Protected Pt. 03

WILLOW

"Thank you," I said as Colt offered me a glass of water.

I barely knew Packard, any the men really, but I still felt the pang of his loss. When I'd first met the BDMC, I thought they were just hired guns or a bunch of thugs. I'd quickly realized I was wrong, but it wasn't until six days ago that I understood just how wrong I'd been. Packard gave his life for mine, and Limpkin would have... and yet, even after that, the club was still willing to put their lives on the line for me.

When Colt had returned to my RV after Packard's death, he looked haggard. While Colt was gone, Fish had told me he'd left to break the news to Packard's wife, and his obvious grief washed over me like a wave during the telling. After Fish left, seeing Colt's sorrow caused me to start crying again. I could tell he was hurting, and hurting badly, but his face was hard and he refused to cry. I begged for his forgiveness, as I'd begged the same from Fish. Fish had given me absolution while insisting it wasn't my fault. Colt, however, steadfastly refused to forgive me, assuring me time and again I couldn't be forgiven for something I hadn't done.

I was exhausted, but when I finally went to bed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, unable to forget how Packard had groaned with pain as he crawled out of the Jeep, and the sound of rapid shooting behind me as I sped away. The next morning, Colt had looked even worse, as if he hadn't slept at all. We'd gone to the recording truck where we barely spoken to each other. That afternoon I asked if I could attend Packard's funeral, wanting, needing to pay my final respects to him and his family, to silently thank him for what he'd sacrificed for me. Colt had told me I didn't have to, but I'd insisted I wanted to... unless I wasn't welcome.

Now I was in the Buitre del Demonio clubhouse, along with all the brothers and sisters of the club, and the entire crew from the drill rig. I knew I'd catch hell from dad for shutting the derrick down for a half day, but I couldn't have cared less. He was already pissed at me for refusing to return to Houston, so he could just be pissed at me for this too. I used the excuse that I wanted to stay until the sounding was finished, but the real reason I wanted to stay was because I was afraid to leave the protection of the BDMC.

Colt had urged me to return to Houston where a professional protection service could protect me, but when I'd finally admitted I wasn't staying because of the sounding, and reminded him of the danger's he'd outlined in Houston after the second attempt on my life, he'd relented.

I'd also ordered the funeral home to bill Larke Oil for Packard's funeral. If Aunt Pam or Dad didn't like it, they could go fuck themselves. These men, all of these men, deserved the company's utmost respect and gratitude. Yesterday, the men on the drill rig had asked me if they could come to Packard's funeral to pay their respects, and I'd approved the rig's shutdown without a moment's hesitation.

The roughnecks and the bikers couldn't be from two more different worlds, but a week ago they'd each earned the respect of the other. The drill crew respected how the bikers had put it on the line for me and Enrique, and the roughnecks had repaid in kind by coming to the aid of the two men.

Limpkin and Packard had saved me. They'd shot the radiator of the following truck full of holes, and that had ultimately allowed me to escape. After they'd emptied their guns into the truck, Limpkin had managed to dodge out of the way of the speeding Ford, but Packard, because of his injury, had been too slow, and had been struck by the vehicle as it blasted past in pursuit of my Jeep. The roughnecks had followed the tracks and run-down scrub until they found Limpkin staggering under the weight of his friend as he carried him, struggling to bring his brother home. The crew had reverently taken Packard from Limpkin and laid him gently in the back of the truck on a bed of their own shirts.

"That wasn't what I expected," I said.

"What?"

"The funeral."

Colt had left me in the care of the drill crew this morning, and I'd ridden to Rio Lago surrounded by burly men in one of Larke's company trucks. We didn't have clothing for a funeral and had to attend in clean, but obvious work clothes. Nobody seemed to care, and the BDMC had acknowledged us with nods.

As I stood at the graveside in a tight knot of men from the rig, the brothers had arrived on their bikes, dressed all in black with their jackets worn proudly, riding as an honor guard for the hearse. They pulled Packard's casket from the big black car, handing it brother to brother down a double line, every man taking part of the load, until the final six men, Limpkin, Colt, Fish, Grace, Morell, and Stuart, carried the coffin to the gravesite before pausing as the brothers once again lined up to pass Packard to the scaffolding over his final resting place.

The men formed up and stood with military precision as a minister gave the eulogy, their faces and eyes hard. When the eulogy was finished, Colt stepped forward and spoke about how Packard had died a hero, how he'd given his life in service to another, how he was the first to begin wiping away the stain of their past, and how the club was now working for the betterment of their fellow man and was creating a new tradition they could be proud of. He'd had to stop a couple of times to gather himself when his voice broke, but when he was finished, he stepped to the coffin, removed a pin that matched their colors from his jacket, and laid it on top of Packard's casket. He then stepped away and knelt before Lilly and Jacob, Packard's wife and son, and said a few soft words I couldn't hear.

Each man stepped forward, one at a time as the previous man rose from Lilly and Jacob, and repeated Colt's ritual of removing the pin and placing it on the casket before kneeling and speaking. The ceremony was conducted with utmost respect, the traditions of the club obviously important to them, and I'd wept openly.

"That was beautiful what you said."

He looked down, stared at the floor, and cleared his throat. "That was second the hardest thing I've ever done. Only telling Lilly that Geoff was dead was harder."

"Do you think she'll talk to me?"

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do... if she'll see me."

He waited a moment before taking my hand and steering me toward a knot of brothers. As we approached, the crowd parted to allow us through.

The pain and sadness on Lilly's face was more than I could handle, and I began crying again. "I'm so, so, sorry for your loss," I whimpered, struggling through my tears to say what I needed to say. "If it weren't for your husband, I wouldn't be here today." I whimpered and tried to reel in my grief, but it was hopeless. "He died a hero, and I'll never forget what he did," I finally gasped out through my tears.

Lilly's face twisted as I spoke, and she pulled Jacob in close for support. "Thank you," she wept.

I shook my head and gasped softly, trying to get control of my emotions, Lilly's pain washing over me and tearing at my heart. I didn't know Packard had a son, but as soon as I returned to Houston, I was going to make sure Larke Oil set up a trust so Jacob could attend college. I was losing it, and so was Lilly, our grief and tears feeding on each other's. Colt gently pulled me away.

"Oh God," I sniffed, wiping at my eyes as I allowed him to lead me away, "that was so hard."

"That's a good thing you did, and it took guts."

"I had to."

"You didn't, but I'm sure Lilly appreciated it."

I kept close to the Larke men as the club grieved. The men, like me, felt like outsiders. "We should probably go," I said softly. "Let me tell Colt."

I stepped away from the men and walked to where Colt, Fish, and Grace were speaking softly to Lilly. I paused a respectful distance away, and after a moment, Grace noticed me standing there, and approached.

"We're going to go," I said softly.

"Okay. Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for..."

"Yeah," he said softly when I ground to a halt.

He followed me back to the drill crew and offered his hand and a thank you to each man. Before he'd completed shaking each man's hand, the rest of the brothers approached and shook each man's hand in turn and murmuring their thanks. I stood to the side as silent tears crept down my cheeks. I didn't know why the BDMC quietly expressing their gratitude to the Larke men affected me so, but it did. Limpkin held back until he was last, and added a special thank you, along with an extended handshake, to each man who had come to his aid.

We left immediately after Limpkin finished shaking hands. I was quiet the entire ride back to the drill site, but I could tell from the quiet conversations of the men around me, they'd never look at bikers the same way again.

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COLT

"Where are you?" I asked after pushing the button to accept the call.

"We're about to turn onto Eagle Pass," Juice said.

"Okay. We'll meet you at the RV." I ended the call and turned my attention to Willow. "Food's here. Or will be in about twenty minutes."

"We could have gotten the groceries ourselves."

"The guys were coming anyway. Why should we drive almost two hours when we can have them do it?"

"Hank, I'll see you back in Houston," she said as she closed her laptop and began stuffing it into its case.

This was the last day of sounding. She was going to stay another few days, waiting for the derrick to bring up the first core samples, but then she'd return home to Houston where she could do a deeper analysis of the samples.

"Yep. See you there." Hank spun in his chair and extended his hand toward me as he stood. "It's been a pleasure getting to know you, Colt."

I took the man's hand and shook it firmly. "Same. If you get back in the area, look us up."

"I might just do that." I tried to pull my hand back, but he held it. "I just want to say... I'm damn sorry about your man... we all are... but thank you for keeping Willow safe."

I nodded as he released my hand. It'd been nearly a week since we buried Packard. Willow was more like her old self, and my grief had morphed into a grim determination.

The Maverick County Sheriff's Department hadn't done shit. They were so fixated on the BDMC and our past they simply couldn't, or wouldn't, believe the shooting wasn't related to us, and had suggested to Willow she'd be safer if we were out of the picture. I hadn't been there, but I'd wish I had been when Fish had described how Willow had gone off the cop like a nuclear explosion when he suggested we were the one's putting her in danger.

Once Willow was safely back in Houston, my bothers and I had some work to do because the MCSD weren't completely fucking useless. We hadn't spoken it out loud, but we didn't have to. I knew we were all thinking the same thing. The BDMC was leaving our past behind us, but before we could fully do that, we had one more thing to do. We weren't going to stop until Packard was avenged... with the added benefit of making Willow safe.

I stepped out of the truck and stood on the first step, carefully scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars as Willow waited inside. I double checked, sweeping my magnified gaze over the dry and dusty landscape again, looking for dust, something that had moved, or anything else that looked out of place, but I saw nothing.

I opened the door to the truck. "Let's go," I said as I trotted down the steps.

The moment her feet hit dirt, I took her by the arm and placed my body between her and what I considered the most likely place for a sniper to setup if they were out there. With the recorder truck at her back, and her Jeep protecting her front, the shot could only come from the sides.

There'd been no more attempts on her life since the rig, but I was taking no chances. Packard had purchased her life at the cost of his own, and I wouldn't dishonor him by making his sacrifice meaningless.

Keeping her close so that my body made it hard for a shooter to be sure of his target, I kept her moving as I quickly shoved her into the Wrangler and closed the door. I hurried around the front of the Jeep to throw myself behind the wheel and start the vehicle in one motion. Willow was already buckled in, and I snapped my own seatbelt after I got the Jeep moving.

The Jeep still looked like hell, even after I cleaned up as much of Packard's blood as I could, but it still ran and drove okay. I drove fast, the Jeep rattling and skittering over the rough roads, my eyes in constant motion, scanning from the road ahead of me, to the rearview mirrors, then to both sides, but I saw nothing. I pulled to a stop with the passenger door facing the coach so she didn't have to walk around the vehicle. Leaving the Jeep running, I circled the Wrangler, unlocked the door to the coach, and stepped inside. I was now comfortable enough that I'd find the coach empty that I'd stopped drawing my weapon before entering.

I quickly checked the bathroom and bedroom, the only two places that a person could hide. Finding nothing, I returned to the Jeep, leaving the coach's door open. We had it down to a routine. With the coach's door nearly touched the fender of the Jeep providing additional cover, I opened the Jeep's door as she reached over and switched the Wrangler off, leaving the keys in the ignition in case we had to bug out. With the coach, Jeep, the Jeep's open door, and coach's open door obscuring all four side, I pulled her out of the Jeep and hustled her inside the coach, slamming the Wrangler's door and locking the coach's door behind us.

Until the shooting, Willow had left the blinds open on the coach for the light and so she could see the landscape, but now they remained closed. When I heard the rumble of approaching motorcycles, I carefully pulled the shades aside as Fish, Grace, and Goose rolled to a stop and began to dismount. A moment later, Big Dick's truck pulled to a stop before he and Rich Whatt stepped out.

"Wait here," I reminded her as I stepped out to help lug in the supplies. "Juice! You decided to tag along?"

"Yeah! I brought something to show you."

We hauled the supplies into the RV in one trip, then Juice returned to Big Dick's truck and returned with a rifle case. "Lucia gave me this yesterday for my birthday," Juice said as he opened the case and pulled out a bolt-action rifle with a wood stock in a beautiful gloss finish.

We all took a turn admiring the weapon. "May I see?" Willow asked.

Juice handed her the weapon. She worked the bolt with practiced ease, then brought the gun to her shoulder and peered through the scope. She brought it back down then opened the bolt again.

"I always liked the Remington 700s. They're a sweet shooting rifle." She looked into the chamber. "Is this chambered for the 6mm or.223?"

"Uh,.223," Juice said slowly.

I smiled. When I'd offered her a pistol for her protection, she'd turned me down cold, claiming she couldn't shoot a handgun. I'd insisted she take the weapon anyway, pointing out it was hard to miss if the bad guy was right on top of her. I'd noticed she when she took the weapon from me, she hadn't handled it like she was afraid of it. Now I knew why. Thank God Juice hadn't embarrassed himself by asking her if she knew how to hold it... or something equally stupid.

She slapped the bolt shut again and popped the rifle her shoulder again before lowering it and handing it back to Juice. "Nice little varmint gun you have there."

"Yeah," he said slowly, as if he was having a hard time believing Willow was so knowledgeable.

I smiled as he took the gun back. Willow was smart, sexy, and knowledgeable about guns. I was surprised that she didn't have to make use of her knowledge of firearms to keep away the horde of guys wanting to worship at her feet.

She grinned, the first true smile I'd seen since her ordeal, clearly delighting in our slightly stunned expressions. "I used to shoot skeet with Dad, before his heart problems got bad. I grew up around guns."

"Anyway," Juice said, recovering, "I thought I'd go out and shoot some cans before dark."

"I don't suppose you'd let me have a go?" she asked as she looked at me. "Please?" she begged, making her eyes big and twisting her hands together under her chin in exaggerated hopefulness.

We chuckled. "Actually, I'd like to see you shoot," I said. "Let us check it out first, and if the coast is clear, sure, why not?"

Her smile spread. "I was sure you'd say no."

I shrugged. "With six of us around you, you should be safe enough." I paused a heartbeat. "You have to promise not to show us up, though."

Her smile spread even more. "No deal."

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WILLOW

I waited in the RV with Colt while the rest of the men made a sweep of the area, even taking my Jeep out to make several circuits around the coach at ever increasing distances. They were taking no chances with my safety, and it was this dedication that allowed me to sleep at night and work during the day. My faith in them and their abilities was absolute and unshakable.

I was glad to see Colt smile when Juice had let me look at his rifle. My perception of the BDMC had begun to change that very first day, but Big Dick, Goose, Limpkin... and especially Packard... proved these were all good men and were nothing like I'd first thought them to be. In the last couple of weeks, having Colt around all the time, I'd gotten a better sense of the man and his values. I was impressed that despite our enforced closeness, he'd never hit on me or once suggested that our relationship was anything other than professional. He was thoughtful and kind with me, and there was no doubt he cared deeply for the men he called his brothers. In the weeks I'd known him, I'd noticed that he thought of them before himself and, though he tried to hide it, I could tell he was still hurting over Packard's death. Sometimes at night, as I was working, I'd notice him sitting in a chair as he stared at the door. His body was in the coach with me, but his mind was a million miles away.

I heard my Jeep stop outside. "You ready?" Goose asked a moment later as he appeared in the door.

"Yeah." I followed Colt to the door, nearly bouncing with excitement at the chance to go outside, if only for a few minutes.

"Want to go first?" Juice asked, hanging me a pair of earmuffs. "Don't worry if you can't hit anything. I haven't zero'd the scope in yet. I thought I'd try to get it close today."

I worked hard to hide my smile. "Sure," I said as I took the muffs and pulled them over my head.

One of the men had lined up beer, pop, and tin cans about fifty yard out on the opposite side of Big Dick's truck. On the hood was a sandbag with the rifle resting on it. I settled in behind the truck and pulled the bolt back a little to check for one in the chamber. There wasn't so I worked the bolt to charge the rifle. I got comfortable, let my breath out slowly, and squeezed off a round. The rifle bucked against my shoulder.

"It's shooting low right," I said as I stood. I pointed at the scope. "You mind?"

The men began to chuckle. "Be my guest," Juice said with a wave of his hand.

I pulled the caps off the scope adjustment and dialed in some correction. If I'd had a sighting chart, I could have gotten the adjustment close, but all I had was the puff of dust, so I had to guess. I worked the bolt then leaned into the truck, relaxed, let my breath out, and squeezed the trigger.

"Still low," I murmured, almost to myself.