Chapter Thirteen
“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
The preacher’s voice carried over the grave, not quite reaching Cassie, her gaze fixed on the casket—on every hiss and creak of the ropes as it descended into the dark below.
Margie stood at her right, Nash at her left.
He hadn’t asked to stand there—just stepped forward when Harvell had called for immediate family, taking his place beside her like it was a given.
She hadn’t protested; she hadn’t even thought of protesting.
Maybe she was too numb—or maybe, like at the church, she was even a little grateful for his presence.
Whenever you’re ready, Strawberry.
Holy hell. His voice—low and familiar—had thawed something frozen inside her, warming it enough that she could move again.
And now, with him so near, his shirtsleeve brushing her bare arm every time either of them shifted, the echo of him—and that goddamn nickname—still clung to her.
Cassie drew in a slow breath and fixed her eyes across the grave, where the rest of the Kings stood in a line—boots planted, hands clasped in front of them. They stood like sentinels, quiet and unmoving. Behind them, the remaining mourners clustered in small groups.
The preacher finished and stepped aside, and Harvell moved forward, a leather folder pressed to his chest.
“On behalf of the family,” he said, nodding to their small group, “you’re welcome to come forward—toss a handful of flowers, dirt, or leave something of your own.”
The Kings went first.
One by one, they stepped up to the grave. Most chose dirt over flowers, letting it spill from their fists onto the casket below. Others left whatever they'd carried in with them—coins, Zippos, pins, patches torn from their cuts without a second thought. Small things. Pieces of a life shared.
Then came Addison, a small bunch of wildflowers gathered in her hands.
She knelt at the edge of the grave and scattered them over the casket.
Beside her, Junie dug into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a folded square of paper.
She bent to drop it in, but a breeze caught the edge, lifting it from her fingers and sending it tumbling across the grave.
Straight into Cassie.
She caught it half-open and smoothed it flat.
It wasn’t paper, but a photograph. Connor stood behind Junie on a weedy baseball diamond, glove in hand, the other giving Junie devil horns, laughing like he always did.
Junie couldn’t have been more than six or seven—gap-toothed grin and wielding a baseball bat like a sword.
Cassie’s throat closed around the ache that blossomed; the hand holding the photo began to shake. It could’ve been them—her and Connor—the way he’d always stand tall behind her, both guiding her and teasing her at the same time. The way she’d ignore him, doing whatever the hell she wanted anyway.
Margie covered Cassie’s trembling hands with hers. “You see that, Cassie-girl,” she murmured roughly. “He was loved, and he damn well knew it.”
She gave Cassie’s hands a squeeze before easing the photo free. “And don’t you let the what-ifs make you forget it.”
While Margie walked off to return the photo to Junie, Cassie wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
Around them, the rest of the mourners began to drift away—soft footsteps through the grass, murmured prayers, flowers dropping one by one into the grave until only a few people remained: Margie back at Cassie’s side, Nash still on her left, and the preacher standing with Harvell a short distance off.
Eventually, Nash stepped forward, looking down at his hand, where the two Kings’ rings sat side by side. Sunlight caught the metal as he twisted one free—his own—and let it fall.
It struck the casket with a dull, ringing note, half-swallowed by soil and crushed petals.
Staring at what remained—Connor’s ring—he worked it loose and slid it onto his other finger, filling the empty groove his own had left behind.
His hand closed into a fist. Then, without a word, he turned and walked off, striding stiffly toward the cemetery gate where the rest of the Kings and their families were gathered.
Beside Cassie, Margie gave her arm a quick rub. “I’ll be just over yonder—you take as much time as you need.”
Cassie took one long, shuddering breath, then stepped forward. Bending, she pressed her hand deep into the mound of loose dirt, feeling the cool grit slip between her fingers. Grabbing a fistful, for a moment she just held it over the grave.
Her eyes closed, and the memory came easy—his dark hair a mess of unruly curls, his grin wide and wild, hollering something smart that made her curse and smack him—which of course just made him laugh even harder.
Opening her hand, she let the dirt sift through slowly, falling in a thin stream that pattered softly against the lid below.
“Goodbye, Connor,” she whispered.
Just then a warm breeze stirred through the trees, sending dogwood petals drifting from above—white and weightless—spinning down all around her. Cassie blinked up through the branches, tears stinging her eyes.
Cassie sat on the front steps, the wood warm beneath her, watching as Margie’s porch filled and emptied all afternoon—part wake, part supper hour. Folks had come and gone most of the day, leaving behind too much food and not near enough appetite.
Now, only a few stragglers remained, scattered across the porch and yard.
Eunice and Margie sat rocking slow in the fading light, chairs creaking in harmony. Margie cradled Becca and Brady’s youngest, the baby asleep against her chest, while Charlie leaned against the railing, pipe smoke curling up and disappearing into the evening air.
“…and I told my foreman, I said, ‘I’m faster than your time clock.’ And you know what he said to me?” Margie asked, cutting her eyes toward Charlie.
Charlie let out a deep, easy laugh. “I said, ‘That’s fine, Margie, but the time clock don’t cuss me out every morning.’”
Eunice wheezed with laughter, while Margie wagged her finger at him. “And yet you kept me on.”
“Hell, woman,” Charlie said, grinning around his pipe, “bein’ cussed out by you was always the best part of my day.”
As their laughter rolled over the porch, Cassie turned to the driveway, where Luanne and her mama stood talking with Ollie, while Becca and Brady chased their two toddlers through the garden, the boys laughing.
“You remember when Cas and Con would run the aisles at the mill, collectin’ scrap paper like they was buried treasure?” Charlie said, his deep voice mellowed by memory. “Poor Birdie nearly wore out a broom tryin’ to keep ’em from crawlin’ into the baler chute.”
“Drove us all half-mad,” Margie said. “Them Berry babies could sure make the walls sing.”
Eunice chuckled. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Con was smart as a whip but Lord, that boy could find trouble.
I remember him tyin’ up his jacket sleeves, sayin’ he was makin’ a parachute.
Then he climbed to the top of the monkey bars and jumped clean off before anyone could stop him.
Landed flat on his back—wind knocked clear out of him.
I thought he was unconscious ‘til he sat up and said, ‘Did it look cool?’”
As laughter rose again, Cassie closed her eyes. It had been like this for hours—stories about her and Connor as kids, memories of their parents, moments that felt both deeply hers and strangely borrowed from someone else’s life.
Her hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress, fingers finding the inside of her boot. She pulled out her phone, the screen lighting her face in the fading light.
Her thumbs moved fast.
It’s over. He’s in the ground.
Three dots blinked. Then the soft ding.
I’m here. What do you need?”
Cassie stared at the screen, thumbs hovering. What did she need? The question felt too big.
I don't know what to do now…
Jordan’s reply came almost at once.
All you need to do right now is breathe, babydoll.
Cassie’s vision went glassy, eyes filling. She wiped at her cheeks, but the tears kept coming—
What happens when breathing doesn’t help?
You keep breathing until it does.
She stared at the words until they blurred, her thumbs falling away from the keyboard as a low rumble rose from the trees.
Conversation on the porch faded. Down in the drive, heads turned as the sound grew, filling the hollow until the air itself began to tremble.
Headlights broke through the branches, beams cutting through the dusk.
The first bike crested the hill, its matte black frame swallowing the light while the chrome caught and flared.
The rider sat low in the seat, one hand on the ape-hanger, the other resting loose against his thigh.
She knew the bike before she saw it, knew that deep, uneven growl that used to rattle the windows whenever he came tearing down the ridge.
Once upon a time, The Beast had been blue. Bright as the sky and just as wild. Built from the ground up by Maverick; no one else had been allowed to touch it.
So of course, Nash had stolen it every chance he got.
The noise deepened as the rest followed, engines overlapping until, two by two, they came out of the trees—each pair slowing in sync as the riders rolled to a stop alongside Margie’s house.
Cassie's breath shallowed, that low thunder moving through her like a heartbeat. The way they’d ridden in—pairs and pauses, engines cutting one after another—told her everything. They were here for Connor’s cut. She’d known it was coming and yet…she’d still held on as long as she could.
Nash swung off the Beast and started up the walk, his movements tight and deliberate—like a man expecting pushback.
He stopped at the base of the steps and pulled off his sunglasses. For a moment he just stood there, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Then he looked up.
“The boys and me,” he said gruffly. “We’re takin’ Con on his final ride. Right now. Sunset to sunrise.”
Cassie exhaled slow, trying to steady her voice. “It’s inside,” she whispered, pushing off the steps. “Gimme a sec.”
The screen door slammed behind her, the sound cutting through the strangely hollow house that, only an hour ago, had been full of voices. Now there was nothing—just silence and stillness.
In the guest room, Connor’s cut waited on the dresser, folded neat and deliberate. She stood over it for a long time, fingertips tracing the restitched edges of his name patch until the letters swam out of focus.
A shaky breath escaped her. She gathered the leather into her arms, holding it tight against her chest, the weight of it both an anchor and a brand-new ache.
When she stepped outside again, the Kings were still astride their bikes; Nash hadn’t moved from the bottom step. The warm air pressed close around her, feeling twice as thick as it had a moment ago.
Cassie moved toward him slowly, each step deliberate, keeping the cut pressed to her chest. She stopped several steps above him, nearly eye level, but made no move to hand it over. The funeral suddenly felt like a prelude to Connor’s real funeral—his final ride with his chosen family.
Nash’s gaze dropped to the leather, catching on the name patch.
“You did that,” he said quietly.
“It had fallen off,” she explained, her voice catching. “I just…stitched it back on. One last time—”
Tears slipped free before she could stop them. She shoved the leather into Nash’s hands and turned, taking the steps fast, aiming for the door.
“Cas!”
Fingers on the handle, she paused.
Nash had followed her up a step, stopping short. His chin lifted toward the waiting bikes.
“You’re not comin’?”
Cassie’s mouth parted, but no sound came.
“That’s not—” She swallowed. “That’s not how it works.”
“No, it ain’t,” he said. “But it’s what Con would want.”
Her eyes flicked past Nash to the line of bikes, where Sarge met her gaze and gave a single, firm nod.
Behind him, Boone tipped his chin in silent agreement.
Then, Rook, arms crossed, added his own small dip of assent.
One by one, each of the men offered the same wordless consent, as if it had been decided long before they arrived.
The screen door creaked behind her, and she turned to find Margie reaching into the house, snagging a black leather jacket from the hook inside. Without a word, she draped it over Cassie’s shoulders and snapped the collar at her neck.
“Gloves are in the pocket,” she said firmly. “You already got boots on. Now tuck that dress between your knees”—she turned Cassie toward Nash—“and go say a proper goodbye to your brother.”