Chapter Seven
CREW HADN’T SLEPT in two days.
Walking away from Trouble had been the final proof that fear was calling the shots.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter as he drove into Hope Valley, his mind still circling thoughts of her, just as it had been since he’d walked out her door.
The sound of her laughter, the feel of her warm body beneath him, how easy she was to be with and talk to, so open and unafraid.
She’d rocked him to his core, but more than that, she’d made him feel like a normal guy for a while, someone worth knowing, and he’d fucked her over by leaving while she’d slept.
He’d never been the kind of person to knowingly hurt people, and he’d always held himself accountable for every mistake he’d ever made.
He told himself that leaving was an act of mercy.
She was safer not knowing who he was. But she’d cracked something open inside him that he’d kept sealed for years, and leaving her hadn’t brought relief.
It had brought brutal clarity.
Walking away hadn’t protected her. It was a stupid, selfish act of self-preservation.
He owed her an explanation, and he’d damn well take care of that if he survived talking with Dare and could track down and speak to Billie Mancini, the other person who’d been on Dare’s motorcycle when he’d hit them.
He rolled down the window, cool air whipping in as the sign for Redemption Ranch came into view, a wooden beam stretched over the entrance with an iron RR on top, the first R backward.
Crew’s chest knotted up. Redemption wasn’t something he had any hope for.
He’d be lucky if they let him atone for what he’d done.
But he had no hope of being set free from the pain he’d caused Dare Whiskey, Billie Mancini, and their families. That was his cross to bear for life.
White-knuckling the steering wheel, he turned into the property.
Guilt twisted in his gut as he followed the GPS past rolling pastures, riding arenas, and barns, to the main office.
The sign out front read Redemption Ranch Therapeutic Services, but the building looked like a massive house made of stone, wood, and glass.
After the accident, his attorney had told him about the Whiskeys’ second-chance ranch, where Dare lived and worked as a therapist. The ranch was run by Dare’s parents.
His father, Tommy “Tiny” Whiskey, was also the founder of the Hope Valley chapter of the Dark Knights motorcycle club, and Dare’s mother, Wynona, was a licensed psychologist. She ran the ranch’s therapeutic staff.
He’d also learned that Billie managed the Roadhouse, her family’s bar.
Dare and his family hadn’t shown up for Crew’s sentencing. Crew didn’t blame them. He hadn’t wanted to see his own face, either. But the courtroom had been filled with bikers wearing black leather vests.
Swallowing against the bile rising in his throat from the awful feeling of knowing he’d nearly killed two people, he parked his SUV.
He glanced in the rearview. Haunted eyes looked back at him.
Hoping to show Dare and Billie and their families that he wasn’t trying to hide behind anything, he’d cut his hair, but he’d left it longer on top than he used to wear it, and had trimmed his beard.
He probably should have shaved off his beard, but he couldn’t do it.
Being clean-shaven was too reminiscent of who he’d been, and he was done changing himself to please others.
Even so, the short hair felt like a costume.
He was no longer the same man who had caused the accident, and as good a guy as he’d been back then, he’d already become a better man. Taking a deep, calming breath, he stepped out of his vehicle and went to face his due.
It was only seven a.m. He didn’t know what time Dare started work, but he thought…Hell, he didn’t know what he thought. He just needed to get this done and couldn’t wait another second.
The closer he came to the front door, the harder it was to keep his stride steady. His pulse thudded too loud in his ears, and his hands were hot. He curled them into fists, trying to force himself to relax.
He knew fear. He’d lived in survival mode every day in prison.
This was something else. Dread mixed with determination settled deep in his chest, taking a toll on his every breath.
He stopped at the door, palms sweating, mouth dry, stomach knotted.
For a split second, instinct urged him to retreat, to put the past firmly behind him, where it couldn’t take any new swings.
Instead, he ground his back teeth and headed inside.
He’d expected to be greeted with offices, but he found a large, homey, two-story gathering space with several couches, comfy armchairs, bookshelves, tables with games and puzzles on them, and a massive stone fireplace.
A second story ran around the perimeter, and he saw several doors.
There was a hallway to his left, and to his right, the hall opened to an enormous dining area with massive farmhouse-style tables and a pass-through to a kitchen, where he saw a large bald man working at a stove.
A couple of guys were milling around a table with coffee machines and all the accoutrements.
Nearby was another table with what looked like the early settings of a buffet.
Had he come to the wrong place?
“Hi. Can I help you?”
He spun around, taking in the tall woman with short blond hair who looked to be in her fifties. She was wearing a plaid jacket, her smile warm but curiously assessing.
“I hope so,” he said uneasily. “I’m looking for Dare Whiskey.”
“He should be here in about twenty minutes. I’m Wynnie, Dare’s mother.” She held out her hand.
Crew’s chest constricted as he shook her hand. “Crew Hendricks.”
Her smile faltered. She recovered quickly, but her eyes were shadowed with uncertainty. “Oh. I didn’t recognize you with the beard. Is Dare expecting you?”
“No, but I’m hoping he’ll talk with me.”
“I see. Crew, honey, why don’t you come with me?”
She touched his arm, ushering him through the dining area and down a quiet hallway lined with offices. She moved confidently, seemingly unflappable, which said a lot given what he’d done.
“Meeting Dare might not go as you hope,” she said gently.
“I don’t have any expectations of this being easy.”
She glanced at him with a careful smile.
“That’s probably a good thing.” Leading him into a sunny office with blue-gray walls, she motioned to a couch.
“Make yourself comfortable.” She slipped off her jacket and hung it in a closet.
Turning back to him, casually professional in a cream turtleneck sweater, jeans, and suede boots, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Crew paced, his hands flexing, his eyes drawn to the framed photographs lining the walls.
There were pictures of kids of varying ages, grinning with missing teeth, riding horses, decked out in Western hats and boots, guys with their arms slung over one another’s shoulders.
Bikers wearing black leather vests smiled for the camera.
Even as a little girl, Trouble was easy to spot with those honey-brown eyes and that mischievous grin that had instantly reeled him in.
Guilt gnawed at him as he took in pictures of her at maybe five or six years old, on horseback, gazing up at a teenage boy in a cowboy hat sitting behind her.
She was looking at the boy the way Robbie used to look at him.
In another picture, she was older, maybe seventeen or eighteen, laughing with a blond girl who looked a little older than her.
As he made his way from one picture to the next, he felt like he was watching a family grow up before his eyes. The same bikers who were in pictures with the kids when they were young were in more recent ones with them, too.
His attention caught on what must be a recent family photo, taken at night.
They were standing in front of a wooden arch that was decorated with greenery, roses, and rope.
The women were all dolled up, and the men wore black leather vests over dress shirts.
One of the women wore a lace gown and a short white fur jacket.
She was tucked beneath the arm of an enormous man wearing a cowboy hat, grinning like a proud peacock.
A wedding? A teenage boy and girl were holding hands, and a younger boy stood beside the older boy, holding his other hand.
Nearly everyone was coupled off, and there in the middle of them, standing out like a stubborn star, was Trouble, wearing a one-piece wide-legged paisley pantsuit that dwarfed her petite frame and a radiant smile that lit up her eyes.
Crew didn’t want to think about what she’d looked like when she’d woken up alone, but that’s where his mind took him, pounding that knife deeper into his chest.
He scanned the happy couples in the photograph, wondering which one was Dare and if he and Billie were still together.
The office door opened, and Wynnie walked in, followed by a mountainous man with a blue bandanna tied around his forehead, trapping his long gray hair in place.
His gray beard brushed his broad chest, and his dark eyes locked on Crew as he strode into the room, closing the door behind him.
He wore a faded black leather vest over a tan flannel shirt, and a black T-shirt stretched over his pendulous stomach, but nothing about that man was soft.
His keen eyes held the depth of a man who had seen too much darkness and wasn’t afraid of any of it.
Crew knew those eyes. He’d seen that man standing in the back of the courtroom at his sentencing with the other bikers.
“Crew,” Wynnie said. “This is my husband, Tiny.”
He straightened his spine, drew back his shoulders, and stepped forward before his nerves could talk him out of it. “Sir.” He offered his hand.