Chapter Nine #2
I grunted, then rummaged through the dresser for my own uniform—jeans that hugged the thighs and calves, black t-shirt stretched tight enough to show off every scar, every muscle, every bit of ink I’d earned since I was old enough to sign the waiver myself.
The tattoos were deliberate, a warning as much as a history. The USMC globe and anchor on my forearm, the wings on my shoulder, the coordinates of some shithole outpost in Afghanistan running up my ribcage. I wanted anyone who looked at me to know exactly what they were dealing with.
Newt watched me dress, eyes wide, like he’d never seen me in full kit before. Maybe he hadn’t. I usually played it casual, but today wasn’t about comfort.
We made it downstairs before Harlow, who’d already eaten, even looked up from the kitchen table. He’d set out a bowl of cereal for Newt, spoon sticking straight up like an antenna. There was nothing for me. That was fine; I didn’t trust myself to eat.
“Sit,” I said to Newt, pushing him into the chair so hard it scraped the floor. He sat, then winced at the sound.
Harlow grinned. “Rough night?”
“Rougher morning,” I shot back. Then I turned to the window, where the driveway was just visible between the trees.
Ten minutes later, the knock came. Not a polite tap—this was three hard raps, spaced just far enough apart to suggest law enforcement or someone who’d watched too many crime dramas. I clocked it before anyone else in the house.
I told Newt, “Stay here. Harlow, you move, you get in front of him first, not after. Got it?”
Harlow nodded, jaw set.
I walked to the door, planted my feet, and opened it just wide enough to fill the frame.
Sheriff Floyd Hardesty stood on the porch, hat in hand, badge glinting in the weak morning sun.
His mouth twitched when he saw me, like he was trying to remember if we’d ever been on the same side.
Behind him, a white-and-blue cruiser idled, exhaust fuming up into the cold.
He raised the hat, nodded. “Morning, Knox.”
“Sheriff.”
He didn’t ask to come in. He knew better. Instead he shifted his weight, scanning the porch and the yard, every move a calculation.
“I need a word,” he said.
“Then speak.”
He looked past me, into the house, eyes lingering on the hallway where Harlow had appeared, arms crossed, blocking any line of sight to Newt. The sheriff was good—better than most—but he wasn’t subtle.
“James Bridger came to the station last night,” he said, voice pitched for my ears alone. “He claims you’re keeping the boy’s here against his will.”
I didn’t blink. “That what he told you?”
“It’s what he put in writing. He also said you threatened to kill him.”
I let my mouth twist into a smile. “He’s not wrong.” I might not have said it out loud, but I was sure he read in my eyes.
The sheriff’s eyes tightened, just a shade. “You want to tell me your side?”
“No,” I said.
He waited, out of habit more than hope. Then he sighed, tucked the hat under his arm. “You know how this looks, Knox.”
“Looks like a man protecting his own,” I said. “The way it’s always been.”
He shook his head, the kind of motion that meant he’d already written the report and just needed a box checked. “I’m not here to make trouble. But I gotta see the boy, talk to him myself.”
That was the price. I’d already decided to pay it.
“Wait here,” I said. I didn’t move.
He waited, hands visible, body language careful. I liked that about him. He was never going to be a threat, but he played by the rules and wanted you to know he was armed.
I turned, signaled Harlow with a jerk of the chin. I waited for his nod and then went to the kitchen. Newt was still at the table, cereal untouched, hands knotted in his lap.
“It’s just the sheriff,” I told him, voice low. “He’s going to want to talk to you. You don’t have to say a thing you don’t want to. You want me to stay in the room, I’ll stay. You want me to leave, I’ll wait outside. You call the shots, understand?”
He nodded, but I wasn’t sure he’d heard.
“Do you want me to stay?”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, “Stay.”
“Good.”
We walked back to the front hall, Harlow trailing us like a boulder on legs. I opened the door wider, stepped back just enough for the sheriff to see Newt in the room, but not enough to invite him across the threshold.
Hardesty looked at Newt, then at me, then at Newt again. His eyes softened, just a little. “Morning, Newt,” he said.
Newt managed a “Hi,” voice paper-thin.
The sheriff kept it easy. “Your dad’s looking for you. He says he’s worried.”
I snorted.
Newt flinched, then steadied. “He’s lying,” he said.
The sheriff nodded, as if he’d expected that. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Newt’s hands trembled, but his voice didn’t waver. “I left. He tried to make me stay. He hit me.” He glanced at me, then back to the sheriff. “I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here.”
I didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
The sheriff let the silence stretch. “Are you safe here?” he asked, careful.
Newt looked at me, then at Harlow, then back to the sheriff. “Yeah,” he said, soft but sure. “I’m safe.”
Hardesty nodded, like that answered everything. “You want me to talk to your dad for you?”
“No,” Newt said, louder now. “I just want him to leave me alone.”
The sheriff looked at me, something like respect in his eyes. “You heard the boy.”
I grunted. “You want to come in and see for yourself? No bruises, no signs of torture?”
He actually smiled, a ghost of the old lawman he’d been before the town wore him down. “I’ll take your word, Knox, but keep it legal.”
I leaned forward, so he could see the truth of it in my eyes. “He sets foot on my property again, he leaves in a bag.”
The sheriff didn’t flinch. “Noted.”
He put the hat back on, turned to leave, then paused. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d keep an eye out. James Bridger’s the kind that gets creative when he’s told no.”
“So am I,” I said.
He left, boots crunching on the gravel. When the engine sound faded, I closed the door and locked it. I turned to Newt, who was still shaking, but less now.
“You did good,” I told him.
He looked up, eyes shining. “Is it over?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, but we got time to fortify.”
Harlow put a hand on Newt’s shoulder, a big, warm weight. He smiled, slow and soft, and Newt seemed to absorb the warmth, straightening in the chair.
I looked at them both, and for the first time in a week, felt something close to hope. But hope was dangerous. I preferred certainty.
I went to the back room, checked the weapons, made sure every round was chambered and ready. I didn’t know what the Bridgers would bring next, but I knew what I’d do when they arrived.
I gathered the brothers in the kitchen because it was the only room big enough to hold all that rage and still have room for a strategy session.
I didn’t bother calling them individually—just stood in the hall and barked “Now!” in a voice that carried through walls and floors like an air raid siren.
Ransom showed up first, barefoot and shirtless, a half-finished tattoo winding up his forearm and a mean smile carved across his face. He slouched in the doorway, eyeing Newt with a mixture of pride and something a little darker.
“You look alive,” he said to Newt, then to me, “We getting company, Sarge?”
“Count on it,” I replied.
Next was Quiad, silent as ever. He’d changed shirts since breakfast, now wearing a flannel so worn you could see the lines of muscle underneath, sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the chill.
He nodded at me, then at Newt, and took a seat, arms folded on the table, gaze steady and unsettling in its intensity.
Harlow followed, nearly breaking the door frame on his way in. He moved to Newt’s side without hesitation and dropped a massive paw on the kid’s shoulder, squeezing once, careful not to break anything.
The gesture wasn’t lost on anyone.
Uncle Cyrus was last, sliding in from the porch, a cigarette burning low between his fingers and the air of a man who’d been up since before dawn thinking dangerous thoughts.
He didn’t say hello, just killed the smoke in the old Mason jar by the sink and leaned against the fridge, arms crossed and waiting.
I waited until they were all in place before I spoke. The kitchen felt tight, all that McKenzie blood and bad history pressing in from every angle. Newt sat at the end of the table, hunched and anxious, his tea gone cold but still clutched in his hands like it might grow legs and run off.
“Sheriff came by,” I said, voice clipped. “Bridger’s trying to play it legal now. Says we’re holding Newt against his will. Sheriff bought the story for about half a second. He won’t come again unless he’s got backup.”
Ransom grinned. “Let him bring the whole goddamn SWAT. We got enough ammo in the barn to hold off half the county.”
Harlow shot Ransom a look, then turned to me. “You want me on the door tonight?”
“Door, window, and the whole east fence line,” I said. “He won’t come straight, but if he sends someone else, I want you to break their legs and leave ‘em in the ditch.”
Harlow grinned, broad and wolfish, but there was nothing friendly in it.
I looked to Quiad. “You’re on second watch. Rotate with Harlow every three hours, no sleeping on the job. If anyone gets near the main house, I want to know before their boots touch the steps.”
Quaid nodded, once.
“Ransom,” I said, “You stay inside. You’re on Newt duty.”
Ransom looked at Newt, then at me, then at Newt again. “I can handle that,” he said, voice going softer. “You want a shadow, Bridger? I’ll be your shadow.”
Newt’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked like he wanted to say thank you, but wasn’t sure he deserved it.
Uncle Cyrus cracked his knuckles, then said, “Your pa and I’ll will get the still running double time. No use having the family name if we can’t bribe half the town for intel. Also, I’ll call in that favor from the deputy in Three Pines.”
I nodded. “Good. Bridger’s gonna try something stupid. He always does. We make sure he pays in advance.”
The brothers exchanged glances, a little of the old rivalry surfacing, but the seriousness in my voice killed any urge to joke. They settled in, falling into the routine we’d learned as kids—follow the plan, stick to your post, no heroics.
I turned to Newt, who looked smaller than ever in the oversized hoodie, but was holding himself together with more spine than I’d expected.
“You got a job too,” I told him. “You stay alive. You stay put. You don’t try to play hero, you don’t try to sneak out and handle it yourself. That clear?”
He nodded, then, braver, “What if they come when you’re not here?”
I smiled, all teeth. “Then Ransom bites first and Harlow does the cleanup.”
Ransom cracked his knuckles, delighted.
There was a long silence while the brothers sat with the plan, weighing it, slotting it into the spaces between what they wanted and what needed to be done.
Finally, Quiad spoke, voice so low it was almost lost in the hum of the old fridge. “You sure he’s worth it?”
He didn’t mean it cruelly. It was just the kind of thing Quiad said, because he liked to test the boundaries, make sure everyone remembered what was at stake.
I didn’t hesitate. “He’s worth it,” I said. “He’s ours now.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
Ransom laughed, then went to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup. “You hear that, Bridger? You get the McKenzie loyalty plan and you didn’t even have to marry in. Lucky bastard.”
Newt stared at his mug, but I saw the edge of a smile. It looked like a man learning he had a place to belong and almost not believing it.
Harlow squeezed Newt’s shoulder again, gentler this time. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Knox don’t lose.”
I stood at the head of the table, hands planted wide, and looked at each of my brothers in turn. They met my gaze, one by one, and I felt the old connection click into place. Whatever else happened, whatever bullshit Bridger tried, this was a wall no one was getting through.
Uncle Cyrus was the first to move. He finished his smoke, pushed away from the fridge, and said, “Guess I better get busy, then. If anyone needs a distraction, just let me know. There’s a lot of dry grass out by the property line.”
He left, boots heavy on the floor.
Harlow followed, after squeezing Newt’s shoulder a third time, and Quiad drifted off without a word. That left me and Ransom, and Newt.
Ransom looked at me, eyebrow raised. “You want me to stick around or is this a two-man job now?”
“Go,” I said, voice softer than before. “Just keep the shotgun loaded.”
Ransom winked at Newt, then disappeared up the stairs, whistling the old Marine hymn as he went.
I turned to Newt, alone now in the kitchen. He looked up at me, blue eyes clear for the first time in days.
“Do you really think they’ll try again?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if they do. We’re ready.”
He bit his lip, then said, “Thank you. For… all of this.”
I didn’t say anything. Just walked around the table and pulled him up, arms around his waist, so he was standing with his chest pressed to mine. He melted into the hold, finally, and I let myself relax just enough to breathe.
“You’re safe here,” I said, voice low.
He nodded against my neck.
I didn’t let go, not for a long time. When I finally did, I kept my hand on the back of his neck, thumb rubbing the pulse point there, a silent reminder that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“James Bridger thinks he can use the law to reclaim what’s mine,” I said, not sure if I was talking to Newt or myself. “Tactical error on his part.”
Newt snorted, then smiled for real. “You’re kind of terrifying.”
I grinned. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Outside, the sun had barely cleared the mountains, but the day was already burning. I felt it in my bones, the sense that everything was going to come to a head soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but the next move was ours.
I watched Newt pour himself a fresh cup of tea, watched the way his hands no longer shook, and I realized I hadn’t felt this sure about anything in years.
Let them come. Let them bring everything they had.
We’d be ready.
And this time, the McKenzies weren’t giving anything back.