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“Her name is Scarlett.”
“After Mia’s mother,” Boxer explained. “Thank God for a little bit of happiness in this shit storm called life.”
I hated that my friend was hurting. I hated that Reap and Bishop had died—even though it had been for a cause. I hated that it never seemed like things were going to get better.
“What happens now?” I asked. “With Dante?”
“First we drink. And then,” his expression was grim, “execution.”
* * *
One by one, the brothers joined us. Some of them sat on logs, others in camp chairs. We all drank as though booze could banish ghosts.
The prospects remained out front to guard the van that held Dante captive. The Old Ladies remained inside with the children, so at least there were no questions being asked.
We watched the flames flicker and dance in melancholic silence.
Even though Colt was a new father, he didn’t have the elation one would expect. Under the circumstances, I didn’t blame him. He paced back and forth, looking up at the clear sky every now and again. Finally, he took the empty chair next to me.
“Should I go inside?” I asked Boxer. “Leave you guys to talk?”
He shook his head and grasped my thigh. “Stay.”
I was glad. I didn’t feel comfortable going into the cabin and lending my support to Rachel. Not when I felt responsible for what had happened. I was sure the other Old Ladies would blame me, too.
“Thank you,” Colt said to me.
“For what?” I asked in surprise.
“Staying with Mia while she was in the hospital. And being there while she delivered. Fuck, I can’t believe I missed Scarlett’s birth.” He shook his head and hung his neck in shame.
“Stop,” Zip said. “All of you fuckers need to stop. That includes you, Linden.”
“Did you just call me a fucker?” I demanded.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re a fucker.”
“Brother,” Boxer began. “Do not make me fight you. I’m in no mood.”
“None of us are,” Zip said. “That’s the point. This shit with the cartel isn’t Linden’s fault. She’s a victim caught up in this bullshit. Reap and Bishop dying isn’t Linden’s fault.” He looked at me. “Do you hear me?”
I nodded slowly.
“Those bastards were taking women and children,” Knight seethed. “We did what needed to be done. We knew the risks. Reap and Bishop died for something real. So, we need to honor them the way they are meant to be honored.” He rose from his seat. “I was already a brother when Bishop was nothing more than a prospect hoping to patch in. He gave it his all. In everything he did. Some thought he was too young to be my vice president, but he proved them wrong. He carried the weight of responsibility with ease.”
Colt stood, a bottle in his hands. “Reap was a tough son of a bitch and as ruthless as they come. But he laughed from the belly and said fuck you to death. He lived free, loved hard, and there will be a piece of him left in this world with the birth of his child. I’m honored to call both Bishop and Reap my brothers.”
The president of the Coeur d’Alene chapter raised his bottle of bourbon in the air. “To our fallen brothers. Fucking heroes.”
“Fucking heroes,” the brothers chimed in unison.
And then we drank to the memory of good men.
* * *
After the informal eulogies, we left the cabins. The prospects stayed behind with the Old Ladies and children.
The sun was just creeping up when I hopped on the back of Boxer’s bike, a small bag slung across my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him, and he drove us through the woods on a dirt road that no motorcycle belonged on.
