I don’t realize I’m crying until Derby steps closer and August wipes my cheek with his little hand.
“Don’t cry,” August says, and that breaks something worse than Derby’s words did.
Because my son shouldn’t have to comfort me.
I turn away from Derby, from the men, from the whole outlaw kingdom watching me come apart under their floodlights. I press my face into August’s hair and breathe in sweat, crackers, and little-boy shampoo from yesterday’s bath. I try to swallow the sob before it gets out.
It gets out anyway.
Just one.
But one is enough.
A door opens on the porch.
The noise shifts.
Not quiet exactly, but aware. Like everyone feels the air change before the storm hits.
I lift my head because I feel him before I know who he is.
A man steps out of the old jail.
Tall. Broad. Dark-haired. Wearing his cut like it isn’t clothing but authority stitched into leather. He doesn’t have to raise his voice. He doesn’t have to move fast. The yard makes room for him by instinct.
“Legend,” someone says behind me.
I know before anyone says he is related to Mike.
Because I’ve seen pictures. Not clear ones. Not recent ones. My mother had one photograph of Legendary Mike tucked in a shoebox, and in it he was young, grinning, arm around a woman who wasn’t her. Later, when I got old enough to search online, I found grainy wrestling clips, and a few articles that sounded like warnings disguised as local news. I saw a man with my eyes and told myself I was imagining it because a girl can make a father out of anything when she wants one badly enough.
But this man walking toward me has the same presence as that ghost.
The same jaw.
The same storm around him.
Only younger. Meaner. Alive.
Derby sets the box down.
“Prez,” he says.
The word lands heavy.
President.
Of course.
The man’s gaze moves over me, over August, over my truck, my boxes, my shame scattered in plain view. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t soften. His face gives away nothing.
That scares me more than a sneer would.
“Derby,” he says, “why is there a woman crying in my yard?”
His voice is low. Rough. Accent thick. Kentucky wrapped around steel.
Derby glances at me, then back at him. “Found her on Hell Road. Flat tire. Kid in the tow rig. Says she’s looking for Mike.”