Chapter 5 #3
My eyes drifted past him, to the rest of the yard.
There were at least ten trucks lined up in two uneven rows—some old, some newer, all mud-caked and dusted with snow.
The barrels burning between them gave the place an eerie, industrial glow.
Chains glimmered in the firelight. Tools gleamed on workbenches.
It looked less like a cabin yard and more like a staging area.
I hesitated. “Do you, um… run a snowplow business or something?”
He didn’t look up. “Or something.”
The wind gusted, throwing snow across my boots. I frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’ tonight,” he said evenly, yanking the chain one last time before standing to his full, very tall height.
For a second, we just looked at each other.
The snow fell heavier now, swirling between us like a curtain. He looked tired, cold, and impossibly solid—like nothing short of a mountain collapse could move him.
“Inside,” he said finally. “I’ll find somethin’ for you to eat.”
“Does it involve more powder?”
He gave me a side glance. “Keep talkin’, you’ll find yourself lickin’ the spoon.”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “You’re charming, you know that?”
He grunted, climbing up into the truck bed to secure the chain hooks. “That’s what all the women say right before they stop talkin’ to me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I murmured, turning back toward the porch, the woodsmoke and cold tang of diesel trailing after me.
Fifteen minutes later, the back door banged shut and Bear came in, trailing snow and cold air. He didn’t say a word. Just kicked off his boots, peeled off his gloves, and went straight to the sink. The sound of running water filled the cabin as he washed his hands and forearms, slow and methodical.
When he turned, his gaze swept over me from head to toe—not in a creepy way, but like he was checking inventory. Still, having that much man focused on me made my pulse stutter. He was all broad shoulders and quiet judgment, and I suddenly felt very small in my skinny jeans and city coat.
Without a word, he walked past me, opened a closet by the door, and pulled out what looked like an avalanche of plaid.
“Uh… what are you doing?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shook out a heavy bomber-style coat, held it open, and started fitting it around my shoulders.
“Excuse me?” I stepped back. “What is happening right now?”
“What you’ve got on isn’t working.” His voice was low, unhurried. “We’re going to get dinner.”
“Dinner?” I repeated. “Like… outside? Because I was thinking maybe delivery, but I guess that’s not really an option when there’s no cell service or roads.”
He ignored me, pulling out a knit hat so old it might have seen the Berlin Wall come down. Then mittens—thick, waterproof, definitely not cute—and a scarf that smelled faintly like cedar.
“Bear,” I said, holding up my hands. “I can dress myself.”
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “City girl like you won’t last five minutes where we’re going.”
“And where’s that exactly?”
“You’ll find out. Suit up.”
He bent and tugged out a full-on snowsuit, the kind that could probably withstand a blizzard on Mars. It hung huge on me, the knees ballooning, the sleeves swallowing my hands.
I stared down at myself. “Great. I look like a rejected Stay-Puft Marshmallow Elf.”
He handed me a pair of boots. “You done talkin’?”
“I’d love to be, but getting words out of you is like—” I paused, searching for the right line. “—like trying to pull teeth from a bear. With a spoon.”
That twitch again, just barely. “You done now?”
“Not even close,” I muttered, zipping up the suit.
When he was satisfied that I was swaddled within an inch of my life, he caught my wrist and tugged me gently toward the back door. His hand was warm even through the layers.
Outside, the world was dark and glittering, the snow reflecting the pale glow of the moon. He led me to a long, low building beside the cabin and hauled the door up with one smooth pull.
Inside sat a machine straight out of an action movie—a black Arctic Cat snowmobile gleaming under a single hanging bulb.
I blinked. “We’re… taking that?”
He grabbed two helmets from a hook. “Get on. Hold tight.”
I hesitated. “Tight how?”
He met my eyes, calm and steady. “You’ll know.”
A dozen snarky comebacks died on my tongue. I climbed on behind him, awkward and over-bundled, and settled my hands at his sides.
“Closer,” he said.
I swallowed hard and obeyed, wrapping my arms around his solid middle. The engine roared to life, rattling the air, and before I could second-guess it, we shot forward into the night.
The cold hit like a slap, then melted into exhilaration. Snow sprayed around us in glittering arcs. The trees whipped by, branches heavy with white. The world was silver and black and endless, the sky so clear I could see every star. My fear dissolved into something wild and free.
The wind tore at my hair where it escaped the helmet. I pressed closer, laughing out loud when we crested a drift and the snowmobile lifted for a heartbeat before landing smooth and fast.
For a while, I forgot everything—Huntley, the job I’d lost, the wrecked car. It was just the engine’s hum, the crisp bite of the air, and the steady weight of Bear in front of me, guiding us through the dark.
Twenty minutes later, he slowed, headlights cutting through a clearing. Up ahead, a massive log building glowed with light. Smoke curled from a wide stone chimney, and trucks lined the packed-snow lot like an army at rest. Music drifted from inside—low, pulsing, beat.
The sign over the porch read: IRON FORGE MC: Home of the Appalachian Outlaws.
I frowned. “Is this… a brewery or something?”
Bear didn’t answer. He just cut the engine, swung a leg over, and helped me off the sled. My knees were shaking from the ride—or maybe from adrenaline.
We climbed the steps, passing men in leather and flannel, beers in hand, laughter thick in the cold air. Someone nodded at Bear, and he nodded back. Respect, recognition—whatever it was, it was mutual.
When he opened the heavy door, heat and noise rushed out. Pool tables. A bar. A band in the corner playing some gravel-voiced country song. The smell of bacon, fries, and beer.
My stomach growled audibly.
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “What is this place? Heaven?”
Bear looked down at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Glad you think so.”
I felt ridiculous.
Like, 1990-era Halloween-store ridiculous. Puffy snowsuit, clunky boots, helmet hair. If Mattel made Arctic Barbie: Lost Edition, this would be the outfit.
Bear pointed to a side room lined with helmets, coats, and boots. “Gear stays there.”
“Gladly.”
I stripped off the layers, shook out my hair, and tried to pat it into something human. When I stepped back into the main room, the wall of noise hit me again—music, laughter, cue balls cracking against each other, the smell of fried food and beer thick in the air.
Bear was already across the room, standing with a group of men. One had a silver beard, another a shaved head and arms covered in tattoos. They were drinking pints of something dark and frothy. Bear said something low that made them all laugh, and I caught a rare flash of his grin.
Around me, the women noticed.
Their eyes flicked from him to me and back again, expressions ranging from bored curiosity to who the hell is she?
Most wore jeans and tanks under leather cuts, confidence like armor. None looked particularly welcoming.
I hovered by the wall, trying not to look like the world’s most confused snow angel.
“Hey there.”
I turned to find a tall guy leaning against a table—dark hair, flannel shirt half-unzipped over a leather kutte, smile warm enough to melt frost. “Name’s Jinx.”
“Becca,” I said, relieved someone was talking to me who didn’t growl. “Please tell me there’s food in this place before I start gnawing on a barstool.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, we can fix that. Come on.”
“Wait—are you a waiter?”
“Not even close.” He winked and steered me toward a swinging door at the back. The kitchen smelled like heaven—grease, onions, something fried. A portly man in a chef’s hat was flipping burgers on a griddle that looked older than me.
“McDaniel!” Jinx called. “Got a hungry one.”
“Don’t ask,” he murmured when I lifted an eyebrow.
I stepped forward. “Can I get a thick cheeseburger, well-done, caramelized onions, mushrooms, double bacon, and an extra plate of fries?”
The chef turned, eyebrows climbing. “Yes ma’am. Skinny as you are, that’s a hell of an order.”
He grinned. “Give me ten.”
“Take your time,” I said, trying not to drool as the smell hit me.
Jinx led me back out through the side door and onto a narrow hallway that opened toward the main room again. “So,” he said, “welcome to the Iron Forge.”
“The Iron Forge MC,” I repeated, reading the sign again. “You’re a motorcycle club.”
He nodded. “Been around a long time. We’re family, not a gang. Folks here either ride, wrench, or help keep the place running. People also refer to us as the Appalachian Outlaws.”
“And Bear?”
“That’d be your host,” he said with a grin. “Our president. Road name’s Bear.”
“President?” I blinked. “As in… the big guy? The boss?”
“Yep.” Jinx glanced toward the bar where Bear stood talking.
“That sounds like a man who chops wood with his bare hands.”
“Pretty much,” Jinx said, laughing. “His cabin’s on the edge of club property. Private. He keeps to himself.”
“Explains the décor,” I muttered.
Jinx shot me a sideways look. “Don’t take it personal if he’s rough around the edges. That’s just him You’ll get used to it.”
I smiled, a little uncertainly. “We’ll see.”
He grabbed two pool cues off the wall. “You play?”
“Badly.”
“Perfect. I like an easy win.”
“Wow. Confident.”
“Optimistic.” He gestured toward the table. “C’mon, Snowbird.”