Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Shadow
Present Day…
The main house smells like mesquite smoke and Phantom's famous barbecue sauce.
I park my bike next to the row of Harleys already lined up in front of the wraparound porch—Banshee's custom Road King with the death's head painted on the tank, Spur's blacked-out Dyna still warm from whatever run he just finished, Rogue's sleek Street Glide that cost more than most cars.
The late afternoon sun glints off chrome and steel, and the sound of engines cooling fills the air with that particular tick-tick-tick that every biker knows.
Sunday dinner at Sharp Shooter Ranch.
A tradition older than half the members patched into the Shotgun Saints.
Family time, Phantom calls it.
No club business. No talk of runs or shipments or the legitimate fronts we use to wash money.
Just food, beers, brotherhood, and pretending we're something other than what we are.
Outlaws playing at being cowboys.
Though in our case, we're both.
The ranch came first—Phantom's family legacy, a hundred thousand acres of Texas scrubland and cattle that's been in his bloodline for generations.
The club came later, built on the bones of his grandfather's MC and the kind of business you don't discuss at Sunday dinner.
We're as comfortable on horseback as we are on bikes.
Rope cattle in the morning, run guns at night.
Wear Stetsons and spurs right alongside our cuts and patches.
It's what makes the Shotgun Saints different from every other MC in Texas.
It's also what makes us the most dangerous.
I swing off my bike, boots hitting gravel, and spot Phantom on the porch.
He's manning the massive grill—a custom-built smoker that could feed a small army.
Smoke billows up from the mesquite chips, and the smell of brisket makes my stomach growl despite the knot sitting heavy in my gut.
He's got his apron on over his jeans, a beer sweating in one hand, tongs in the other.
No cut—he never wears it at family dinners.
It makes him look almost normal.
Almost.
"Shadow." Phantom nods without looking up from the meat. "You're late."
"Had to finish up in the north pasture." Not a lie. We brought cattle down from summer grazing yesterday, and I spent the morning checking fence lines, making sure everything was secure before the storms roll in next week. "Needed to talk to you about—"
"Not tonight." His voice is firm but not unkind. He never looks away from the brisket he's turning, that natural grace of a man who's been doing this for decades. "Sunday dinners are family time. Club business waits until tomorrow."
I bite back the frustration rising in my throat.
The issue with our supplier in Dallas can't wait much longer, and as the Enforcer, it’s my job to anticipate threats.
We've got a shipment coming through next week, and if the routes aren't confirmed, we're looking at delays that'll cost us money and reputation.
Not to mention, if we’re late, it’ll piss people off.
And pissed people make stupid decisions.
But Phantom's rule is absolute.
No club business at Sunday dinner.
Even when the business is urgent.
"Tomorrow, then," I say.
He grunts agreement, and I take that as my dismissal.
The porch is already crowded with members and their families.
Rogue's sitting in one of the weathered rocking chairs, laptop balanced on his knee, probably still working on the club's books despite Phantom's no-business rule.
The treasurer never stops.
Spur's leaning against the railing, hat pushed back, talking to a couple of prospects about breaking a new horse that came in last week.
His drawl is pure Texas, the kind that gets thicker when he's explaining ranch work.
"Gotta respect the animal," he's saying. "You go in thinking you're gonna dominate a twelve-hundred-pound horse, you're gonna end up in the dirt with broken ribs. It's about partnership, not force."
The prospects are hanging on every word.
Spur's the best horseman in the club, better even than Phantom, and everyone knows it.
Near the stairs, Banshee's got a clubwhore pressed up against the porch post, his hand on her hip, that lazy smile on his face that means he's already three beers in and feeling good.
The girl—Misty? Candy?
I can never keep track of the club whores. She’s giggling at something he's saying, twirling her hair around her finger.
"Come on, baby," Banshee purrs, loud enough for me to hear. "After dinner, you and me can take a ride. I'll show you what this bike can really do."
"You always say that," she teases.
"And I always deliver, don't I?"
More giggling.
Banshee catches my eye and winks.
The road captain’s got no shame and even less impulse control when it comes to women.
But he's loyal as hell and meaner than a rattlesnake when he needs to be, so Phantom tolerates his extracurricular activities.
I head inside, nodding to members as I pass.
The main house is just as chaotic as outside.
Dakota—Phantom's youngest daughter—is setting the long dining table that seats twenty.
She's got music playing from her phone propped on the sideboard, some pop country bullshit that makes my teeth ache.
At twenty-three, she's all restless ambition and sharp edges, talking nonstop about her upcoming barrel racing season while she arranges silverware.
"Hey, Shadow!" She grins at me, arms full of plates. "Can you grab the extra chairs from the back room? Mom invited half the county apparently."
Mom.
She means Phantom's ex-wife, Jolene, who still lives in town and still shows up for family dinners despite the divorce being finalized years ago.
The relationship is… complicated.
Most things in this family are.
She still wears her old lady ink, still treats the club like family, still cooks for Sunday dinners like nothing ever changed.
Except everything changed.
But that's not my business.
"Sure thing, kid."
I head toward the back room, passing through the kitchen where Jolene is directing traffic like a four-star general.
Prospects are chopping vegetables under her watchful eye, club wives are mixing sides and laughing about something I don't catch, and the whole scene is domestic in a way that always makes me uncomfortable.
Because I'm not here for the food or the brotherhood.
I'm here for her.
Grace.
I spot her through the kitchen window before I even make it to the back room.
She's outside in the circular driveway, climbing out of her truck—a white F-250 with "Dr. Grace Dalton, DVM" painted on the door in professional lettering.
The truck's covered in dust from the back roads, mud caked on the wheel wells, a dent in the bumper from some ranch call gone wrong.
She's wearing jeans that should be illegal, the denim molded to her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
A tank top the color of Texas bluebonnets shows off arms tanned and toned from ranch work—from wrestling cattle for examinations, from lifting fifty-pound feed bags, from the physical labor that comes with being a large animal vet.
Her soft pink hair is pulled back in a ponytail, light and glossy in the late afternoon sun.
No makeup.
Boots dusty from whatever call she just came back from, the leather worn and comfortable.
She's twenty-six now.
A licensed veterinarian with her own practice, a clinic on the ranch property where she treats everything from horses to cattle to the occasional club member's dog, or stray cat.
She's competent and confident and so goddamn beautiful it makes my chest ache every time I look at her.
And she has no idea I've been in love with her since before I had any right to be.
I've watched her grow from Phantom's wild daughter into a woman who commands respect in a male-dominated field.
Watched her build her practice from nothing, earn the trust of every rancher within fifty miles, and become essential to this ranch and this community.
Watched her, wanted her, but kept my goddamn hands to myself.
But that ends tonight.
I watch her grab her vet bag from the truck bed—a heavy canvas thing stuffed with supplies—and that's when I see him.
Ford.
New prospect.
Twenty-two years old, dumb as a box of rocks, and eager to prove himself.
He's been hanging around the ranch for three weeks, doing grunt work and trying to earn his way into the club.
Mucking stalls, fixing fence, running errands for patched members.
Standard prospect shit.
And right now, he's jogging over to Grace's truck, all smiles and helpful energy, his boots kicking up dust.
"Dr. Dalton!" His voice carries across the driveway, that Oklahoma accent thick and friendly. "Let me get that for you."
He reaches for her bag.
She smiles at him.
My vision goes red.
It's not a flirtatious smile. Not even particularly warm. Just polite.
The kind of smile Grace gives everyone because she's sweet and kind and doesn't know how to be anything else.
The kind of smile that's gotten her in trouble before because men mistake kindness for interest.
But Ford doesn't know that.
He takes her smile as encouragement, steps too close, says something I can't hear that makes her laugh.
I'm moving before I realize I've made the decision, my boots heavy on the hardwood floor, hands already curling into fists.
"Shadow." Phantom's voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. "Chairs. Back room. Now."
I force myself to turn away from the window.
Force my hands to unclench.
Force the jealous rage back down into the box where I've kept it locked for too damn long.
"On it," I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.
But I'm watching through the window as I walk, unable to stop myself.
Watching Ford carry Grace's bag up the porch steps.
Watching her thank him, that small smile still on her lips.
Watching him say something else, watching her laugh again, lighter this time.
Watching him look at her the way I've been looking at her for years.
Like the bastard has any right.
He doesn't.
She's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
Dinner is torture.
Twenty-three people crammed around the table and the extra folding tables Phantom set up on the porch.