Sierra

I sit at the table alone, alert to the sounds coming from the kitchen. I’m alone in the lodge with Saint, on one of his random days off. The scent of bacon drifts my way, I grip my fork and fight tears of happiness. I love bacon.

“Awww, yes,” I moan when Saint sets a full plate down in front of me. As soon as it touches the table, I’m shoveling food in my open mouth. I start with eggs so I can sate my greedy body before savoring the bacon. I’m grateful when Saint leaves the room for a moment to give me and my plate some alone time.

When he comes back out to hover over me, I’ve managed to slow down. I’ve abandoned my fork and use my fingers to carefully prise apart the bacon, tasting each piece and giving it its own special treatment. I let the fat melt in my mouth, crunch the hard bits, lick my fingers to clean them from grease. There’s something so present, so tactile about eating with my hands. A full sensory experience.

Then I catch a glimpse of Saint’s face as he watches me and realize I’m an animal.

Clearing my throat, I push away from the table and wipe my hands on a napkin, effectively rejoining civilization.

Saint looks at me, then my plate, then me. “You need to eat more,” he rumbles.

“You always say that.” I break off a piece of cornbread and pop it into my mouth.

“And more water.” Saint plunks a glass down to the right side of my plate. “Less coffee.” He plucks my mug out of my hand.

“Hey!” I protest, but he shakes a long finger at me and strides off. I consider running after him and tackling him, but the effect would be like a mouse attacking a mountain. Saint could swat me like a mosquito, and we both know it.

So I sit and finish my breakfast, drinking the water in sips so I don’t drown the contents of my stomach. When the plate is clean, I push back, my hands on my stomach bump. If Saint looks, he’ll just think I have a food baby.

“Eat up, little one,” I whisper. “Grow big and strong.” I drift in a food coma, jolting awake with a smile when I feel tiny flutters inside. My baby is moving around.

It’s been a pretty good pregnancy so far. The nausea is gone, thank fuck, but I’m still tired at random moments. Some days I forget I’m pregnant, others I bite my lip to keep from whining and telling everyone.

A chair scrapes the floor and Saint settles in beside me. He sets three plates of food down and eats methodically. He doesn’t appear to rush, but the food disappears at a rapid pace.

When he’s half done with the third plate, he slows and rests his left hand on the back of my neck.

“You feeling okay?” he asks. His finger swirls the hair at the nape of my neck and my body stirs with interest.

“Oh yeah.” I fake calm. “We gonna scene tonight?” I try to keep my voice casual but lean forward, my body swaying toward him like a flower to the sun.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes, please.” I’m breathless, blood charging to my cheeks and pussy, making me hot and flushed.

Saint takes a minute to regard me. “We’ll have to stop the rough stuff soon.”

I sit up straighter. “What? Why? I just got to the point where I crave it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me. You make it feel good.”

“I don’t know how much you can take, with the baby and all.”

Record scratch. I open and close my mouth, suddenly dizzy. Saint stares at me. I can’t look away, even though I don’t want to meet his eyes

“You know?” I whisper.

Keeping his hand on the back of my neck, Saint takes a sip of his coffee. “I can tell when a woman’s breeding.”

I put my hands over my softly bloated belly as if to hide it. “I’ve been gaining weight…” I stall.

Saint sets down his coffee and turns. He hovers a large hand over my belly. He could cover the whole thing with one hand. “That’s not fat. That’s a baby bump.”

Now I can’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You need to tell them.”

“You gonna tell?” I can barely get the words out.

“Not my secret to tell. It’s yours.” With that, he gets up and clears the table, leaving me huddled in my seat, numb. The food I just ate is heavy as a rock.

When he returns, I haven’t moved. My eyes feel scratchy. “Saint, I didn’t know. I didn’t know when I took the job.”

He stares at me, back to the impassive blankness that tells me nothing of what he’s thinking. I want to cry and scream. I want to beg him to let me keep my secret for a little longer, at least until I know where I can go to save myself and my baby.

Maybe it’ll work out. Maybe Lincoln won’t be mad, and he’ll let me stay until the season’s over. Maybe the money and time will be enough to get me south, beyond the reach of the Hell Riders.

Yeah right.

“What are you going to do?” Saint asks, and my heart sinks. His tone is thoughtful, but distant. No trace of warmth.

I hug my middle. “I don’t know.”

I lay in my bed the rest of the day. Saint leaves me alone, thank fuck. Evening falls and the lodge fills with the noise of the woodsmen, boots stomping, voices shouting, showers cutting on and off.

I roll to my side and hug my pillow. You need to tell them. What will Lincoln say? Mason? There’s no way they’ll let me stay.

“Sierra?” Jagger calls from my door. He raps softly. “You feeling okay?”

“Fine,” I croak, glad my back is to the door

“Dinner’s ready.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll be out… after.” I squeeze my eyes shut until he leaves. Then I press my fist against my mouth and try not to burst into tears.

I’m tempted to grab my clothes and stuff them in my old backpack. Slip out the back and start walking. Maybe I can hitchhike somewhere decent, live on the streets until it gets cold.

My body contracts around the pillow just imagining it. Who am I kidding? I bet everything on this gig. I rise and brush my hair with shaking hands. Maybe I can convince Lincoln to let me stay to the end of the season. I’ll clean, cook, help with kitchen duty—whatever. Jagger and the twins will probably still want me. Lincoln—no way. This will be a breach of trust for him. I told him I could do the job and I lied. Besides, like Saint, Lincoln won’t feel comfortable using a pregnant woman. It was hard enough to get them to accept me as an equal partner in the bedroom.

Mason—he might get off on the situation. Didn’t his last girl cheat on him and get pregnant? I might appeal to him on the basis that this is an opportunity for revenge. Of course, the best revenge would be kicking me out.

Not Mason, then. Fuck.

I toss down the brush, pick up my mascara, and put that down too. Don’t really want to draw attention to my red eyes. And even the most waterproof mascara won’t hold up to a good ugly cry. I don’t want raccoon eyes.

My stomach stutters as I open my door. If I’m lucky, I won’t throw up. Awesome. Won’t that convince them to let me say.

The chorus of men’s voices swells to greet me as I enter the mess hall. They fall to a low murmur as I approach.

“Sierra? Are you all right?” Lincoln frowns. He half rises, and I put out my hand to stop him.

“I have a confession to make.” My voice echoes in the big space with my oracle-like proclamation. Forehead creasing, Lincoln sits.

I swallow. “I have something to tell you.” I hesitate, my gaze snagging on Saint’s. The big guy leans against the wall in the back. He meets my eyes and nods slowly. “I’m pregnant.”

Silence. Most of the guys wait motionless, as if I haven’t said anything. Roy and Tommy exchange glances.

Elon raises his hand. I point to him like I’m a kindergarten teacher.

“Is it mine?” he asks, all innocent blue eyes.

I melt a little. “No,” I say gently. “I was pregnant when I got here.”

Nobody says anything. I splay my hands as if to offer reasons, excuses, but my hands are empty. I’ve got nothing.

“Well… this is unexpected,” Jagger drawls. He doesn’t look annoyed or upset. The twins’ eyes dart around, as if waiting to see what everyone else does. Mason stares at the floor.

Lincoln’s chair scrapes as he pushes away from the table. “No dancing tonight. Sierra’s off.”

“But it’s my—” Jagger starts.

“I said no,” Lincoln snaps. He clamps a hand on the back of my neck and propels me toward his room, holding me like a bear who’s caught a kitten by the scruff. The fear in my stomach threatens to boil over.

Inside his room, I shrink toward the bed.

“Sit,” Lincoln orders. He stays standing, filling the room with his height and muscle and black-bearded scowl. I realize my hands have automatically covered my stomach. I pull them back, noting miserably that Lincoln is glaring at my belly.

“How far along?” he grinds out.

“I’m almost halfway.”

“The father?”

Dead. “Out of the picture.”

Lincoln starts pacing the room. “Did he hurt you?”

“What?” I shake my head a little because I don’t think I properly heard the question.

Lincoln looms over me, hair tangled, eyes wild. “The man who did this to you. Did he hurt you?”

My mouth flaps open a moment before I say, “No. We were together. We were young and stupid and had sex without a condom, but he didn’t hurt me.” Something like a growl escapes from Lincoln’s throat. “He’s not the reason I’m running,” I add quietly.

Lincoln resumes pacing and my eyes track him from one corner of the room to the other. “What about family? Do they know you’re here?”

“No. I mean, I don’t have any.” That’s not entirely true. Like I’d mentioned to Elon, I have two half-brothers in the lower forty-eight Lynny mentioned a few times, but I’ve never met them and they don’t know about me.

He rubs his hand over his jaw, mussing his beard. “No mom or dad? Nobody?”

“My mom’s dead,” I bite out. “I don’t know who my dad is. Lynny never told me.”

“Lynny?”

“My mom.” I rub my belly. Poor little bump won’t know Jack, either.

“All right.” Lincoln paces back and forth, the room growing smaller with every pass. “All right. What about friends, someone you trust—”

“Why are you asking this?” I rise from the bed to put my hands on my hips. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Lincoln stops. “You’re twenty-one. You’re all alone. You’re pregnant—”

“So what’s it to you?”

“I care about you,” he roars so loud the door rattles. He reaches for me, checks himself, and lowers his hands gently to my shoulders. “Your problems are mine too.”

I bite my lip.

“Sierra—”

“You’re wrong. It is my problem. Mine alone.”

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do?” His hand flies out toward the window. “Leave?”

“If you want,” I whisper. He jerks like I struck him.

“You think I want you to leave?” He rushes to me and I wince, but he just kneels and takes my hands, chafing them. “You think I wouldn’t help?”

I shrug, unable to answer. Tears well up and spill in twin rivulets down my face.

Lincoln curses gruffly, and pulls me forward. “Come here.” His body is warm and solid, the shirt soft. I bury my face against him and sob. He just holds me.

“Fuck, Sierra,” Lincoln mutters, a hand on my head to keep me close. “You’re not alone.”

I step back and sniffle. My face is a mess of snot and tears, but at least I don’t have raccoon eyes. It takes me a few tries to find my voice. “I’m not?” I hiccup.

“No,” Lincoln tells me. His big bear arms flex around me.

A pounding on the door makes me jump away.

“Enter,” Lincoln says, a half a second after the door opens. Mason plants himself in the doorway, jaw clenched. His face darkens when he sees my tear-stained face. I stare back, dully. I don't have the energy to deal with his moodiness.

“Everything all right?” he asks Lincoln, his eyes on me.

“Everything’s fine,” I smile and wipe my eyes so I’m more convincing. “We were just… working some things out.”

“She’s not going anywhere. You’re not kicking her out.” Mason squares off with Lincoln, folding his arms over his chest. He’s not as tall as the crew chief, but every inch of him is muscle. His body screams, Try and stop me.

I sway a little. Did Mason just defend me? I hope I fall on the bed if I faint from surprise.

“You think I’d—” Lincoln notices my wobbling and puts an arm around me. Deep breaths widen his barrel chest. “No.” His voice is about an octave deeper. “I’m not sending her away. Sierra belongs here.” His arm tightens. “With us.”

Mason stares at me a moment, his eyes boring holes into my face. He steps back, still looking angry, nods once and stomps out, slamming the door.

I let out a sigh, slumping against Lincoln. He brushes his lips over my forehead and guides us to the bed, where he sits with his back against the headboard and pulls me into his arms. His large hands cradle one of mine, hovering over my belly. I angle myself to face him, tug up my shirt and lay his left and right palms over the gentle bulge. His fingers spread across my taut skin, barely touching me, as if holding a bubble he doesn’t want to pop. I put my hands over his and press, and he lets out a shaky breath. Once he’s holding my belly, really holding me, I let out a sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmurs, gaze on my belly.

“I didn’t know. Not until the doctor. Then I thought you would kick me out. I know better now,” I add quickly, when his eyes go wild again. “But this is no place for a child.”

His hands are so large they cover most of my baby bump. His finger stroke along my sides. “What’s your plan?”

I swallow a hysterical laugh. “Live here until the season ends. Dance every night, and fuck whoever wants me. When it’s over… take the money and try to survive.”

“You didn’t think you could ask me for help?” his tone accuses.

I wanted to. I bite my lip.

“Well?” For a moment his bitter dark eyes remind me of Mason’s.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to assume…”

Lincoln’s hands leave my bump, landing on my shoulders and turning me so I’m back to his front, fully locked in his arms. His beard tickles the back of my neck, and his biceps bulge on either side of me. He squeezes once, hard, and I settle. The hard mass of knots in my chest unravel.

We sit like that for a long moment, my breathing slowing to match his. I could curl up and go right to sleep like this, hibernate like a little bear in the shelter of a strong man’s arms.

Just when I’m about to doze off, Lincoln’s lips find my ear. “Sierra. Don’t you get it? I found you. I’m keeping you.”

Oren

My small knife digs into the smooth wood a mere milliliter from my thumb. A long slow, stroke and then I realize I’m wearing a ‘whittling frown’. What my brother calls my expression when I’m concentrating. I smooth it out quickly, in case someone walks by and wonders whether I’m upset.

It’s been two hours since Sierra made her announcement, and a lot of people are upset. Not Roy and Tommy—they disappeared into their room after helping clean up dinner. Lincoln’s still with Sierra. He left his room long enough to ask for a plate of food. Saint delivered it and the two of them talked quietly in the hall before Lincoln ducked inside, plate in hand. There was a small fight when Jagger confronted Saint, insisting that he wanted to see Sierra, but Jagger stopped when Mason told him off. Now they’re all at opposite ends of the dining hall, sitting or brooding or puttering around, as if Sierra will pop out any minute and tell them it was all a joke. I got sick of the dirty looks an hour ago, and retreated to my room.

I’m not really mad. I don’t think anyone is, except maybe Jagger. He’s horn-gry, horny/angry, because he thought tonight was his turn with Sierra. Looks like that little arrangement is over. I don’t mind. I’ll miss the sex, sure, but I don’t mind too much. If she left entirely, I’d miss the sex, but I’d miss her more.

Down the hall, the shower turns off. A minute later, my brother tromps into the room, wearing nothing but a towel. He leaves the door open as he dries off and gets dressed.

“Whatcha making?” Elon asks.

I shrug. Michelangelo described sculpting as a ‘forza di levare’. A process of taking away. He saw a block of marble and removed everything that was not his sculpture. I think of wood carving the same way. There’s a figure inside this piece of pine. If I sit here and shave off enough, it’ll reveal itself to me.

Some people have special knives and order premium wood for wood carvings. I like being able to carve with whatever I have on hand. A bit of pine and a pocket knife. There’s always enough wood around here. I collect it. In the off-season, I sell premium blocks of wood on Etsy to wood carving enthusiasts. I even got a little camera to record me whittling something start to finish, to show my technique. My videos on YouTube are pretty popular—especially the dog and elephant carvings. Saint said he’ll teach me how to put up a paywall and turn the videos into a course this winter.

The bed creaks as Elon sits down. He’s quiet for a while, but I know he wants to talk. I could ask him a question, but if I wait long enough, he’ll open up.

Finally, he scratches his head and asks, “You want kids?”

I look at him like he’s crazy. “Yeah.”

“How many?”

I shrug. “However many my woman wants.” My knife reaches the end of the piece and a nice long wood shaving curls and drops off into the pile at my feet.

Elon sighs. I keep carving, sensing his gaze on my hands. I want to turn away, hide my creation as if too fragile to be seen.

“What about Sierra? Would you want kids with her?” he asks.

I pause for a moment. My dick jerks at the thought of holding Sierra, laying her down and pressing inside her. Her skin is like the smoothest marble, a warm and living sculpture, each dip and curve perfect under my hands. What would it be like to watch her body change and belly grow, knowing all the time it was my seed that took root inside her?

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I’d want children with Sierra. If she’d have me.”

Elon sighs again. “Me too.” He fidgets and I go back to carving. I used to fidget as much as he did, before I started carving.

“Lincoln says she’s staying here, until she has the baby. Maybe longer.” Elon scratches his beard. “He and Saint are talking about whether they should get a place in town, or take her south. They’re gonna support her.”

I nod my approval. “I’ll help.”

“Me too,” Elon says quickly. “She’ll need lots of things for the baby. Diapers, bottles, baby clothes. Lots of them. It gets cold around here in the winter. We should get lots of warm things for the baby. I’ll tell Lincoln.” My brother stands and crosses to the window, where several of my carvings sit on the ledge. A moose, a dog, an elephant. A little fairy girl, with nimble wings. He nudges that one with a finger. “Sweaters and socks and blankets,” he mumbles. “And hats. We lose most of our heat through our heads. That’s why babies always should wear hats.” He picks up the fairy carving, and it disappears into his big hand. I bite back a reminder for him to be careful. That carving is his favorite. I should give it to him, but first I want to make another, for me.

“Baby hats,” Elon muses, looking out the window, still holding the fairy. “Maybe I should learn to knit.”

Sierra

“That’s the hand. See it waving?” the doctor asks.

I nod, even though I don’t. The ultrasound looks like an alien landscape, a black and white TV screen filled with static.

“What does that mean?” Lincoln asks softly. He’s at my side, holding my hand as the doctor presses his instrument into my belly, maneuvering around to give us a good glimpse of my child.

“One more angle to be sure,” the doctor murmurs. He squeezes more goo onto my exposed belly. I suck in a breath.

“Does it hurt?” Lincoln dips his head to mine, lines creasing his forehead. Since my announcement, he’s been extra attentive.

“No,” I squeeze his hand tighter. “Just cold.”

“Heartbeat, one hundred and forty,” the doctor announces.

“Is that okay?” Lincoln looks alarmed.

“Oh yes. Well within normal range.”

Lincoln and I both take a deep breath and let it out.

“Everything looks good. And you say you want to know the gender?”

I nod and squeeze Lincoln’s hand tighter.

“Congratulations,” the doctor says. “It’s a girl.”

Saint

The wind nips my cheeks as I lean against the truck. Beside me, Elon mimics my pose. His brother sits in the truck bed, whittling with a small pocket knife. He’s always carving something. The way Elon twitches with energy, I wish he would mimic his twin and find something to occupy his hands. The rest of the guys have gone to the general store. I did my run earlier in the week, so this trip was unnecessary. When Sierra timidly mentioned that this doctor’s appointment was when she’d learn the baby’s gender, suddenly everyone found a reason to come to town at the same time.

“What do you think? Boy or girl?” Elon asks.

I shrug. Tonight, Lincoln and I will sit Sierra down, and tell her our plan. We were going to support her, as long as she needed. By now she should know she was special to us. Maybe she’d choose to stay with us, maybe not, but we hoped she would think about making a life with us, for her baby.

“How long have they been in there?” Oren drifts over, tucking his knife and whittling into his pocket.

I shrug again and grit my teeth as the twins keep asking stupid questions.

“Is everything all right? When will they be done?”

“Guess we’ll find out,” I say with a glance at the doctor’s sign. We’ll have to figure out how to get Sierra close to town when she’s due, otherwise one of us might have to catch the baby.

“Everything’s fine. Lincoln’s in there with her,” I remind the twins before they get too wound up. The crew leader insisted on going in, his hand on Sierra’s slight back, fatherly responsibility written all over him. I bet he’ll put his name on the birth certificate, if Sierra lets him.

Oren settles, taking out his carving again. Elon walks up and down the length of the car. I bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. Instead, I keep an eye on the gas station next to us. A few motorcycles roll in and out, more coming than going, until the lot is full with row upon row of leather and chrome.

“Hey,” Jagger shouts as he approaches. The rest of the guys follow, Mason bringing up the rear. “Any word?”

I shake my head silently just as Jagger’s eyes snag on someone behind me.

“They’re done,” Elon announces needlessly as Lincoln guides Sierra down the wheelchair ramp. Her belly has just started to push her shirt out. She looks pale, but gives us a smile.

“Well?” the twins demand, circling her. She looks up at us; she has to look up at all of us, but has no trouble standing up for herself. “Did you find out?”

“Yes,” Lincoln answers with infuriating vagueness. “Step back,” he warns the guys sharply when they crowd Sierra.

“It’s all right,” she says. Her soft voice hides her strong will. “It’s a girl.”

Jagger picks her up and spins her around, whooping over Lincoln’s protests. When he sets her down, the twins, and even Roy and Tommy line up for hugs. Mason lurks at the foot of the truck.

“Hey, you want to eat here?” Jagger jerks a thumb at the diner attached to the gas station. “I heard some good things about the place. The parking lot is full.”

“Yeah,” Lincoln says distractedly. “Go get us a table?”

Sierra is showing the twins a picture of the ultrasound. When she raises her arm, her sleeves slips down to show a few Band-Aids.

I slip to her side. “Everything good?”

“Oh yeah,” she laughs when I touch her arm. “They just took blood. Everything’s fine. The baby, me—everyone.”

“Good.” I catch Lincoln’s eye. We need to discuss plans sooner rather than later.

We start across the lot toward the restaurant, more motorcycle engines rip the air.

“Lotta bikers around lately,” Elon says.

Sierra’s steps falter. Her shoulders hunch and she turns, even as the guys stream forward, blocking her from view.

I signal Lincoln and we both watch Sierra shrink into herself, tucking her head and letting her hair fall over her face. She folds in half, hunching over her tiny baby bump, and skittering to a stop before she passes the line of motorcycles.

I’m across the lot before the bikers look up and notice her. My shadow stretches over her.

“Hey,” one of the bikers calls. I ignore him. Not a lot of black men this far north. But a man has to be sure before he picks a fight with a guy my size.

In the glass of the diner’s door, I watch Lincoln herd Sierra back to the truck. Once she’s safely out of sight, I stick my head in to call to the rest of the crew. “Guys. Jagger. We’re out.”

“But I thought we were getting food—” Jagger turns with surprise on his face.

“Do what you want.” I turn on my foot in disgust and head back toward the truck. The bikers don’t call at me again, but I feel their malice with every step I take. They want to pick a fight.

Lincoln meets me halfway.

“What’s going on?” I keep heading toward the truck.

“Don’t know. She just looks scared.”

I curse under my breath, looking back at the bikers.

“Take her back,” Lincoln says. “You’ve attracted attention.” He nods to the row of bikers who stand in a line, smoking cigarettes and squinting at me.

“They’ve just never seen a black man in person,” I scoff.

“Yeah, well, they might want to do more than look. Hell Riders control this territory. They’re probably passing through, collecting protection money.”

“Or looking for someone.”

“Yeah. Get her out of here.” Lincoln hands me the keys. “I’ll round up the rest of the boys, distract them. She’s scared outta her mind. Soon she’ll tell us the truth.”

Sierra says nothing as I get inside the truck. She’s slid all the way down in the seat, shrunk into the depths of her hoodie. If anyone looks in the passenger seat, they’ll see a hoodie and nothing else. I remain silent as she hunkers down. Her teeth chatter a little, even though it’s not that cold.

I wait to say something after we pull out of town. A few miles out, she sits up a little, peers out the window. Her fingernails, picking the end of her sweatshirt, are bitten down to the quick.

“Baby daddy was a Rider.” I keep my eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” she whispers, fear flickering in her expression. It’s all I can do to keep on the road, keep from turning around and picking a fight with those bikers. I’d leave half of them unconscious.

I reach out and set my hand on her knee. She’s so small my hand completely covers it. “We’re not letting anything happen to you.”

She jerks her head in the affirmative. I squeeze to be sure she understands.

“Lincoln and I made you a promise. The rest of the guys support it, but it only needs one of us to carry it out. You have nothing to be afraid of. We’re gonna give you everything you need, even after you have this baby.”

“I know,” she says softly. “Thank you.”

“And if anyone threatens you, he deals with us.” I watch her go rigid out of the corner of my eye and take my hand away. I couldn’t help the intense turn of my voice. There’s someone out there who’s a danger to Sierra. When I find out who, he will cease to walk the earth. It’s only a matter of time.

I force myself to sound calm. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re with us now.”

I hold my breath until she nods. She’s with me. One day she’ll open up to me or Lincoln, and we’ll help her. Lincoln warned me off scaring her.

“Good girl,” I praise her. “As long as you know that.” As I turn onto the single lane highway, I feel her relax, and add, “I don’t let a man mess with what’s mine.”

Sierra

Saint and I got to the lodge well before anyone else. He made me eat a sandwich and drink a glass of milk, hovering over me while I ate. I got the feeling he would’ve chewed it up for me and fed it to me like a momma bird if I refused. After the meal, he brought me to his room, handed me a chocolate bar and a book with a soft pink and white cover. It was written by a midwife, he explained, and had lots of good advice and birthing stories. I only had to page through it for a minute to realize he was right.

After which I promptly lay down on his bed and passed out in a chocolate coma. I couldn’t help it. No matter how much I sleep in, after lunch my eyelids close for at least an hour. I complained to Saint and he said the baby was exerting its will on me.

Voices woke me up, rising, falling, arguing. The men were home.

Rubbing my eyes, I pad into the hall. The guys stand in a knot between the table and the door, a circle of angry bearded faces

“I just think—” Jagger is saying, and Lincoln steps into his space, grabbing a piece of paper out of the blond’s hand.

“It’s none of our business,” the crew chief growls. “She’ll tell us when she’s ready.”

“What are you guys talking about?” My voice falls like a grenade between them.

Lincoln, Mason, Saint turn to gaze at me. Elon and Oren look guilty.

“Here.” Jagger tugs the piece of paper from Lincoln's hand and holds it out to me. I cross to him and halt, able to recognize the image from a few feet away. It’s an old photo of me. A ‘missing’ poster. With my face on it.

Blood drains out of my face. “Where did you get that?”

“It was hanging on a bulletin board at the diner.”

“There’s a reward,” Jagger points out. “Ten thousand dollars. We could call them and collect it.”

I’m shaking my head before he finishes the sentence. “No. No.” The Hell Riders must have posted it. Dex knows I was there when Jack died. He’s smart—you don’t get to run a club like the Hell Riders if you don’t have brains. Dex has the perfect combination of brains, drive and utter ruthlessness. Call her inside, Jack. It’s time to share. If he wants me, there’s nothing that will stop him.

Jagger is talking again, waving the poster. I hear nothing over the rushing in my ears. I need to run, hide. Lincoln faces me, lips moving. He wants to know what’s wrong. I shake my head. My brain is frozen, racing like a scared rodent. Try as I might, I can’t stammer out a clear answer or explanation.

Mason shoves Jagger in disgust. “Put it away.”

“But—” Jagger protests.

“Do it,” Lincoln commands. “You see it’s making her upset.” His broad chest fills my vision, and then I’m in his arms, clinging to his thermal as if I can draw strength from the muscles underneath.

Behind us, the circle of guys is breaking. “Ten thousand dollars,” Jagger whines and Mason spews profanity. A shout goes up, broken by Saint’s rumble, telling them to leave me be.

Then Lincoln is lifting me. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he murmurs. I curl against his chest, my face hiding under his beard, breathing in the scent of cedar and lemony soap. The snarl of male voices recedes. A door shuts and Lincoln sits on the bed. His hand rubs large circles on my back. With each pass, the ringing in my ears recedes a bit. I’m panting a little, my fingers digging into him. I ease my grip and look at him, unable to force a smile.

“It’s all right,” he tells me gravely. “You’re safe here.”

The words bounce off my brain. My wide-eyed stare says, I don’t know what you’re telling me.

Lincoln reads my unspoken confusion. “Saint and I talked.” He squeezes my legs, massaging them as he explains. “We want you to stay here until the baby is born, and afterwards. We’ll help you. You don’t have to worry about working or doing anything for us…”

I drop my head to his chest, unable to hold up its weight. Lincoln stops talking. He holds me, stroking my back and squeezing my tight muscles with strong, gentle hands.

“You can talk to me.” Lincoln says. “Anytime. You know that.”

I blow out a breath and nod against the firm plate of his pec. His hands keep massaging me. They tell me: Shh. It’s okay. Whenever you’re ready.

“We’re with you, whatever you decide,” he adds. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”