Chapter Thirteen #2
He was right. Last night I’d let everything bleed out in front of the whole clan, and the world hadn’t ended.
If anything, it had just shifted, like a river changing course after a flood.
But the idea of walking in there and seeing the looks on my brothers’ faces, knowing what they knew now, still made me want to puke.
We reached the door, Jo’s hand sliding up to the back of my neck. I could feel the collar under his palm, could feel the steady drumbeat of my pulse against his thumb. He looked down at me, eyes dark and calm. “Ready?”
I nodded, and together we stepped inside, bracing for whatever came next.
Inside, the workshop was all cold cement and dim light, the windows fogged with years of sawdust and bad habits. The familiar scent of motor oil and pine resin was thick enough to taste.
All four brothers were there, arranged around a battered workbench like it was an altar.
Knox was at the head, arms folded, chin down, watching as Ransom marked something on a big sheet of butcher paper with a fat red Sharpie.
Harlow and Quiad flanked them, both doing their best impressions of guys who weren’t about to murder someone on a Sunday morning.
I felt the shift the second I crossed the threshold—the way all their heads turned, every eye running a fast inventory of Jo and me, like they were recalculating how the numbers stacked up.
Jo’s hand went from my neck to my hip, grip tightening just enough to remind me he was there, solid as ever. I let him lead, staying half a step behind.
Knox spoke first, not bothering with greetings. “We know where he’s staying.”
No need to say the name. We all heard it anyway.
“He’s not alone,” Ransom added, flicking his pen to underline a spot on the map that looked like a cluster of trailers outside town. “Picked up two more from the Deadwood crew, plus his usual idiot, Toad. They’re holed up here, running shifts at the bar and waiting for someone to make a move.”
Jo let out a slow breath, the sound cutting through the room.
Knox looked at me, then at Jo, then back at the map.
“We hit them tomorrow. Early. Surprise, no fireworks.” He slid a second, smaller map across the table—satellite, with a hand-drawn perimeter marked in black.
“You stay here with Ma and Grandma Minnie. If anything goes off the rails, you don’t come after us. You get in the truck and you go.”
My gut twisted. I wanted to argue, to insist that I could pull my own weight, but Jo’s hand on my hip was a warning: don’t.
He stepped forward, voice quiet but carrying. “We’re with you. But Bodean stays with me.”
The silence was instant. All three of my brothers looked at Jo like he’d just dropped a gun on the table.
Knox’s eyes narrowed. “You sure you can handle him?”
Jo didn’t flinch. “He’s not the problem.”
Ransom snorted, but the sound was more impressed than mocking. Harlow blinked, then looked away, cheeks going pink.
I realized then, standing in that cold, reeking shop, that nobody was going to fight over me this time. They were all just waiting for me to decide what I wanted—and it turned out I wanted exactly what Jo had just given me.
Knox nodded, sharp and final. “Fine. You two stay behind, keep the women safe. We’ll handle the rest.”
He turned back to the map, outlining the plan in short, precise words: who would drive, who’d cut the power, how long they’d wait before moving in.
It was more military than criminal, and the longer I listened, the more I saw the pattern—the need to keep everyone alive, to avoid bloodshed unless there was no other option.
Jo stayed close the whole time, hand never leaving my body. Sometimes it was at my waist, sometimes on my lower back, sometimes just a steady pressure at the nape of my neck. Every touch said: You’re here. You matter. I won’t let anything take you out of this room.
Harlow wandered over to the little stove in the corner, feeding it logs and stirring the embers with a stick. He didn’t look at me, but I saw the way his shoulders relaxed every time I spoke up, like he was counting the evidence that I was still alive and not about to crack.
After a while, Knox finished. He looked at each of us, eyes hard but honest. “Any questions?”
Ransom shrugged. “Yeah. You want me to bring the shotgun or just the bat?”
“Both,” said Knox, without missing a beat.
They all grinned—tight, humorless, but real.
Knox leaned on the table, finally letting his gaze settle on me. “You good with this, Bo?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Jo beat me to it. “He’s good,” he said. “And he’s not going anywhere.”
Something shifted, then—a click, like a door unlocking. For the first time, the brothers didn’t just look at me; they looked at us, as a unit. I felt the weight of it land between my shoulder blades, but instead of crushing me, it made me stand straighter.
Knox nodded, accepting it with the same finality he brought to everything else. “Alright. We go tomorrow.”
The meeting broke up fast, everyone already halfway out the door before I realized what had happened.
Harlow gave me a quick, awkward hug before leaving, muttering something about coffee.
Ransom ruffled my hair and whispered, “You’re tougher than you look.”
Quiad just clapped me on the shoulder, a squeeze that lingered a few seconds longer than expected.
When it was just me and Jo left, the silence pressed in, thick with everything that hadn’t been said.
He turned me to face him, hands cupping my jaw. His eyes were serious, the smile gone. “You okay?”
I wanted to tell him yes. I wanted to say that I was ready, that I could handle anything. But all I managed was, “Don’t let them get hurt. Not for me.”
He brushed his thumb across my cheek, tracing the line of the collar. “They’re not doing this just for you, Bo. They’re doing it because it’s the right thing.”
I nodded, but the truth of it hadn’t sunk in yet.
He pulled me in, forehead to forehead, and just held me there. I felt his heartbeat, fast and steady, and the knot in my chest loosened a little.
Outside, the world was waking up—the clatter of a feed bucket, the sound of Ma’s laugh cutting through the morning air. I could smell bread baking, cinnamon and yeast and home.
Jo’s hand slid under the hem of my shirt, thumb rubbing the skin above my hip, like he wanted to memorize every inch.
“You ever think we’d end up here?” I asked, voice small.
He grinned, the old cocky bastard, and kissed me, slow and deep. “Yeah. I always did.”
We stood in the silence, letting the world spin around us. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I had to run.
I was already home.
And nothing—no one—was going to take that from me again.