I look at the small, rundown shack and disgust curls in my stomach. The roof is sagging, the clapboard siding is rotting around the footer of the house, the rest is molded green and black from years of weather and neglect. The windows are so old, the wooden frames are decaying around the glass. All the money that Pistol made through the years and this is how his sister lives? When Skull approached me to ask if I would head to North Carolina and check on Pistol’s sister, my first instinct was to say no. I was done. I didn’t want to have anything to do with my old life. However, when Skull offered me a cabin on Whittler’s Mountain in the deal, I finally agreed. A cabin in the mountains away from people sounds like heaven.

I could not care less about Pistol or his sister. Pistol is part of the reason my child died. He double-crossed the club I was in and because of that, my daughter was killed. Whatever happens to his sister, I figure she deserves it. I don’t give a fuck if she does live in a shack. It’s probably more than she deserves. Especially if she’s anything like her piece of shit brother.

I’m not sure why Skull has gained a conscience about the woman now. Pistol has been dead for three fucking years. Why give a shit about his sister now? He said he has trouble looking at his daughter and then wondering if Pistol’s sister was truly innocent and is paying for the crimes of her brother. Skull took for granted that Pistol’s brother, Cade would handle matters with the sister. Apparently, Hayden is only Pistol’s half-sister. She’s not related to Cade, who didn’t even know about her. I guess Skull feels some sense of duty to the bitch. Which means he gave me a mountain—a place to live alone, and all I have to do is check in on the bitch.

What Skull failed to mention was that the barn and converted loft I will be living in is next door to the woman. The bastard. It’s on my mind to get back on my bike and leave. The problem is, I have nowhere else to go. I sure as hell am not going back to Kentucky. My hands are tied, but it takes more energy than I can muster to care. I’ll make it clear to the woman I want to be left alone; that will be the last and only time I deal with her. Then, I’ll text Skull and tell him the chick is living in a hell-hole…maybe.

Walking back to my bike, I veer off at the last minute to take a leak. I’ve got my pants unzipped and my dick out when all of the sudden I feel something jab me in the back. Looking over my shoulder, I see the long end of a shotgun barrel pointed at me. I follow the length of it until my eyes land on a woman holding the gun. She’s five foot nine, maybe ten. Dark bronze hair falls down in dull waves almost to her elbows. There’s a beat-up looking brown hat on her head and the clothes she has on are butt-ugly. Maybe she could be decent, but it’d take some damn work. She’s skinny—maybe a little too skinny. I can see breasts, but they are hard to make out the size of through that huge sweatshirt she’s wearing. This woman appears willowy like a strong gust of wind would blow her over, except for one thing. Her stomach is jutting out, immediately drawing my eye. She’s obviously pregnant.

My dick drained, I shake off the excess, slide him back in my pants, and zip up. Then, I turn around to face her.

“You always take a wiz on other people’s private property?”

“Only when my dick demands it. You want to lower your gun?”

“Not especially, since you’re trespassing. Who are you?”

“I’m going to be your neighbor. Just bought Whittler’s Mountain,” I tell her, conveniently leaving out the fact that I’ll be living next door.

“You look like a mountain man. I didn’t know they were selling.” She appears confused.

I grunt, walking around her to go back to my bike. “You should leave the gun-handling up to your man. It’s dangerous to pull a weapon on a stranger; it could get you killed. You need to think about your baby.”

Her eyes darken. “I don’t have a man.”

“That cantaloupe in your stomach would seem to argue that point,” I tell her, my voice straining. I don’t talk that much, and I hate the hoarse sound that comes out of my throat sometimes when I speak. It’s a reminder of what was taken from me, and I don’t need any fucking reminders. I carry that shit with me every second. I look over at the woman one last time. Her gun is down and she’s rubbing her hand over her stomach. When she looks back up at me, there’s a sadness in her eyes that grabs a hold of my attention.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she says.

I shrug and start up my bike. She spares me one last glance, then takes off walking. I watch her almost against my will as she heads back to the old shack I had just been looking at. I guess I just met Hayden Graham…Pistol’s sister.