Chapter Ten
A bigail pulled her truck onto the Night Horde compound around half past noon.
She’d been aiming for noon, but Vivien Lewis, a manager at the Keller Acres Bed & Breakfast, had called in a rush order for soaps for the guest rooms, so she’d taken time to box that up properly and drop it off on her way to the clubhouse.
That also gave Mel some time to get back from his errand.
As she rolled through the large gravel lot, Abigail felt a small twitch of anxiety.
Vehicles nearly filled this lot, and quite a few—maybe most—weren’t familiar.
The cars and trucks, yes, she could name the owners for most of those.
But there were at least twice as many motorcycles as usual.
Twice as many riders as she knew—and many of the bikes had Montana plates.
The Montana charter had arrived a whole day earlier than expected. Mel had texted her to let her know, but she hadn’t fully comprehended how many more people that meant.
Though she lived a quiet life miles away from most people, though she thus spent most of her days without much human company—or had, at least, before she and Mel grew close—and was content in the quiet, Abigail wasn’t shy.
She enjoyed people and was keenly interested in the ways they lived their lives.
Meeting new people was generally a delight.
The Night Horde MC was a somewhat different story.
She knew all the Missouri guys, of course, and their families, and got along with them all—she got along with pretty much everyone, but most of the Horde she sincerely liked—but there was a mystique about the clubhouse that made her a teeny bit uncomfortable.
It wasn’t a danger thing, it was about belonging.
This building had a strong energy of exclusivity.
The people who came to this compound belonged here.
They were a unit together, and Abigail was not part of that unit.
She felt her outside-ness keenly and had generally avoided the clubhouse, even as a casual visitor to one of their big parties.
For all the wisdom she’d gleaned in her various studies, for all the work she’d done in her life to know herself and be comfortable in her own skin and not worry about what other people thought, Abigail still liked to fit in.
That was simply human nature. People had different needs and thresholds for comfort, but when it came right down to it, every single human who’d ever lived—heck, every single animal who’d ever lived—was most comfortable where there was least friction. Where their fit was best.
For Abigail, though, there was an extra dimension.
When she couldn’t find her fit in a situation—or worse, when she perceived (or imagined) that there was no fit for her and her presence was only tolerated, that discomfort manifested as physical pain.
It gave her a terrible headache and upset her stomach.
Some things about the human psyche were, apparently, impervious to knowing better. They rooted in so early and so deeply that all the self-talk in the world couldn’t dig them out.
Mel argued strenuously that, now that she was ‘his lady,’ she absolutely was part of the Horde unit.
His perspective was real, important, and true.
But it wasn’t entirely correct, not yet.
Mel’s claiming of her, and their relationship together, would bring her into the Horde family eventually, but until then, Abigail would have to master some old and cranky demons before she felt comfortable there.
The realization that she was about to come face to face with about a dozen strangers in kuttes who belonged more in a place they’d never been than she did having lived in Signal Bend all her life had her halted in the lot, staring at that too-long stretch of Harleys like they were an army of fairy-tale monsters preparing to charge at her.
“Stop this,” she muttered aloud. “You are a fully grown woman. You meet new people all the time. You like meeting people. Maybe there’s a grand new friend in there.”
Squaring her shoulders, she scanned the bikes again and breathed out most of her anxiety at the sight of Mel’s. While she didn’t yet feel she belonged among the Horde, she did know her fit with Mel.
They’d been a couple for about a month, and Abigail could feel things inside her changing. Ideas she’d considered fixed in her mind were reforming. Her needs and wants were shifting. All of it was subtle, she didn’t feel tremendously different, but also it was dramatic, and she did feel different.
She was reclaiming something she hadn’t known she’d lost: excitement.
When she heard Mel’s bike roll up her long drive, her heart leapt and spun.
When he caught her hand and pulled her close for a kiss, she thought she might swoon.
When he finished her sentence, or leaned over her to collect something from a cupboard he’d anticipated her needing, when he seemed to know her like nobody but her grandmother ever had known her, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let him go.
Behind her, a horn beeped twice, the little avian chirp that meant, Hi, excuse me! Abigail dashed a glance at her rearview mirror and saw Shannon Ryan in her Cadillac SUV. Shannon must have seen the movement of her head, because she did a rolling wave of her fingers on the steering wheel.
Abigail sent back a wave and a Sorry! shrug and got her truck moving again. She pulled into the first free spot and took a moment to put all her worries aside for sorting later.
Shannon parked alongside her, and they met behind their trucks, Shannon wearing her usual bright smile.
She was dressed casually, in jeans, tall boots, and a long, slate-blue sweater with a funnel neck.
Her cherry-auburn hair was pulled back in a low ponytail.
Shannon was one of those women who always looked beautiful and perfectly put together.
“Hi there, Abigail! How are you? You look so cute today!”
Warmed by the compliment, Abigail glanced down at her outfit.
She always did herself up a little bit when she came down to town, but for her few trips to the clubhouse in these past weeks, she’d taken an extra step or two.
She enjoyed the light in Mel’s eyes when he saw her.
He always lit up to see her, even when she was ankle-deep in goat manure, but she caught the extra gleam of pleased surprise in his dark brown eyes when she was done up.
Today, under a crocheted magenta shawl, she wore a long, cobalt-blue dress with a scatter of white rosebuds.
Her nicest pair of black boots, lace-up with a little bit of heel, were on her feet, and she’d done her hair differently, leaving most of it in a heavy, wavy drape down her back, only about a quarter of it coiled into a small bun on the back of her head.
Her usual hairstyle was a messy updo, a big bun at the top of her head that she thought made her look a little like a Gibson Girl.
But Mel had taken her hair down the other night and sunk his fingers into the vexing mass, extolling its praises like a poet and charming her utterly.
So she’d decided to try something new today.
“Thank you. I’m doing real good today. And you look like a little extra sunshine yourself. That’s a lovely sweater.”
Shannon made the same pleased survey of herself. “Thank you! Millie knitted it for me—she’s gotten so good! You’re a fantastic teacher.”
Last year, Shannon had bartered knitting lessons for her daughter in exchange for four large boxes and three rolls of upholstery fabrics, the remnants left over from a remodel of the B&B.
The fabrics were gorgeous and of sumptuous quality, and Abigail had made new drapes for the front room and reupholstered her rocking chair, and still had piles of fabrics left for other projects.
Teaching Millie to knit had taken about a week of daily lessons, during which she’d made a hot pad and a scarf. It was a good trade, nicely balanced.
“Well, she’s been keeping at it, then, and learning more herself, because I didn’t teach her this herringbone stitch.
” Peering closer, Abigail detected one or two small imperfections, but ‘flaws’ like those were the difference between something made with love and care and something a machine spat out. “This is real good work.”
Beaming with maternal pride, Shannon smoothed a hand down her front. “She loves it. She says she thinks better when she’s knitting. If she could make a job of it, I think she would.” Her smile dimmed a bit, and she sighed as she looked toward Main Street.
Abigail knew that Showdown and Shannon’s twins, Millie and Joe, had left a few weeks ago for their first year of college. She didn’t know which colleges, but she knew it was plural—they’d gone to different schools.
“Does Millie know what she wants to study?”
Drawn back to the moment, Shannon’s smile steadied, and she opened the hatch of her fancy truck.
“Oh, I don’t know. That changes minute-to-minute, seems like.
I don’t think Millie really wants a career.
I think she’d be happy sitting in the house making her little miniatures, or knitting, or doing other crafty stuff. ”
Abigail dropped the tailgate down on her ancient Ford. “That can be a job, too,” she said, gathering the boxes of baked goods she’d promised the Horde. “I’ve made a pretty good life doing just that—exactly what I love.”
With two good-size boxes balanced in her arms, Shannon somehow managed to push a button that lowered the Cadillac’s hatch. “That’s wonderful. But I want more for Millie.”
Abigail tried to deflect that unexpected arrow before it could draw blood and almost managed it, but it was Shannon who reacted openly. She pulled up short and turned to Abigail, her complexion pale and her mouth round with shock.
“Oh, Abigail. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I don’t think you—I didn’t—”