Chapter Eight
Floodlights illuminated a gravel lot big enough for seventy bikes.
A main lodge rose from the darkness—converted fishing resort, weathered wood, the kind of place that had stories sunk into every beam.
Cabins scattered across the property like afterthoughts.
A dock stretched into water so black it looked like oil.
And everywhere, men.
They emerged from shadows and doorways, watching her truck roll past with the wariness of wolves assessing a newcomer. Cuts and leather and hard eyes that didn't miss a thing. Meredith kept her hands visible on the wheel and her expression neutral.
Quarry's bike pulled alongside her window.
"Park by the lodge. I'll help you unload."
She followed him to a spot near the main building and killed her engine. The sudden silence felt heavier than the engine noise had. Through her windshield, she could see brothers gathering—a loose semicircle of muscle and patches, every one of them watching her.
Quarry appeared at her door before she could open it herself.
"Stay close."
"I wasn't planning to wander."
His mouth twitched. "Good."
He walked her through the semicircle like he was daring anyone to comment. Nobody did. The brothers parted and let them pass, though Meredith felt their eyes on her back all the way to the lodge entrance.
A man waited on the porch—tall, weathered, with the patience of someone who'd been running things long enough that urgency was a foreign concept. Still, she guessed. The president. He had eyes that looked like they'd seen copper cook for three generations.
"You're the Sloan girl."
"Meredith." She met his gaze without flinching. "Ruth was my grandmother."
Something shifted in Still's expression. Respect, maybe. Or memory.
"Ruth sat next to my grandmother at church for forty years. Tough woman. Never gave an inch she didn't choose to give." He studied her for a long moment. "Spillway says you put a man down with a shovel tonight."
"He was trying to come through my window."
"And before that, you stood in front of a skid steer with nothing but your body."
"It was going to destroy my greenhouse."
Still's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Welcome to the compound, Meredith. Any woman with Ruth Sloan's blood and her backbone is welcome here."
He turned and walked inside, leaving Quarry and Meredith alone on the porch.
"That went well," she said.
"He liked your grandmother." Quarry's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the stairs. "Come on. I'll show you where you're staying."
The cabin was small, clean, and had a window facing east.
Meredith registered that last detail with a relief that probably didn't make sense given everything else going on. Her cuttings needed morning sun. The fact that she still cared about plant light while her life was in danger said something about her priorities.
Or maybe just about her grandmother's influence.
"Bathroom through there." Quarry pointed. "Kitchen's stocked with basics. Lodge serves meals, but you're free to cook here if you want space."
"Space." She looked around the single room—bed against one wall, small table and chairs, kitchenette in the corner. "This is more space than I've had in days."
"It's yours as long as you need it."
The words settled over her like a blanket. Hers. Something that belonged to her in a world where everything else was being torn away.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." He moved toward the door, then stopped. "Hardt's going to respond to what happened tonight. Losing Taber and seven men isn't something he's going to let slide. We need to be ready for whatever comes next."
"I know."
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow we plan."
He was halfway out the door when she caught his arm.
"Quarry."
He turned, and she saw it—the exhaustion beneath the control, the weight of the night pressing down on shoulders that had carried too much for too long.
"Sleep somewhere," she said. "Not on a porch. Not in a chair. An actual bed."
"I've got watch—"
"The compound has guards. A gate. Brothers everywhere." She tightened her grip on his arm. "You don't have to protect me every second."
Something flickered in his eyes. "You're wrong about that."
"Quarry—"
"Sleep, Meredith. I'll see you in the morning."
He pulled free and disappeared into the night, leaving her standing in the doorway of a cabin that wasn't hers but was, feeling the ghost of his warmth on her fingers.
Stubborn man.
She closed the door and started unpacking her cuttings.
Morning came gray and humid, lake fog wrapping the compound in gauze.
Meredith woke to unfamiliar sounds—bikes idling, voices carrying across water, the distant clang of metal from what might be a garage. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. Then memory rushed back: the cabin, the fight, Quarry's hands around Taber's throat.
The man she'd put down with a shovel.
She sat up and looked at her cuttings, arranged in the east window where morning light was just beginning to filter through. Most of them looked stable. One or two showed signs of stress—wilting leaves, stem discoloration. She'd lose those if she couldn't get them into proper soil soon.
Coffee first. Then reconnaissance.
The compound looked different in daylight. Less threatening, more functional. Brothers moved between buildings with purpose, working on bikes or carrying equipment or just existing in a space that clearly belonged to them. A few nodded at her as she walked toward the lodge. Nobody stopped her.
She found the kitchen by following the smell of bacon.
The lodge's great room was bigger than she'd realized—long wooden bar, tables scattered throughout, Ozark outlaw memorabilia covering every wall.
A woman stood at the stove, flipping eggs with the efficiency of someone who'd fed crowds her whole life.
"You must be Meredith."
The woman turned, and Meredith found herself being assessed by sharp eyes in a weathered face. Mid-forties, solid build, the kind of hands that had seen work.
"I'm Maggie. Still's woman." She jerked her chin toward a coffee pot. "Pour yourself some. The others will be here soon."
"Others?"
"The old ladies. We wanted to meet you properly."
Before Meredith could respond, the door opened and three more women filed in. Different ages, different builds, but they all carried themselves with the same quiet confidence. Women who'd earned their place in a world that didn't hand out free passes.
"Jolene." The first woman had salon-perfect hair and nails that had been professionally done recently. "Limestone's mine."
"Tessa." Tall, athletic, with dirt on her boots that Meredith recognized as barn muck. "Cottonmouth's."
"Nadine." Younger than the others, but with eyes that missed nothing. "Spillway's. He told me what happened last night."
They settled around a table like they'd done this a hundred times before, leaving a space for Meredith that felt both welcoming and evaluative. She poured herself coffee and sat.
"So." Maggie leaned back in her chair. "You're the one Quarry's been losing sleep over."
"I'm the one Hardt's been trying to run off my land."
"Same thing, from what we hear." Jolene's smile had an edge to it. "Spillway says Quarry hasn't left your side since this started. That's not like him."
"He's protecting me. That's club business."
"Honey." Tessa's voice was dry. "Nothing about the way that man looks at you is club business."
Heat crept up Meredith's neck. She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and tried to look unaffected.
"I barely know him."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." Maggie's tone softened. "These men... they know what they want. When they find it, they don't let go easy."
"And what they want is usually complicated as hell," Nadine added. "Dangerous lives, dangerous enemies, dangerous choices. You sure you're ready for that?"
Meredith thought about her grandmother. About the tornado that missed the house by thirty feet. About standing in front of a skid steer and refusing to move.
"I've been fighting for my land for eight months. Fighting for something I love isn't new to me."
The women exchanged glances. Something passed between them—approval, maybe. Or recognition.
"She's got Ruth's backbone," Maggie said.
"And her stubbornness," Jolene agreed. "Remember the time Ruth told the county assessor where he could shove his property survey?"
"I heard about that." Meredith found herself smiling. "Grandma said he never came back."
"He didn't." Maggie's eyes crinkled. "Your grandmother was something else. The compound could use more of that energy."
Tessa leaned forward. "What happened last night—Taber, the attack—that's not going to be the end of it. Hardt's going to hit back. You understand that?"
"I understand."
"And you're staying anyway?"
"This is the safest place for me right now. And—" Meredith hesitated, then pushed through. "Quarry said this fight is as much mine as his. I'm not running from it."
"Good." Nadine nodded. "Because once you're in with these men, you're in. They'll move heaven and earth for you, but they expect you to stand with them when things get ugly."
"I stood with Quarry last night. While men with guns were coming through the trees. That ugly enough?"
Silence. Then Maggie laughed—a warm, approving sound.
"Yeah, honey. That's ugly enough." She pushed back from the table. "You need anything, you come find one of us. We look out for each other here. That's how it works."
The women filed out, leaving Meredith alone with her coffee and a strange feeling in her chest. She'd expected interrogation. Suspicion. Instead, she'd gotten something closer to acceptance.
Conditional acceptance, maybe. But it was a start.
She found the dock garden an hour later.
It sat at the edge of the compound where land met water—a raised bed with remnants of herbs gone leggy and vegetables that hadn't been tended in weeks. Weeds choked the soil. Whatever someone had planted here had been abandoned to fend for itself.
Meredith knelt beside the bed and ran her fingers through the dirt. Good soil. Rich and dark, the kind that would support almost anything if given proper care.
"Nobody's had time to work it."
She turned. Quarry stood behind her, looking like he'd actually slept—or at least rested. The shadows under his eyes were lighter.
"This is criminal," she said. "There's basil here that could be saved. Tomato plants that just need pruning."
"So save them."
"I'm a guest. I can't just—"
"You put a man down defending this compound." Quarry moved closer, stopping beside her at the garden's edge. "You're not a guest. You're part of this. If you want to save the garden, save it."
Meredith looked at the neglected plants. At the soil that wanted to produce. At the possibility of making something grow in the middle of everything being destroyed.
"I'll need supplies. Pruning shears. Fertilizer. Stakes for the tomatoes."
"Make a list. I'll get it."
She looked up at him—this man who'd killed for her, who'd held her while she shook, who was now offering to fetch gardening supplies like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." His eyes held hers. "I want to."
The words landed somewhere soft in her chest. She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and found herself closer to him than she'd intended.
"Thank you."
"Stop thanking me." His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from her face—that same tender gesture from before, the one that made her breath catch. "Just tell me what you need."
What she needed was complicated. What she needed was safety and stability and her nursery back and maybe—definitely—more of him touching her like she mattered.
"Pruning shears," she said instead. "And time."
"I can give you both."
He walked away before she could respond, leaving her standing in the morning light with dirt on her hands and something that felt dangerously like hope building in her chest.
Back in her cabin, she arranged her cuttings in the east window where the sun was strongest. The Japanese maple was already showing more root development. Another week and she could transplant it.
Through the window, she could see the compound spreading out—the lodge, the dock, the garden she was already planning to save. Brothers moving through their day. A world that had nothing to do with nurseries and everything to do with survival.
But the soil was good. The light was right. And somewhere in the middle of war and danger and a man who looked at her like she was worth killing for, Meredith Sloan was already planning which compound beds could support transplants.
Some things you couldn't turn off, even when you tried.
Growing was one of them.