Chapter Seven
The compound looked like a fortress built from a forgotten America.
Chain-link and razor wire surrounded the perimeter, security cameras mounted at angles that suggested someone knew exactly what they were doing.
Beyond the fence, a converted truck depot sprawled across dusty ground—garage bays that had once serviced eighteen-wheelers, a main building that radiated the particular energy of men who'd made their own rules.
Ramona climbed off Shadow's bike with her grandmother's lockbox tucked under one arm and a canvas bag of fermentation logs slung across her shoulder. Everything she had left, carried in two containers.
"This way." Shadow's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the main building. The touch was becoming familiar—that proprietary contact that said mine without words.
She should have minded. Didn't.
The great room inside smelled like leather and whiskey and the particular musk of men who worked hard and played harder.
A long bar dominated one wall, pool tables scattered throughout, leather couches worn soft from years of use.
Photos lined the walls—old images of men on bikes, newer ones of the same brotherhood carrying forward.
"Quarters are through here." Shadow steered her toward a hallway at the back, past doors that stayed closed and rooms that held secrets she wasn't meant to know. "Not luxury, but it's safe."
The room he showed her was small—single bed, basic dresser, a window that overlooked the yard. Spartan, functional. Exactly what she needed.
Ramona set down the lockbox and immediately crossed to the small sink in the corner.
"What are you doing?" Shadow asked.
She turned on the tap, let the water run over her fingers. Tasted it.
"Mineral content," she said. "It affects fermentation. Different water, different whiskey."
He stared at her like she'd grown a second head.
"Your barn burned down twelve hours ago. You watched me kill a man. And you're checking the water quality?"
"The water doesn't care about my feelings." She wiped her fingers on her jeans. "If I'm going to rebuild, I need to know what I'm working with."
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Make yourself comfortable. I need to report to Tornado."
He left before she could respond, and Ramona found herself alone in a stranger's compound, surrounded by outlaws, with nothing but paperwork and stubbornness to her name.
She'd been in worse situations. Probably.
The knock came an hour later.
Ramona opened the door to find a woman about her age, dark hair pulled back, eyes that assessed without judging. She carried herself like someone who'd learned to navigate hard spaces.
"I'm Jolene." The woman smiled, warm despite the sharpness in her gaze. "Tornado's. I run the Dusty Rose Café in town. The boys told me we had a guest who might need some company that wasn't covered in leather and bad decisions."
"Ramona." She stepped back, letting Jolene in. "The boys talk fast."
"They talk constantly when it's about a woman." Jolene's eyes swept the room—the lockbox, the fermentation logs spread across the bed, the flask Ramona had saved from the barn sitting on the dresser. "That whiskey?"
"What's left of it."
"Mind if I try?"
Ramona grabbed the flask and two glasses she'd found in the bathroom—not ideal, but functional. She poured two fingers each and handed one to Jolene.
The other woman sniffed first, professional assessment, then sipped. Her eyebrows rose.
"That's good. Really good."
"Three years of aging. The only batch that survived." Ramona took her own sip, letting the familiar burn settle her nerves. "Everything else went up in the fire."
"I heard." Jolene settled onto the edge of the bed, glass cradled in her hands. "The Crenshaws. They've been a problem for a long time."
"Thirty years, apparently."
"Longer than I've been here." Jolene's voice carried no judgment, only acknowledgment. "But I've seen what happens when they set their sights on someone. And I've seen what happens when the club decides to stop them."
"Does the club win?"
"The club protects what's theirs." Jolene met her eyes, steady and certain. "And from what I hear, you're theirs now."
Something about the way she said it—theirs—made Ramona's chest tighten. Not with fear. With something harder to name.
"I didn't ask for protection."
"Neither did I, once." Jolene smiled, softer now.
"These men—they're not easy. They're violent and stubborn and they don't know how to do anything halfway.
But when they decide you're worth protecting, they'll move heaven and earth.
Tear down anyone who threatens you. Burn down everything standing in their way. "
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." Jolene laughed. "It's also the safest I've ever felt in my life."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, passing the flask between them. The whiskey was doing its work—warming Ramona from the inside, smoothing the jagged edges of the past twenty-four hours.
"Shadow," Jolene said finally. "He's different with you."
"Different how?"
"He's always been the one who laughs. Jokes through everything, never lets anyone see underneath." Jolene's eyes were knowing. "But he's not joking with you. He's watching you like you're something precious he's afraid to break."
Ramona didn't know what to say to that. The man who'd beaten Boyd Crenshaw to death with his bare hands, afraid of breaking her?
"I'm not fragile," she said.
"He knows that." Jolene stood, setting down her empty glass. "That's what scares him."
She left with a promise to return for lunch and an invitation to visit the café when things settled down. Ramona watched her go, then looked around the small room that had become her temporary home.
She couldn't stay here doing nothing. Couldn't sit and wait while other people fought her battles.
Time to find something useful to do.
The garage smelled like oil and metal and the particular satisfaction of work being done.
Ramona stood in the doorway, watching two brothers argue over the engine of a Harley while a third sorted through tools with the focused attention of a surgeon. None of them noticed her at first—too absorbed in their work, their world.
She understood that. Had lived it, on her own land, with her own hands.
"Help you?" The one sorting tools looked up. Young, probably mid-twenties, with grease-stained fingers and curious eyes.
"I need copper pipe," Ramona said. "Fittings, if you have them. A welding torch."
The brothers exchanged glances.
"Shadow know you're down here?" the older one asked.
"Shadow's not my keeper."
Something flickered across their faces—surprise, maybe. Respect. Or just the amusement of men who'd seen this particular collision before.
"Copper pipe's in the back," the young one said. "Salvage from the Bone Yard. Take what you need."
"Thank you."
She found the salvage pile and started sorting through it, hands moving with the automatic efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. Good pipe, decent fittings, enough to build something small. Not a real still—not without proper equipment—but a test rig. A proof of concept.
A way to keep working while the world burned around her.
"You're building a still."
Shadow's voice came from behind her, low and amused. She didn't turn around.
"A small one. Five gallons, maybe. Enough to run test batches."
"In my compound's garage."
"You offered me protection." She finally looked at him, found him leaning against a support beam with his arms crossed, watching her with those dark eyes that saw too much. "You didn't say anything about sitting around doing nothing."
"Most people would rest. After what you've been through."
"Most people aren't me." She went back to sorting pipe, measuring lengths against her palm. "I told you at the motel—working means I'm staying. And I'm staying."
Shadow was quiet for a moment. She felt him watching her, felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
"The water's different here," he said finally. "You mentioned that."
"Mineral content. It'll change the flavor profile." She held up a piece of pipe, checking for corrosion. "Might be better, might be worse. Won't know until I run a batch."
"And if it's worse?"
"Then I adjust." She set the pipe aside and grabbed another. "That's what I do. I adjust."
More silence. Then footsteps, and he was beside her, crouching to examine the salvage pile.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"You don't have to—"
"I know." His eyes met hers, and something warm lurked behind the usual darkness. "What do you need?"
Ramona felt her throat tighten. When was the last time someone had asked her that? When was the last time someone had shown up to help instead of demanding she handle everything alone?
"A workspace," she said. "Somewhere I can set up the test rig without being in the way. A heat source—propane burner would work. And grain. Corn, preferably, but wheat or rye would do."
"I'll talk to Diesel about the grain. He knows every supplier in three counties." Shadow stood, offered her his hand. "Come on. I'll show you where you can set up."
She took his hand. Let him pull her to her feet. Let him keep holding on a moment longer than necessary.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet." But he was almost smiling. "You haven't tasted the compound water in your whiskey."
He led her to a corner of the garage—away from the main work area, near a window that would provide ventilation. Not perfect, but workable. Enough space for a small operation while she figured out what came next.
Ramona pulled out her notebook and started sketching. The condenser coil would need to be different than her usual design—smaller, more efficient. The mash tank could be improvised from available materials. The copper she'd found would work for the pot, if she soldered it right.
Shadow watched her work, silent and present.
She could feel him there, a steady warmth at the edge of her awareness. Not crowding. Not demanding. Just... there.
It was strange, having someone there.
Strange, and something she could get used to.