Chapter Eight
The welding torch spit blue flame as Ramona sealed the final joint on her test still.
Two days of work. Two days of salvaged copper and borrowed tools and the particular satisfaction of building something from nothing.
The five-gallon rig wouldn't win any awards for beauty—mismatched fittings, improvised connections, a condenser coil she'd shaped by hand around a fence post—but it would work.
That was all that mattered.
"You actually built that thing."
She looked up to find Ridge standing in the garage doorway, arms crossed, studying her creation with something like respect.
"Told you I would."
"Thought you were joking." He walked closer, circling the still like he was assessing a threat. "Where'd you learn this?"
"Library books. YouTube. A lot of trial and error." Ramona set down the torch and wiped her hands on the shop rag tucked in her belt. "My first still exploded. Took out a window and most of my eyebrows."
Ridge's mouth twitched. "And you kept going?"
"Eyebrows grow back. Stubbornness doesn't quit."
He nodded once—that economical acknowledgment she was learning meant approval from these men—and disappeared back into the compound.
Ramona turned her attention to the mash.
Diesel had come through on the grain—fifty pounds of corn delivered that morning, sourced from a farmer on his patrol route who owed the club a favor.
She'd ground it herself, mixed it with compound water, added the yeast she'd kept alive in her fermentation logs like a sourdough starter.
Now came the waiting. And the testing.
The first sample came off the still around noon.
Clear liquid, raw and rough, nothing like the smooth whiskey she'd spent three years perfecting. But it was alcohol. It was hers. And it was a start.
"That drinkable?"
Striker appeared at her elbow, eyeing the mason jar she'd filled with the initial run. He looked like he'd been up all night—stubble darker than usual, eyes carrying the weight of whatever violence the club was planning.
"Not yet." She swirled the liquid, watching it coat the glass. "First run's always harsh. You cut the heads and tails, keep the middle. But even that needs aging before it's worth drinking."
"How long?"
"Years, ideally. Months, minimum." She set down the jar. "The stuff that burned in my barn was three years old. Can't replace that."
Striker was quiet for a moment. Then: "But you can start over."
"Already am."
He nodded and moved on, but word must have spread, because brothers started filtering through the garage all afternoon.
Hatchet came to examine her welding work and ended up helping her reinforce a weak joint.
Diesel brought more grain and stayed to argue about corn versus rye whiskey until Ramona threatened to ban him from the garage.
"Corn's traditional," he insisted. "Bourbon country. You can't beat classic."
"Rye's got character." Ramona adjusted the heat on her propane burner, watching the temperature gauge. "Spicier, more complex. Corn's just sweet."
"Sweet sells."
"Character wins competitions."
They argued for another hour before Diesel admitted defeat and left to run his evening patrol. Ramona smiled as he went—the first real smile she'd managed since the fire.
This was what she'd missed. Not just the work, but the conversation around it. The debates about technique and flavor, the shared obsession with craft. On her isolated acreage, she'd had no one to argue with but herself.
Here, she had an entire clubhouse of opinionated men who thought they knew whiskey better than she did.
They were wrong, of course. But she didn't mind proving it.
Midnight found her still in the garage, alone with her creation.
The brothers had drifted off to their own concerns—club business, she assumed, the kind of business that happened behind closed doors and left blood on leather. She didn't ask. Didn't want to know.
She had her own work to focus on.
The condenser coil wasn't cooling efficiently. The compound's ambient temperature was higher than she'd accounted for, and the water she was using for cooling wasn't cold enough. She needed to recalibrate, adjust the flow rate, maybe add a secondary cooling stage.
Problem-solving. The part of the process she loved most.
She was elbow-deep in copper tubing when she heard footsteps behind her.
"You're still awake."
Shadow's voice, low and rough. She didn't need to turn around to know he was close—she could feel him, that particular awareness that had been building since the first moment he'd walked into her barn.
"So are you."
"I had business."
"So did I."
She heard him move closer, felt his presence at her back like heat from a fire. When she finally turned, he was right there—close enough to touch, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into his features.
"When's the last time you slept?" she asked.
"When's the last time you did?"
Fair point. She'd been running on adrenaline and coffee for two days, grabbing naps between fermentation stages, too wired to truly rest.
"The coil's not right," she said instead of answering. "Compound water's warmer than what I'm used to. Changes the cooling rate, which changes the distillation, which changes the flavor."
Shadow moved to stand beside her, examining the still with eyes that probably saw tactics instead of technique.
"Can you fix it?"
"Already am." She showed him the adjustments she'd made—the secondary cooling loop, the modified flow rate. "Won't be perfect, but it'll work. The whiskey will taste different than what I made at home. Might be better. Might be worse."
"But it'll be yours."
"It'll be mine."
He was quiet for a moment, watching her work. She could feel his eyes on her hands, on the careful movements she'd perfected over years of practice.
"The brothers like you," he said finally.
"The brothers like my whiskey."
"Same thing, around here." Something shifted in his voice—softer, more honest. "They don't let just anyone into the garage. Don't argue bourbon versus rye with civilians. You earned something today."
"By building a still?"
"By not giving up." He turned to face her fully, and she saw something raw in his expression. Something that looked almost like wonder. "Your barn burned. Your whiskey's gone. Your land's still under threat. Most people would be falling apart."
"I don't have time to fall apart."
"That's not what I mean." He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was gentle, unexpected. "You're not falling apart because falling apart isn't who you are. You lose something, you build it again. Stronger."
Ramona's breath caught. The garage suddenly felt too small, the air too thick with everything unsaid between them.
"I'm not hiding," she said. "If that's what you're worried about. I'm not burying myself in work to avoid what's happening."
"I know."
"I'm working because it's what I do. Because if I stop, then they win. Boyd wins. Ellis wins. Everyone who's ever tried to take what's mine wins." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "And I'm not going to let them win."
Shadow's hand moved from her hair to her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.
"They're not going to win," he said. "I promise you that."
"You can't promise—"
"I can." His thumb traced her cheekbone, featherlight. "I killed Boyd for what he did to you. I'll kill Ellis too. Anyone who threatens you, anyone who tries to take what you've built—they'll go through me first."
The intensity in his voice stole her breath. This wasn't protection. This wasn't duty. This was something deeper, something that scared her as much as it thrilled her.
"Why?" she whispered.
"Because you're mine."
The words hung in the air between them—raw, possessive, undeniable.
She should have argued. Should have reminded him that she wasn't property, wasn't something to be claimed or owned. She'd spent her whole life fighting for independence, for the right to stand on her own two feet.
But looking at him now—at the fierce certainty in his eyes, the barely controlled hunger in his touch—she didn't want to fight.
"I'm working," she said instead. "And working means I'm staying."
Shadow's mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not letting you go."
He released her jaw and stepped back, putting distance between them that felt like a loss.
"Get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow we start planning how to end this."
He walked away before she could respond, disappearing into the darkness of the compound like the shadow he was named for.
Ramona stood alone in the garage, surrounded by copper and grain and the lingering heat of his touch.
She wasn't hiding. She wasn't running.
She was staying. And whatever came next, she'd face it.
With him.