Chapter 7
Martha walked out from behind the counter, holding a clean damp towel and a glass of fresh water, which she set down before kneeling next to Jax. Her sharp, experienced eyes softened as she looked at the young boy.
“He’s right, Jax,” Martha said quietly, her voice firm. “You can’t put him back on a bus. Not after what just happened out there. Vance and his crew are animals; they won't let this go. They’ll wait for you on the interstate.”
Jax looked up at Martha, the harsh lines of his face etched deep with frustration. “What do you suggest I do, Martha? I live in a shack ten miles out of town with no electricity and a garage full of grease and spare parts. It’s no place for an eight-year-old kid.”
“It’s better than the alternative,” Martha replied, standing up and wiping her hands on her apron. “You take him out to your place. Lay low for a couple of days until the rally breaks up and those thugs clear out of Copper Creek. After that… well, you figure out the rest. But you don't run away from your own flesh and blood twice.”
Jax looked back down at Leo. The boy was rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve, exhaustion finally catching up with him after weeks of walking, hunger, and stress. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a small, vulnerable child who had lost his mother and crossed a desert just to find a father he had never known.
Rising to his full height, Jax made a decision that would change the course of both their lives forever. He reached down, scooped Leo up into his arms with surprising gentleness, and settled the boy against his broad chest. Leo instinctively wrapped his small arms around Jax’s neck, burying his face into the worn leather of the biker’s vest.
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“Hold on tight, kid,” Jax murmured softly against the boy’s messy hair.
He tossed a handful of crumpled bills onto the counter to pay for the pie and milk, nodding gratefully to Martha. Without another word, Jax pushed open the diner door and stepped out into the blinding desert sunlight, carrying his son toward the rumbling, chrome-plated machine waiting at the curb.
