Chapter 20
Arsenal
Pearl’s Bar a monster of a man who’d rather read than fight, but he could kill you with his bare hands.
Big Papa and Aspen took up the next slot, Papa in his usual black thermal, Aspen in a sleeveless turquoise dress and a white cardigan she kept pulling over her hands.
Oscar, the prairie dog familiar stood guard at her feet, only his inquisitive nose and two black eyes visible above the lip of her purse.
Doc was next, crisp as a new scalpel in a checked shirt and jeans, his glasses catching every stray bit of light.
Gunner sat between Doc and Bronc, a wolf among wolves, his boots caked in the mud of whatever field he’d run through on the way here.
Harper hesitated just inside the doorway, shoulders pulled up like she expected someone to lob a grenade at her. I felt it in my teeth—the old ache, the one that wanted to snap at anyone who looked at her wrong. I touched her elbow, soft. “They’re all glad you’re here,” I said.
She nodded, but her hand had a tremor in it as she tucked her hair behind her ear.
I guided her through the crowd. There was a beat where all the conversations at the table paused, every face tracking us in that hypervigilant way only a pack could.
Then Parker called out, “Well, look who finally decided to show up!” and the table erupted, the tension snapping like an old rubber band.
We wedged in at the only open slot: Harper to my right, Doc to my left. She perched on the chair, ankles crossed, making herself smaller. I kept my arm over her chair-back, not touching, just staking the ground.
Menus got passed like hand grenades, drinks ordered by the pitcher.
Pearl herself strolled over, hair in its usual silver helmet, and banged down two Mason jars of sweet tea.
“I put the order in already,” she barked, “so don’t go messin’ up my system.
And I want to see every plate clean, or you’ll have to answer to me.
” She winked at Harper. “You too, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Baucaum,” Harper said, voice so pretty and careful it made Pearl beam.
“You got a good one here, Arsenal,” Pearl said, not bothering to hide it from the table. “Pretty and polite. About time you brought home something worth showing off.”
Wrecker snorted. “Yeah, we were starting to think he liked his rifles more than women.”
Parker poked him in the ribs. “He still might. You’ve seen the way he oils his barrels?”
There was a round of groans and laughter, and the table broke into the easy chaos of family—everyone talking over each other, stories and jokes ricocheting around like spent casings.
Bronc kept a hand on Juliet, always. Aspen leaned into Papa, her hair blending with the plaid of his shirt.
Gunner made a show of draining half a pitcher of Shiner, then offered some to Harper.
She took a sip, face twisting, and set it down.
“How’s the bakery?” Parker asked Aspen, voice pitched to reach over the noise.
Aspen’s face lit up. “It’s been so busy I haven’t had time to catch my breath. Every Friday, the high school football team comes in and buys out the cinnamon rolls before ten. I have to hide an extra pan in the back for Oscar.” She looked at the prairie dog, who gave a solemn little bow.
Parker beamed. “That’s what you get for being the best in three counties.”
Harper smiled, the real thing this time, and I felt the win deep in my chest. Every time she let herself belong, I wanted to howl it from the roof.
Bronc raised his beer, voice carrying down the table. “Quick announcement before Pearl brings out the feast.” The table went still. “My son finished his service last week. Tyler’s coming home.”
There was a thunder of applause and a chorus of “Semper Fi!” from the old Marines at the other table. I saw the flicker of pride on Bronc’s face; the way Juliet leaned into him, eyes shining.
“That’s wonderful,” Harper said, soft. “You must be so proud.”
Bronc grinned at her, warm. “We are, ma’am. It’ll be good to have the whole family together again.”
Pearl returned, three pack members in tow, arms loaded with platters: brisket, sausage, fried catfish, mashed potatoes drowning in brown gravy, platters of biscuits. They stacked the table high, then vanished as quickly as they’d come.
The next fifteen minutes were all eating, hands and forks and stories of old times.
Harper tried everything. She picked at the sausage, then went back for seconds, then thirds.
She laughed at something Doc said, and for a moment, she leaned into my side, just a brush of skin, but I could have died happy.
Gunner gestured at Parker’s shirt. “Is that new?” he asked, mouth full.
She glanced down. “Yeah, ‘Spicy Book Club.’ Got it at the gas station in Amarillo. You like?”
“I do,” Gunner said, voice solemn. “It’s very… you.”
Parker rolled her eyes, but she blushed. “You’re not in the club. You couldn’t handle the dark stuff.”
“Try me.”
She shot him a look that made my skin prickle. “I’ll bring you a reading list.”
Wrecker raised a glass. “Speaking of clubs, how’s the gun shop, Arsenal? You running out of inventory yet?”
I shrugged. “Damn near. Every month it’s three days of restock and then we’re dry again. I got a line on a new shipment, but it’s stuck at the border.” I looked at Bronc. “Supposed to be clean. I trust the source.”
Bronc nodded. “Good. We’ll need it.”
For a second, the air changed. I saw the old wariness pass between Bronc and Wrecker and Papa, the way their eyes flicked to Harper and then back to me. They were all thinking about what came after tonight, what waited on the other side of the Atlantic.
But for now, it was family. For now, it was food and laughter and the kind of comfort you only got after you’d bled for each other.
Big Papa wiped his mouth and leaned over to Harper. “You settling in alright?”
She nodded, a curl of hair falling over her cheek. “I am. Everyone’s been really kind for the most part.”
He smiled big and soft. “That’s because you’re good people.” He jerked his chin at me. “Arsenal ain’t always easy, but you keep him in line. We all see it.”
She ducked her head. “We’re good for each other.”
I watched her, watched the way she started to relax by increments, her hand coming to rest on my thigh beneath the table, fingers tracing slow circles. My wolf inside settled, content.
Oscar the prairie dog crawled out from under the table, circled the group, then stood up in Aspen’s lap. “Miss Harper,” he intoned in his tiny, perfect British accent. “Should you require additional cutlery, I am at your disposal.”
She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. “Thank you, Oscar. That’s very sweet.”
He bowed and vanished beneath Aspen’s chair, mission complete.
As the meal wound down, the noise level ramped up.
Parker and Harper huddled close, talking about some trashy romance novel.
Gunner taught Aspen how to blow straw wrappers across the table.
Papa and Doc argued about the best whiskey in Texas.
Bronc and Juliet conferred in low voices, her hand never leaving his.
I leaned into the noise, the closeness, the feeling of being part of something that was bigger than myself. I watched Harper’s face light up, watched her walls come down, watched as she let herself belong.
At some point, Parker dragged her to the bathroom. As they left, I caught Parker’s eye. She winked, and for the first time in a long while, I trusted her to have Harper’s back. There was no threat at this table, not tonight.
When they returned, Harper’s cheeks were pink, and she was laughing. Parker had her arm looped through Harper’s, and they slid into their seats with the easy grace of old friends.
Wrecker glanced at the clock. “Time?”
“Just past 2100 hours,” I said.
He nodded, finishing the last of his beer. “We should go soon.”
Bronc stood, clearing his throat. The table went quiet.
“Thank you, Pearl, for feeding the wolves,” he called, loud enough to reach the kitchen.
Pearl popped her head out. “Don’t mention it, sugar. Next one’s on the house, so y’all better come back alive.”
That hit harder than anything else all night.
We rose as a pack, chairs scraping, bodies moving as one. The old men at the next table gave us a wave and a half-drunk “Oorah.” Oscar scurried up Aspen’s sleeve and disappeared into her purse.