Chapter Four
The surviving trees needed water whether Meredith had backup or not.
She worked by flashlight, dragging the hose between rows of shrubs and ornamental grasses that represented maybe fifteen percent of her inventory.
The rest was ash in the burn pile or brown leaves waiting to be cut down.
But these plants were alive, and alive meant hope, and hope was all she had left.
Nine o'clock. Full dark. The kind of country dark that city people didn't understand, where the stars were bright enough to navigate by and the nearest streetlight was three miles away.
Quarry had left that afternoon with a promise to call after church. She'd checked her phone six times in the last hour, hating herself for it. She didn't need a biker she'd just met to solve her problems. She'd been handling things alone for six years.
But the memory of his hand on her wrist wouldn't leave her alone.
The way he'd looked at her. Like she was something worth protecting. Like her stubbornness was a feature, not a flaw.
Get used to it.
She sprayed water on a row of hostas and told herself to focus. The plants needed her present, not distracted by a man with stone-crusher hands and eyes that saw too much.
The engine noise registered before the headlights did.
Meredith killed her flashlight and crouched low, heart hammering. Not one engine—multiple. Heavy diesel rumble that meant trucks, and underneath it something else. Something mechanical and grinding.
Construction equipment.
She ran for the shed, abandoning the hose. Her grandmother's shotgun was inside, propped against the wall where she'd left it after the last time. She had maybe thirty seconds before—
The first truck crested the access road and flooded her property with light.
Meredith froze with her hand on the shed door. Three pickups. Six men climbing out, silhouettes against the headlights. And behind them, grinding up the gravel drive, a skid steer with a bucket attachment big enough to level her remaining greenhouse in one pass.
The man who stepped out of the lead truck was thick-necked and heavy-shouldered, wearing work boots that actually had dirt on them. He walked like someone used to operating heavy equipment—comfortable with machines that destroyed things.
"Ms. Sloan." His voice carried across the property. "Mr. Hardt hoped you'd reconsider his offer."
Meredith's fingers closed on empty air. The shotgun was ten feet away, inside the shed. She'd never make it.
So she stepped forward instead.
"This is private property." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "You're trespassing."
The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Vince Taber. I handle site preparation for Hardt Construction." He gestured at the skid steer idling behind him. "Looks like you've got some debris that needs clearing."
"The only debris I see is the six men standing in my driveway."
Taber's smile flickered. One of his men laughed—a short, ugly sound.
"Here's how this works." Taber took a step forward. Then another. "You sign the papers Mr. Hardt's lawyer sent over. Tonight. Or my crew finishes what we started, and you've got nothing left to sell."
The skid steer's engine revved. The driver was already positioning it toward her greenhouse—the temporary structure she'd rigged after they destroyed the first one. Plastic sheeting and salvaged aluminum, holding maybe a thousand dollars worth of seedlings she couldn't afford to lose.
"You touch that greenhouse, and I'll—"
"You'll what?" Taber was close now, close enough that she could smell diesel fuel and sweat. "Call the cops? They already filed your report, sweetheart. Nobody's coming to save you."
Meredith's hands curled into fists.
She should run. Should get inside the house and lock the doors and wait for them to destroy what was left of her business. That was the smart play. The survival play.
Instead, she walked past Taber and planted herself directly in the skid steer's path.
The driver stopped. Engine idling, bucket raised, three tons of construction equipment aimed at a woman who weighed a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.
"Move." Taber's voice went hard. "I'm not going to ask twice."
"Then don't ask at all." Meredith spread her arms. "You want to level my greenhouse? You're going to have to go through me first."
"That can be arranged."
The skid steer revved again. The driver was watching Taber, waiting for the signal. Meredith's heart slammed against her ribs hard enough to bruise.
Grandma Ruth held this land through worse.
She didn't move.
Taber reached for her arm—
And the night exploded with the sound of motorcycle engines.
Two bikes roared up the access road, headlights cutting through the dark. Meredith saw chrome and leather and the gleam of patches she was starting to recognize. The bikes split around Taber's trucks and skidded to a stop on either side of the skid steer, blocking it in.
Quarry swung off his bike like he'd been born doing it.
"Taber." His voice was gravel and ice. "You're on the wrong property."
The foreman's face went pale in the headlight glare. "This is Hardt business. Doesn't concern the Ridgerunners."
"Everything in this territory concerns the Ridgerunners."
The second rider dismounted—tall and snake-mean, with cold eyes that gave one warning. Meredith saw the pit viper inked across his throat and understood why they called him Cottonmouth.
Quarry walked past the skid steer, past Taber's men, past everyone, and stopped directly in front of Meredith.
"You okay?"
"I was handling it."
"I saw." Something flickered in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or heat. Hard to tell the difference with this man. "But you're done handling it alone."
He turned his back on her and faced Taber, putting six-two of rock-crusher muscle between her and the threat. Meredith should have been grateful. Should have felt relieved that someone else was taking point.
Instead, she grabbed the shovel leaning against the shed and moved to stand beside him.
Quarry's head turned. Their eyes met.
"This is my land," she said. "I'm not hiding behind you."
For a moment, something raw crossed his face. Then his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Wouldn't expect you to."
They faced Taber together. Woman with a shovel and man with hands that could crush stone and a cold-eyed killer at their flank.
Taber was doing math. Meredith could see it—counting his men, counting the bikers, calculating odds that had shifted dramatically in the last thirty seconds.
"Six of us," he said. "Two of you."
"Two Ridgerunners." Cottonmouth's voice was soft and deadly. "You want to test those odds, be my guest. But I should warn you—I only give one warning."
"And she's already given hers." Quarry nodded at Meredith. "The lady said this is private property. She said you're trespassing. You got a hearing problem?"
The skid steer's engine cut off. The driver climbed out with his hands visible, smart enough to know when he was outclassed.
Taber's jaw worked. Meredith watched him swallow pride and fear in equal measure.
"This isn't over."
"It's over tonight." Quarry took a step forward, and Taber took a step back. "You go back to Hardt and tell him Ozark Roots is under Ridgerunner protection. He wants to send more men? More equipment? He better send an army. Because the next crew that shows up on this property doesn't drive away."
"Hardt doesn't scare easy."
"Neither do I."
Silence. The night pressed in around them—crickets and distant water and the tension of violence held barely in check.
Taber broke first.
"Load up." The words came out bitter. "We're done here."
His men moved toward the trucks, throwing glances at Quarry and Cottonmouth like they expected to be ambushed. The skid steer driver climbed back into the cab and started the engine, backing the equipment down the drive with more care than he'd shown coming in.
Meredith didn't lower the shovel until the last taillights disappeared.
Then her knees went liquid.
Quarry caught her before she could embarrass herself, one arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her against his chest. She should have shoved him away—she didn't need to be held, didn't need comfort, didn't need anything except for her hands to stop shaking.
"You stood in front of a skid steer." His voice was low, meant only for her. "With nothing but your body between it and your greenhouse."
"I told you. This is my land."
"Stubborn woman."
"Your mother warned you."
His laugh was quiet, rumbling through his chest and into hers. She felt it more than heard it—felt the vibration, the warmth, the solid weight of him holding her upright.
"Yeah," he said. "She did."
Cottonmouth's boots crunched on gravel as he approached. "Taber's going to run straight to Hardt. We've got maybe forty-eight hours before they come back with more than six men and a piece of equipment."
"Then we move tonight." Quarry's arm tightened around Meredith's waist. "She's not staying here alone."
"I can speak for myself." But her voice came out weaker than she wanted. The adrenaline crash was hitting hard, making her limbs feel like water.
"Noted." Quarry looked down at her, and the heat in his eyes made her breath catch. "You're still not staying here alone. Pack a bag. Bring whatever you need. We're taking you somewhere Taber and his crew can't find."
"I'm not leaving my property undefended—"
"I'll have brothers here within the hour. Nobody touches your land." His hand spread across her lower back, possessive and warm. "But you? You're coming with me."
Meredith should have argued. Should have insisted on staying, on fighting, on proving she didn't need anyone to protect her.
But Quarry was looking at her like she was something precious and fierce all at once. Like her stubbornness made him want to shake her and kiss her in equal measure.
And she was so damn tired of being alone.
"Fine." She stepped back, breaking his hold before she did something stupid. "But I'm bringing my cuttings. The best stock I've got left—I'm not leaving them here for Hardt's men to destroy."
Something shifted in Quarry's expression. "Your cuttings."
"Propagation stock. Six years of selective breeding." She pointed at the makeshift greenhouse. "It fits in the back of my truck if I wrap them right. I'm not leaving without them."
She expected him to argue. To tell her plants didn't matter when her life was in danger.
Instead, Quarry turned to Cottonmouth. "Call the compound. Tell Still we're coming in hot with cargo. And tell whoever's got first watch to clear a space near the lodge—somewhere with morning sun."
Cottonmouth raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Just pulled out his phone and walked toward his bike.
Meredith stared at Quarry. "You're serious."
"You built something here. Six years of your life." He met her eyes, steady and certain. "I'm not asking you to leave that behind. I'm asking you to bring it with you."
The words hit her somewhere soft, somewhere she'd been protecting since the night four trucks sat in her driveway and made her feel like prey.
"Okay," she said. "Help me load the truck."
They worked together in the dark, wrapping cuttings in wet newspaper and loading them into her truck bed with more care than she'd expected from a man with hands built for breaking things. Quarry handled each plant like it mattered, following her instructions without argument.
By the time the compound brothers arrived to guard the property, Meredith's truck was full and her hands had finally stopped shaking.
Quarry walked her to the driver's door and stood close, too close, his body blocking the wind.
"Follow me. Don't fall behind."
"I've been driving these roads since I was sixteen."
"Not with Hardt's men looking for you." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture so tender it made her chest ache. "Stay close."
She should have told him to stop touching her. Stop looking at her like that. Stop making her feel things she didn't have time to feel.
Instead, she climbed into her truck and started the engine.
"I'll be right behind you."
Quarry's mouth curved. "That's what I'm counting on."
He walked to his bike, and Meredith watched him move—predator grace in every step, the kind of man who walked into danger without flinching. The kind of man who looked at a woman holding a shovel and saw something worth protecting instead of something foolish.
The kind of man who packed her plants before asking her to run.
She was in trouble. The deep kind. The kind that had nothing to do with Gene Hardt and everything to do with the way her heart kicked when Quarry's bike roared to life.
But that was a problem for later.
Tonight, she just needed to follow him into the dark.