Chapter Ten
Saturday hit different at the compound.
Nadine woke to the smell of smoke and meat and the distant sound of children laughing—a combination so unexpected in this place that she lay in bed for a full minute trying to reconcile it with everything she knew about outlaw motorcycle clubs.
Then she remembered: cookout day.
Beth had mentioned it yesterday, between basket-weaving lessons and discussions about pottery glazes.
Once a month, the compound opened up to families.
Brothers brought their kids, their parents, their extended networks of people who existed in the gray space between criminal enterprise and community.
It was tradition, Beth had said. A reminder that the club protected more than just itself.
Nadine dressed quickly and followed her nose to the back lot.
The transformation was staggering.
Picnic tables had materialized from somewhere, arranged in clusters across the packed earth.
Grills smoked along one edge, tended by men she'd seen holding weapons who now wielded spatulas with the same intensity.
Children darted between adults, shrieking and playing games that seemed to involve a lot of running and very few rules.
And everywhere, everywhere, people were laughing.
"There you are." Rachel appeared at her elbow, pressing a cup of coffee into her hands. "Thought you might sleep through it."
"I didn't know this happened."
"Every month, weather permitting. Sometimes more often if there's something to celebrate." Rachel nodded toward a table near the main building. "Beth set up a display for you. Hope that's okay."
Nadine followed her gaze and felt her heart squeeze.
Her artisans' work—the pieces she'd brought from the safehouse, the ones she'd been making in the craft room—arranged on a table with a hand-lettered sign that read Mountain Crafts Cooperative .
Mabel's baskets. Clara's small pottery pieces.
The walking stick Douglas had sent with one of the brothers who'd checked on him.
"How did you—"
"The women organized it." Rachel shrugged like it was nothing. "Figured if people are going to be here anyway, might as well give them a chance to support local craftspeople."
Nadine's eyes burned. She blinked hard, refusing to cry over baskets and kindness.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You're running the table." Rachel grinned and pushed her toward the display. "Go sell some art."
She sold three pieces in the first hour.
Not through any effort of her own—people just kept stopping, drawn by the quality of the work, asking questions she was happy to answer. Where did this come from? Who made it? How long does it take?
A grandmother bought one of Mabel's baskets, eyes going soft when Nadine explained the four generations of technique woven into every strand.
A young mother picked up a small pottery bowl for her daughter's room, something handmade to balance all the plastic.
A grizzled man who looked like he'd been riding since before Nadine was born spent ten minutes examining Douglas's walking stick before counting out cash with hands that trembled slightly.
"Good work," he said. "Don't see much of this anymore. Glad someone's keeping it alive."
Every sale went into an envelope she'd designated for the artisans. Every conversation reminded her why she'd started the cooperative in the first place.
This was what she was protecting. Not just objects—connections. Stories. The proof that handmade still meant something in a world that had forgotten how to value it.
"You're good at this."
Nadine looked up to find Sledge standing at the edge of her table, massive arms crossed, watching her with an expression that might have been approval. Beth's husband. The quiet mountain who let his reputation speak for him.
"I've had practice."
"Beth told me about the basket you're making her." His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder. "Said it's going to look like her grandmother's."
"That's the goal."
He nodded slowly, studying the pieces on display. His eyes lingered on a particularly intricate weave—one of Mabel's best, a piece that had survived the chaos of the past week through sheer luck.
"My grandmother made baskets," he said. "When I was a kid. Used to sit on her porch and watch her work." Something shifted in his expression, a softening that transformed his face entirely. "Haven't thought about that in years."
"Would you like me to teach you?"
The question came out before she could second-guess it. Sledge's eyebrows rose.
"Teach me?"
"The basics. It's not as hard as it looks, once you understand the patterns." She smiled. "Big hands can actually be an advantage. More control over the tension."
For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
"Maybe," he said. "I'll think about it."
He walked away, and Nadine watched him go, wondering what other hidden depths existed in these men who seemed, on the surface, to be nothing but muscle and menace.
The afternoon melted into evening.
Nadine stepped back from the table as the crowds thinned, letting one of the other women take over while she wandered through the cookout.
Children had graduated from running games to roasting marshmallows over a fire pit someone had set up near the tree line.
Old ladies clustered in conversation, their laughter carrying on the cooling air.
Men who'd looked ready to kill days ago now stood in groups, beers in hand, telling stories that made their companions roar.
She found a spot near the fire and watched the flames dance.
The domesticity of it struck her as almost surreal.
These were outlaws—criminals, by any legal definition.
They ran drugs, sold guns, handled problems with violence that would horrify anyone who lived in the daylight world.
And yet here they were, flipping burgers for their kids, kissing their wives, creating a community that felt more real than any neighborhood association she'd ever encountered.
"Hey."
Pitfall dropped onto the log beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He smelled like smoke and charcoal, and there was a streak of barbecue sauce on his jaw that made her want to lean over and wipe it away.
She didn't. But she wanted to.
"Hey yourself." She nodded toward the grill area. "Didn't know you cooked."
"I don't. Timber put me on burger-flipping duty because he thinks it's funny to watch prospects struggle." He stretched his legs toward the fire. "Pretty sure I burned at least half of them."
"I had one. It was fine."
"Liar."
She laughed—a real laugh, the kind that had been rare lately. He turned to look at her, and something in his expression made her breath catch.
"You fit here," he said.
"What?"
"Here. The compound, the women, all of it." He gestured vaguely at the cookout around them. "I've been watching you all day. You fit."
"I'm good at adapting."
"It's more than that." He was quiet for a moment, staring at the fire. "I've been prospecting for ten months. Still feel like an outsider most days. Like I'm waiting for someone to realize I don't belong and kick me out."
The vulnerability in his voice hit her like a punch.
"You've been here ten months and you feel like an outsider?"
"I've never belonged anywhere long enough to know what it's supposed to feel like.
" He picked up a stick, poked at the fire.
"Grew up moving around—my mom worked whatever jobs she could find, which meant new towns every couple years.
By the time I was old enough to put down roots, I'd forgotten how. "
"What about after the mine shaft? When you climbed out?"
"Spent the next few years angry. Working, fighting, trying to prove I was worth something to people who didn't care.
" His jaw tightened. "Blacklung found me losing a bar fight against four guys.
Didn't win, but I wouldn't stop getting up either.
He said that was the kind of stubborn the club needed. "
"And that was enough? One fight?"
"It was enough to get me noticed. Everything after that, I've had to earn." He finally looked at her. "Still earning it."
Nadine reached over and wiped the barbecue sauce from his jaw with her thumb. The touch was simple, intimate, and his eyes darkened at the contact.
"You want to know why I fit here?" she asked softly. "It's not because I'm good at adapting. It's because I decided to."
"Decided to?"
"Belonging isn't something that happens to you.
It's something you choose." She let her hand drop, though the warmth of his skin lingered on her fingertips.
"I spent years in the city feeling like I didn't fit, waiting for someone to hand me a place that felt like home.
It never worked. Then I came back to the mountains, and I realized—home isn't where you're accepted.
It's where you plant your flag and refuse to leave. "
He was staring at her like she'd said something profound. Maybe she had. She wasn't sure anymore.
"You really believe that?" he asked.
"I know it." She held his gaze. "Belonging is a choice, Pitfall. You make it every day, through your actions, through showing up when it matters. You've been doing that for ten months. That's not outsider behavior. That's belonging in progress."
The fire crackled between them. Around them, the cookout was winding down—families packing up, children yawning, the energy shifting from celebration to quiet satisfaction.
"Nadine."
"Yeah?"
"You're making it hard to wait."
The words sent heat rushing through her. "Wait for what?"
"For my patch. For the right to claim you properly." His voice dropped, rough and low. "Every time you say something like that, every time you look at me like you're looking at me right now, I want to forget about doing things right and just—"
He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
"Just what?"
"You know what."
She did. God help her, she did.
"Then maybe," she said slowly, "you should stop waiting."
His breath caught. For one electric moment, she thought he might kiss her right there, in front of everyone, claim and consequence be damned.
Then a voice cut through the tension.
"Pitfall! Reaper wants you in church. Now."
He closed his eyes, something like pain crossing his face. "Worst timing in history."
"Go." She touched his arm, let her fingers linger. "I'll be here when you get back."
"Promise?"
"I already told you. I'm making my choice." She smiled, soft and sure. "This is me planting my flag."
He stood, looked down at her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
"Don't move," he said.
Then he was gone, striding toward the main building with purpose that couldn't quite hide the reluctance in every step.
Nadine watched him go and felt something settle into place in her chest. She'd meant what she said. Belonging was a choice—and she was making hers.
Whatever came next, she wasn't facing it alone.