkably steady.
"Just some old business I forgot to settle," Jax replied, slipping the heavy wrench into his back waistband and pulling his leather vest tight across his chest. He walked to the front door, checked the latch, and stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him.
Down in the clearing, two motorcycles had pulled up right beside his Softail. The engines sputtered and died, leaving a heavy smell of unburned fuel hanging in the morning air. Two men dismounted: Bull, the barrel-chested brute from the diner, and a lean, wiry enforcer with tattoos crawling up his neck named Ray. Both men wore their heavy leather vests and carried themselves with the practiced, predatory swagger of men who believed they owned the entire state of South Dakota.
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"Nice place you got here, Jax," Bull called out, taking off his tinted riding glasses and looking around the isolated clearing with a mocking grin. "Real cozy. Didn't figure a lone wolf like you for a cabin in the woods."
Jax didn't move from the top of the porch steps, his arms resting casually at his sides, his body coiled like a spring. "You're a long way from Main Street, Bull. Toll road ends about three miles back down that trail. I suggest you turn those bikes around before you get lost."
