Chapter Three
Hope
A rumble woke me at two in the morning. The sound vibrated up through my mattress and into my bones. My room was infused with the faint, comforting scent of lavender from the sachet Faith had tucked into my pillowcase years ago. A small effort to keep old nightmares at bay.
I jerked upright, heart clattering in my chest, breath catching—caught somewhere between sleep and alertness.
For a split second, I wondered if I was back in our old house, the one where unexpected noises always meant trouble.
But the deep, throaty growl of the motorcycle engine was unmistakable as it cut through the quiet night.
When the sound came again, rolling closer, my nerves tingled with a mixture of anticipation and old fear, the cold air sharp as I pressed my bare feet to the hardwood floor.
I moved toward the window, hands brushing against the cool glass pane as I parted the curtain.
The moon was nearly full, washing everything outside in silver-blue light.
The smell of dew and distant hay drifted up when I cracked the window open an inch, and the wooden sill was rough beneath my fingertips.
I could see the driveway clearly, pale gravel outlined against the shadows, each stone gleaming like a tiny piece of the sky.
A single headlight pierced the darkness, and I caught my reflection—wide-eyed and tense—in the window glass.
The bike pulled up beside the porch. The engine cut off, and silence crept back in, broken by the persistent chirp of crickets outside and the faint, familiar click of the old clock in the hallway.
Somewhere, the faint aroma of oil and leather drifted up from below.
I pressed closer, my palms cool and damp against the glass, breath fogging the pane in nervous patterns.
Zeke stepped out onto the porch. He must have heard the bike too.
Or maybe he had been waiting for it. He moved with that steady, easy confidence he always had.
His Diamondback cut a bold shape in the moonlight.
Zeke wasn’t just my brother. He was my best friend.
Someone I trusted to keep my secrets. To keep my nightmares at bay when they threatened to overwhelm me.
The rider swung off the bike, boots landing with a heavy thud on the gravel.
He was tall. Taller even than Zeke, who stood at six-three.
This stranger must have been at least six-six.
His frame was so broad it seemed to block out the light from the porch.
Long black hair spilled down his back, wild and untamed.
Even from my perch upstairs, I could see the power in his movements—controlled, deliberate, as if he measured every step.
Something about the way he paused made my stomach flip with an old, buried anxiety: the memory of a night many years ago, when a different visitor’s arrival had brought nothing but trouble and a cracked window that never quite closed right after.
Zeke reached him, and they clasped forearms. The way the MC brothers did, something I had seen enough times to recognize as a gesture of trust and history.
Their voices were too low for me to catch, but the sight of Zeke’s familiar, easy nod eased some of my nerves.
He gestured toward the house, and the stranger followed without hesitation.
The two of them disappeared inside, leaving the porch empty except for the whisper of the wind and that lingering scent of gasoline and dust.
I stayed by the window, fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation, staring at the lone motorcycle parked near the porch.
A Harley, black and chrome, that gleamed as if alive in the moonlight.
The seat was scuffed, and a single feather dangled from the handlebars, swaying gently in the night breeze.
Who was he? And why, after all this time, did someone else’s arrival stir up old fears I thought I had left behind?
I waited, straining to hear any sound from below. A door closing, footsteps on creaking boards, maybe laughter. But the house stayed silent, as if holding its breath. Zeke must have taken him to one of the guest rooms on the first floor, far from where the rest of us slept.
I crawled back into bed. The sheets felt cool against my skin as I pulled the covers up to my chin. My pulse still thudded in my ears, the taste of adrenaline bitter on my tongue. I told myself it was just the shock of being woken, just leftover worry from old days when trouble came in the dark.
But I knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
The kitchen was utter chaos the next morning as sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating a mess of cereal boxes, mugs, and yesterday’s plates piled in the sink.
The smell of burned toast lingered in the air, mixing with the strong aroma of coffee, and somewhere in the background, the clatter of dishes punctuated the noisy atmosphere.
Joy sat at the table, hunched over her laptop, her face twisted in frustration. Fifteen torturous minutes spent trying to upload a simple photo, only for the spinning wheel of death to taunt her.
“This is ridiculous,” she announced, her words sharp with exasperation.
“The internet keeps vanishing every five seconds. How am I supposed to maintain any kind of social life when I can’t even load Instagram?
” She slammed her palm on the table, making her laptop jump and the spoon rattle in her mug.
“My followers are going to think I’ve abandoned them.
What if Megan tried to DM me about the party?
Or what if I miss that group chat about the fundraiser?
This is a disaster. How am I supposed to stay connected when I keep getting cut off from everyone that matters? ”
Faith, standing by the counter with her coffee, watched our youngest sister’s dramatic performance with a lifted eyebrow and a hint of amusement.
She took a slow sip, the mug clasped in her hands, and said in her dry, teasing tone, “You could try talking to actual people, you know. Face-to-face conversation. It’s been around for thousands of years, and it doesn’t require Wi-Fi.
” Her eyes sparkled, clearly enjoying Joy’s theatrical misery and waiting for another lively retort.
Joy rolled her eyes, her voice rising in melodramatic protest. “Actual people don’t live here, Faith.
Actual people live in town, where there are coffee shops and movie theaters and places to actually hang out, and I can’t see them because someone”—she shot an exaggerated glare at Zeke’s closed bedroom door, her frustration simmering—“won’t let me get my driver’s license yet.
Seriously, literally everyone else I know has had their license for over a year already.
I’m stuck here, cut off from everything. ”
“You’re seventeen,” I said, grabbing the orange juice and pouring myself a glass, enjoying the coolness against my palm. “You’ll survive another few months without wheels. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Barely,” Joy muttered, sinking deeper into her chair, arms crossed and gaze fixed on the screen.
“I’ll barely survive. This is basically social isolation.
No Wi-Fi, no wheels, and nothing but burned toast and bad coffee.
How am I supposed to keep up with my friends, or be there for them, when it feels like I’m on a different planet? ”
Charity breezed in, already dressed and made up, her hair in a perfect braid that swung behind her as she moved.
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, spilling across the floor and painting golden patterns on her jeans.
She smelled faintly of vanilla and fresh laundry.
“Nevil and I are going to the clubhouse today,” she announced, her voice bright and hopeful.
“He’s got prospect duties, and Kansas said I could hang out in the common room.
Anyone want to come?” She hopped lightly from foot to foot, glancing at each of us with sparkling eyes, clearly hoping someone would take her up on the offer.
“Pass,” Joy muttered, her fingers drumming impatiently on the table. She didn’t even look up from the laptop screen, but her sigh was dramatic enough to fill the room. The quiet tap of her nails formed a restless percussion beneath the louder kitchen noises.
“I’m good,” Faith said with a little shrug, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
She turned to Joan, reaching out to nudge her gently on the arm.
“I was thinking, if you’re not busy, we could work in the greenhouse today.
I’m looking to expand it by another ten feet.
If I can, it will add an entire section for winter vegetables.
” The faint earthy aroma from yesterday’s greenhouse work still clung to her flannel shirt, grounding her practical presence in the room.
Joan looked up, her reading glasses perched on her nose, her lips curving in quiet approval.
She set her tablet aside, the faint hum of its screen silenced for the moment.
“That’s great. Are you wanting to build raised beds?
Maybe add some heating elements for the colder months?
” Her fingers tapped thoughtfully against the table, already calculating measurements in her head.
“That’s what I was planning,” Faith replied, sharing a conspiratorial smile with Joan.