Epilogue #3
The barbecue joint appeared around a blind curve, a low-slung building with a hand-painted sign and a smoker out back that had been burning since before Still was born. Three pickups in the lot, a couple of sedans, and a dented Honda that belonged to Maggie's dishwasher.
Still parked at the far end of the lot, habit more than necessity. Always keep the exit clear. Always know your sight lines. Lessons his grandfather had drilled into him before the feds came, and lessons the club had reinforced every day since.
The screen door protested when he pulled it open, the same squeak it had made for twenty years.
Inside, the air was thick with hickory smoke and the smell of meat that had been cooking low and slow since before dawn.
Six stools at the counter, four of them occupied by locals who nodded in Still's direction and went back to their plates.
Maggie Reeves stood behind the counter with a rag in one hand and a pricing gun in the other, dark hair pulled back and a streak of sauce across her cheek she probably didn't know was there.
She looked up when the door squeaked and something shifted in her expression—not quite a smile, but close enough.
"Tuesday again already?"
"Calendar says so." Still took his usual seat at the end of the counter, back to the wall, full view of the door. "Brisket still good?"
"Brisket's always good." She was already reaching for a plate, moving with the efficient grace of a woman who'd been doing this work since she could see over the counter. "Sweet tea?"
"You know it."
She poured without looking, set the glass in front of him, and disappeared through the kitchen door.
Still sipped his tea and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Afternoon light filtered through windows that needed washing, catching dust motes in golden shafts.
The walls were covered with decades of Ozark memorabilia—old fishing licenses, faded photographs, a mounted bass that had probably been hanging there since Nixon.
Maggie came back with a plate piled high with brisket, coleslaw, and beans. The meat was pink at the edges, black bark crumbling off in flakes, sliced thick enough to see the smoke ring running through every piece.
"Your daddy would be proud," Still said, and meant it.
Something flickered across her face—grief and pride tangled together the way this country bred into people. "He taught me everything. I just try not to mess it up."
"You're not messing anything up."
She held his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned to refill a customer's coffee. Still cut into the brisket and let the first bite melt across his tongue. Perfect. Four Tuesdays in a row, and it was perfect every time.
He watched Maggie work while he ate. The way she handled the customers—firm but friendly, no bullshit but no meanness either. The way she moved through the cramped space behind the counter like she'd been born there. Which, knowing her family, she probably had been.
Strong woman. Running a place like this alone, keeping her daddy's legacy alive after cancer took him three years back. Still had heard she was raising her sister's kid too, the sister who'd overdosed and left a teenage girl behind. The kind of weight that would break most people.
Maggie Reeves didn't look broken.
She looked like bedrock—the kind that held up mountains and didn't ask for credit.
Still finished his brisket, left a fifty on the counter for a twelve-dollar tab, and pushed back from his seat. Maggie looked at the bill and then at him, eyebrow raised.
"That's too much."
"It's not enough." He settled his weight, watching her face. "Best brisket in four counties. Maybe five."
"Flattery won't get you extra sauce."
"Wasn't asking for extra sauce."
The corner of her mouth twitched. "See you next Tuesday, then."
"Count on it."
Still pushed through the screen door and out into the early evening air. The sun was dropping toward the treeline, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. His phone buzzed again—Current, confirming the church time.
He mounted his bike and fired the engine, letting the rumble settle into his bones. The compound was forty minutes east, and there was chatter to discuss and territory to protect.
But he'd be back next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that.
Some things in this country were worth the ride.
Chapter Two
Seventeen hours on her feet and Maggie's back was screaming louder than the fryer had been all day.
She wiped down the last section of counter, muscles protesting with every stroke, and tried to remember if she'd eaten anything since the biscuit she'd grabbed at five that morning.
Probably not. The lunch rush had bled into the dinner rush, and somewhere in between, old Tommy Harlan had decided today was the day to tell her—for the fortieth time—about the catfish he'd caught in '89.
The register tape showed decent numbers. Not great, but decent. Enough to cover payroll, the propane delivery, and maybe half of what she owed on the new compressor. The other half would have to wait until next week. Story of her life—robbing Tuesday to pay Wednesday.
Maggie tossed the rag in the sanitizer bucket and stretched her neck until something popped.
Through the kitchen pass-through, she could see Danny finishing the last of the dishes, his tattooed forearms disappearing into soapy water.
Good kid. Did his time for a robbery he swore he didn't commit, and nobody else would hire him.
Maggie didn't care what he'd done or hadn't done.
He showed up on time, worked hard, and never once looked at the register wrong.
"You're good, Danny. Get out of here."
He looked up, water dripping from his elbows. "You sure? I can help you close—"
"I'm sure. Go home. See your girl."
His face split into a grin that made him look about sixteen instead of twenty-four. "Thanks, Maggie. See you Thursday."
She listened to the back door bang shut, then his truck coughing to life in the employee lot. The engine faded into the evening, leaving nothing but cicadas and the tick of the cooling fryer.
Quiet. Finally.
Maggie grabbed her keys from under the register and made one last circuit of the dining room.
Chairs up. Salt shakers filled. Ketchup bottles married.
Her daddy had drilled the closing routine into her before she was tall enough to see over the counter, and twenty years later, her hands still moved through it on autopilot.
She killed the neon sign out front—SMOKE & HICKORY flickering once before going dark—and headed for the door.
Two men were leaning against her truck.
Maggie stopped with her hand on the screen door, every instinct she'd developed running a roadside joint alone screaming at her to get back inside.
But her keys were in her hand, not behind the counter.
And her phone was in her back pocket, not on the charger in the kitchen where it would actually be useful.
The bigger one pushed off from her tailgate. Tall, thick through the shoulders, with the kind of soft gut that said he'd been muscle once and let it go. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Maggie Reeves?"
"Kitchen's closed."
"We're not here for food." The smaller one circled around the front of her truck, cutting off her path to the driver's door. Wiry, mean-looking, with a cigarette dangling from his lip. "We're here about your property."
Her property. Not her food, not her hours, not directions to the highway.
The screen door was still half-open behind her. Ten feet to the counter. The shotgun was under the register, where her daddy had kept it since before she was born.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." The big one reached into his jacket—Maggie's heart slammed against her ribs—and pulled out a folded stack of papers. "Your daddy took out a loan against this land back in 2019. Sixty thousand dollars. He stopped making payments when he got sick."
"That's a lie."
"Got the paperwork right here." He held it out like he expected her to take it. "Signed, notarized, legal as Sunday morning. The note's been called. You've got thirty days to pay in full or vacate the premises."
Maggie didn't move. Didn't take the papers. Didn't blink.
"My daddy never borrowed a dime in his life. Not from a bank, not from a lender, not from anyone. He built this place with cash money and twenty years of sweat. Whatever papers you've got, they're fake."
The big one's smile widened. "That's a serious accusation."
"It's the truth."
"See, that's the problem with truth." The wiry one flicked ash from his cigarette, moving closer. Close enough that she could smell stale smoke and something sour underneath. "It's flexible. Your daddy's dead. He can't tell us what he did or didn't sign. All we've got is documentation."
"Forged documentation."
"Prove it." The big one tucked the papers back into his jacket.
"Take it to court. Hire a lawyer. Spend two, three years fighting it out while the interest piles up and the property sits in limbo.
" He shrugged, a gesture that said he'd done this before.
Many times. "Or you can sign over the deed now, walk away with ten thousand in your pocket, and save yourself the headache. "
Ten thousand. For the land her great-grandfather had cleared. For the building her daddy had framed with his own hands. For the smoker that had been burning since before she was born.
"Get off my property."
"Thirty days, Ms. Reeves." The big one was already walking backward toward a black SUV parked at the edge of the lot. "Think about our offer. It's the only one you're going to get."
The wiry one didn't follow.
He stepped closer instead, close enough that Maggie could see the yellow staining his teeth, the broken capillaries mapping his cheeks. Close enough that when he grabbed her arm, she couldn't pull away fast enough.