Chapter 9
Three days of sitting still was going to kill her.
Opal had tried resting. Had tried reading the paperbacks someone had left in the guest cabin, tried sleeping more than four hours at a stretch, tried being the kind of grateful houseguest who didn't make waves or demand attention.
She'd lasted exactly seventy-two hours before the restlessness became unbearable.
The clubhouse door had been sticking since she'd arrived—she'd noticed it the first morning, the way it caught on the frame and required a shoulder check to open properly. Nobody seemed bothered by it. Just one of those things that became invisible when you lived with it long enough.
Opal couldn't stand it anymore.
She found tools in the machine shop—Steel raised an eyebrow when she asked but didn't question her, just pointed to the drawer where he kept basic carpentry supplies. Armed with a screwdriver, a wood plane, and the particular determination that came from needing to be useful, she set to work.
The hinge was the obvious problem—slightly bent, probably from someone yanking the door too hard one too many times.
But the real issue was the frame itself, swollen from humidity and years of mountain weather.
Opal removed the hinge pins, examined the wood, and started shaving millimeters off the edge until the fit was true.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She looked up to find Rebel standing in the doorway—or trying to, since she'd propped the door open to work on it. He was staring at her tools like she'd pulled out a live grenade.
"Fixing your door."
"We have people who do that."
"Do they? Because this thing's been sticking since I got here, and nobody's touched it." Opal went back to planing, the curl of wood shavings satisfying under her hands. "It'll take me twenty minutes. Then you can actually close it without dislocating your shoulder."
Rebel opened his mouth, closed it, and turned to look at someone behind him. "You seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it." Timber's voice carried amusement she hadn't heard from him before. "Let her work. God knows none of us were going to get around to it."
They watched her for another minute—she could feel their eyes on her back—before wandering off with muttered comments about "civilians" and "not how things work around here." Opal ignored them and kept working.
The door took eighteen minutes. When she was done, it swung smooth and silent, latching with a satisfying click that made something loosen in her chest.
Better.
She was putting the tools away when Emma Kate appeared at her elbow, a knowing look on her face.
"The boys are talking about you."
"When aren't they?"
"Fair point." Emma Kate fell into step beside her as Opal headed back toward the machine shop. "But this is different. Rebel just told Hacksaw that the clubhouse door works better than it has in three years. Timber's wondering if you can look at the hinge on the equipment shed."
"I can."
"I figured." Emma Kate's grin was infectious. "You know, most people who end up under club protection spend their time hiding in their rooms and jumping at loud noises. You're out here fixing things like you own the place."
"I don't know how to sit still." Opal shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. "My hands need work. If I don't keep them busy, my brain starts eating itself."
"Sister, I understand that more than you know."
They reached the machine shop, and Opal returned the tools to their proper places—she couldn't help organizing them slightly better while she was at it, grouping similar items together, making the drawer more efficient. Steel watched her from his workbench with an expression she couldn't read.
"You know your way around tools," he said finally.
"Hardware store. Two generations."
"That door's been driving me crazy for months. Kept meaning to fix it."
"Now you don't have to."
Steel's mouth quirked. "There's a cabinet in the back of the clubhouse—one of the hinges is shot. If you're looking for something else to do."
Opal found the cabinet. And the squeaky floorboard near the bar. And the loose railing on the back stairs that had been wobbling dangerously for God knew how long. Each fix was small, manageable, the kind of work her hands knew how to do without her brain getting in the way.
By afternoon, word had spread.
Old ladies started appearing with items they'd been meaning to repair—a lamp with faulty wiring, a jewelry box with a broken clasp, a vintage music box that had stopped playing years ago.
Opal set up an informal workshop at one of the picnic tables in the courtyard, tools spread around her, a growing collection of fixed objects accumulating like proof that she belonged here.
"You're making the rest of us look bad," Megan said, dropping off a stethoscope with a cracked casing. "I've been meaning to replace this for six months."
"It just needs new housing. I can fabricate something from scrap if Steel has materials."
"Of course you can." Megan shook her head, but she was smiling. "Iron's been watching you all morning, by the way. In case you hadn't noticed."
Opal had noticed.
She'd noticed the way he appeared at the edges of her vision—never close enough to crowd, never far enough to forget.
He was working on equipment near the lumber operation, heavy machinery that required his particular combination of patience and strength, but every time she looked up, his eyes were already on her.
It should have made her self-conscious. Instead, it made her work harder, steadier, like she had something to prove that went beyond fixing broken hinges.
"He doesn't talk much, does he?" she asked Megan.
"Iron? No. Never has, as long as I've known him." Megan's expression turned thoughtful. "Holler says he was like that when he joined the club—quiet, contained, like he'd already said everything he needed to say in some other life. But the brothers respect him. When Iron speaks, people listen."
"Because he's dangerous?"
"Because he means it." Megan touched her shoulder briefly. "He's a good man, Opal. Hard to reach, but good. And the way he looks at you..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Well. You'll figure it out."
She left before Opal could ask what she meant, though the answer was probably written all over her face anyway.
The afternoon wore on, the pile of fixed items growing, the compound settling into its late-day rhythms around her.
Brothers drifted past her workspace, some nodding acknowledgment, others stopping to watch her work with the bemused respect of men who appreciated competence regardless of the package it came in.
Ridge paused long enough to hand her a flashlight with a dead switch. "Heard you were doing repairs."
"I'm keeping busy."
"That's a rare skill around here." He glanced at the flashlight. "This one's my favorite. Hate to replace it."
Opal examined the switch, found the loose connection, and fixed it in under three minutes. When she handed it back, Ridge's eyebrows had climbed toward his hairline.
"You ever need intel work, let me know. Could use someone who pays attention to details."
"I'll stick to hardware, thanks."
He almost smiled—the closest she'd seen from him—and walked away with his working flashlight.
The sun was starting to sink toward the western ridge when Opal finally ran out of things to fix. She packed up her borrowed tools, surveyed the collection of repaired items waiting for their owners, and felt something she hadn't felt in months.
Useful. Valued. Like she had a place here that she'd earned with her own hands.
"You missed a spot."
She turned to find Iron standing a few feet away, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as always. But there was something different in his eyes—a warmth that hadn't been there before, or maybe had been there all along and she'd just learned to recognize it.
"Where?"
"The gate on the west fence. Latch has been sticking for weeks." His voice was deadpan, but something about the way he was looking at her made her suspect he was joking. "Figured you'd want to know."
"You're making fun of me."
"I'm admiring you." The words came out plain and simple, without the protective gravel he usually wrapped his voice in. "You've been at this all day. Haven't stopped moving since you got your hands on a screwdriver."
"I don't know how to be still."
"I noticed." He stepped closer, and suddenly the air between them felt charged, electric. "You know what else I noticed?"
Opal's heart was doing something dangerous in her chest. "What?"
"The brothers respect you. The old ladies trust you. You've been here three days, and you've already got people bringing you their broken things like you're part of the family."
"I just fix what's in front of me."
"That's exactly it." Iron's voice dropped, rough and warm. "You see what needs doing, and you do it. No complaining, no waiting for someone else to handle it. Just... competence. Applied. Steady."
"You make it sound like more than it is."
"I don't think I do." He was close now, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, could smell motor oil and pine and the particular scent that was just him. "You earned something today, Opal. Don't sell that short."
She wanted to say something clever, something that would break the tension building between them like a storm front moving in. But her voice had abandoned her, and all she could do was stand there, caught in his gravity, feeling the pull of something she wasn't ready to name.
Iron's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. The closest she'd ever seen.
"I'll show you the gate tomorrow," he said. "If you want."
"I want."
He nodded once, turned, and walked away, and Opal watched him go with her pulse racing and her hands steady and the absolute certainty that whatever was happening between them had just shifted into something new.
"Oh my God."
She spun to find Emma Kate standing behind her, a knowing grin splitting her face wide open.
"What?"
"Iron almost smiled." Emma Kate looked like Christmas had come early. "I've known that man for three years, and I have never seen him almost smile. And you—" She pointed at Opal, her grin turning wicked. "You were staring at him like he was the last piece of chocolate cake at a church potluck."
"I was not—"
"You absolutely were." Emma Kate grabbed her arm and started pulling her toward the clubhouse. "Come on. You need a drink, and I need to hear everything about how you managed to crack the uncrackable Iron."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Honey." Emma Kate's laugh rang across the compound. "There's everything to tell. And I'm going to get it out of you one way or another."
Opal let herself be pulled along, her face burning, her heart still racing from that almost-smile and the promise it contained.
Tomorrow. The gate. Just the two of them.
She was already counting the hours.