Chapter Seven
The compound gate swung open and Teagan backed her horse trailer through it like she'd done it a thousand times, because she had—just never through chain-link topped with razor wire while a man with neck tattoos waved her in.
The gravel lot was bigger than she'd expected.
A converted truck depot, Striker had told her on the drive in, and she could see it—the wide bays of the garage, the main building with its flat roof and heavy doors, the yard stretching out between them like a parade ground.
Bikes lined up in formation near the clubhouse.
Trucks parked along the fence line. The whole place smelled like motor oil and mesquite smoke and something territorial she couldn't name.
She killed the engine and was out of the cab before Striker swung off his bike beside her.
"Park it against the garage," he said. "Gravel's level there. Best spot for—"
"I can see where the ground's level." She was already walking the lot, reading the terrain the way she read any temporary stabling situation—drainage, footing, distance from traffic and noise.
The strip along the garage wall was flat, packed gravel with good drainage and a windbreak from the building.
She'd set up in worse. She'd set up in much worse.
Teagan backed the trailer into position with three moves—no corrections, no second guesses—and dropped the ramp. Ginger came out alert but calm, ears pricked forward, nostrils working overtime at the unfamiliar smells. Teagan clipped the lead rope and walked her.
Across the yard. Past the bikes. Along the fence line and back again.
The mare's gait was clean. No hitch, no favoring, no shortening of stride. The wire marks from the stabling area were fading—thin scabs that would be gone in a week. Sound. Her horse was sound, and everything else could be figured out.
She was walking Ginger past the clubhouse for the second time when the women came out.
Six of them, emerging from the main building in a loose group that moved with the easy confidence of people who owned the ground they walked on. But the one in front—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, moving with a no-nonsense stride—didn't come to Teagan.
She went straight to the horse.
"Easy, mama." The woman extended her hand palm-down, letting Ginger sniff her knuckles. The mare's ears came forward, and after a moment she dropped her head and lipped at the woman's fingers. "She's a good girl. What is she, fifteen hands?"
"Fourteen-three." Teagan watched the woman's hands—confident, practiced, the way she touched the horse's neck and checked the set of her ears. "You know horses."
"I'm Caroline. I shoe them for a living." She ran her hand down Ginger's shoulder, fingers finding the muscle groups with automatic precision. "She's fit. Whatever you've been doing with her conditioning, keep doing it."
A second woman had already crouched at Ginger's front legs, examining the wire marks with the focused attention of a professional. She was younger, with kind eyes and a practical ponytail. "These are healing clean. No heat, no swelling. Who treated them?"
"I did. Betadine scrub and wound cream, twice a day."
"Good call. I'm Dana—I'm a vet tech." She straightened, brushing gravel dust off her knees. "If you want, I can check her over properly once she's settled. Full workup."
"I'd appreciate that."
Teagan felt something unknot in her chest. These women had walked past her to get to her horse. They'd put their hands on the animal before they'd introduced themselves to the rider. In Teagan's world, that meant they understood priorities.
She decided she liked them for that.
The rest of the introductions came quick.
Jolene—tall, steady, with the unflappable air of a woman who'd been running things long before anyone gave her a title.
Ramona—sharp grin, whiskey-warm voice, the kind of presence that filled a room without trying.
Sierra—dark hair, ink on her forearms, quiet until she wasn't. Grace—soft-spoken with flour still dusting her sleeve, who looked at Ginger like she wanted to sketch her on the spot.
And Carmen, who stood back from the group with her arms crossed and her eyes on Teagan—not the horse, not the trailer, not the scuffed boots or the road-worn jeans. On Teagan. Reading her the way Striker read a battlefield.
"You're the one who cracked Jessup's face open with a lead rope," Carmen said.
"News travels fast."
"In this compound?" Ramona laughed. "Honey, Shadow told me about it before Striker's bike cleared the gate. These men gossip worse than a church choir."
"What they don't say out loud, they say with their eyes." Jolene's voice was warm but measured. "And Striker walked in here last night looking like a man who found something worth the trouble."
Teagan felt heat climb her neck. She focused on Ginger, adjusting the lead rope, running her hand along the mare's back. "Striker and I have a deal. I give the club intel on Pollard's operation, and the club keeps my horse safe so I can qualify for nationals."
"Mm-hm." Sierra's lips curved. "And that's all."
"That's all."
Carmen uncrossed her arms. "Let me tell you something about these men, since you're going to be living behind their walls.
" She stepped closer, and her voice dropped—not softer, just more direct.
"They will move heaven and earth for the people under their protection.
But they don't do anything halfway, and they don't let go easy.
If you're here, you're here. That means something. "
"I'm here for my horse and my career."
"You're here because Striker brought you." Carmen held her gaze. "And the sooner you figure out what that means, the better off you'll be."
The women exchanged a look—the kind that said everything and nothing, the kind that Teagan had seen between barrel racers who'd been on the circuit together for years. A shorthand built on shared experience she wasn't part of. Yet.
"Come on," Jolene said, breaking the moment with an easy smile. "Let's get this horse settled and then get you fed. You look like you've been living out of a trailer."
"I have been living out of a trailer. For three years."
"Then you're overdue for a real meal and a table that doesn't fold." Jolene steered the group back toward the clubhouse, and most of the women followed—Ramona already talking about whiskey, Grace mentioning something about fresh bread.
Caroline lingered, crouching at Ginger's front hooves. "When's the last time she was shod?"
"Six weeks. I've been filing the edges myself between farrier visits, but I haven't had access to a proper setup since Lubbock."
"I've got my tools in the garage. I'll take a look after Dana does her workup." Caroline gave Ginger's leg a final pat and stood. "You've been taking good care of her. That matters."
She walked away, and Teagan was alone with her horse in the compound yard.
She set up a tie line between two fence posts using rope from her trailer—a quick job, functional, something she'd done at a hundred temporary stops. Ginger settled into it without fuss, dropping her head to nose at the gravel.
But it wasn't enough. A tie line was a road setup, a one-night solution. Teagan was going to be here longer than one night, and Ginger needed more than a rope between posts.
She walked the compound's fence line, checking every post, every rail, every piece of hardware.
The chain-link was solid—good for security, useless for horses.
No tie rails, no panels, nothing she could repurpose into proper stabling.
The garage wall had potential—flat surface, strong framing, level ground in front of it—but there was nothing to build with.
Ridge was crossing the yard, a mug of coffee in one hand and his cut slung over his shoulder. He'd been up all night running cleanup at the motel, and he looked it—dust in his hair, shadows under his eyes, dried blood on his knuckles that he hadn't bothered to wash off.
"Ridge."
He stopped. "Yeah?"
"I need lumber. Four-by-four posts, six of them, eight feet long. Two-by-six rails, twelve foot. Carriage bolts, half-inch, with washers and nuts. A post-hole digger and a socket set." She ticked the items off on her fingers. "And I need four hours."
Ridge stared at her. "You want to build something."
"I want to build a corral. Two stalls against the garage wall, strong enough to hold a horse that spooks at gunfire." She crossed her arms. "My horse isn't living on a tie line while I'm here. She needs proper housing."
"We don't exactly have a lumber yard—"
"Then get creative. You've got a salvage lot, don't you? The Bone Yard?"
Ridge's mouth twitched. Whether it was amusement or respect, she couldn't tell. "I'll talk to Diesel."
"Tell him I need it by noon."
Ridge shook his head, but he was almost smiling as he walked away. Teagan turned back to the garage wall and started planning.
She paced the dimensions first. Each stall twelve by twelve—big enough for Ginger to turn comfortably, small enough to feel secure.
Posts at every corner and every four feet along the rails for strength.
The garage wall formed the back, so she only needed three sides per stall.
She scratched the layout in the gravel with a stick, marking post holes, measuring distances by stride.
Diesel showed up two hours later with a flatbed truck loaded with weathered four-by-fours and salvage lumber from the Bone Yard. He backed the truck to the garage wall, dropped the tailgate, and looked at the scratched-out plan in the gravel.
"You drew this with a stick."
"I've built corrals in worse conditions with less to work with." She was already sorting lumber, checking each piece for rot, setting aside the ones with the right grain and strength. "Help me unload or get out of my way."
Diesel helped her unload.
She dug the post holes herself. Four inches wider than the posts, two feet deep, spaced to her scratched measurements.
The post-hole digger bit into the packed gravel and caliche with every strike, and sweat soaked through her shirt before the first hole was finished.
Brothers drifted over to watch—Dawson, Colt, a prospect whose name she didn't catch—and she ignored them all.
By mid-afternoon, the posts were set. She mixed quick-set concrete in a wheelbarrow she'd borrowed from the garage—water from the yard hose, powder from a bag Diesel had thrown on the truck as an afterthought—and poured footings around every post.
The rails went up next. Two-by-sixes bolted to the posts at chest height and knee height, each one checked for level with a borrowed torpedo from the garage's tool chest. She drilled the bolt holes with a battery drill, drove the carriage bolts through by hand, and cranked the nuts down until the wood creaked.
Striker appeared at some point—she felt him before she saw him, that specific awareness of his presence she was getting dangerously used to. He leaned against the garage door and watched her work without saying a word.
"You going to stand there all day?" she asked without looking up, driving another bolt home.
"I'm enjoying the view."
"Hand me that socket wrench and make yourself useful."
He handed her the wrench. Their fingers touched, and she pretended the jolt that shot up her arm was from the vibration of the drill.
She finished the last rail as the sun dipped behind the compound's western fence.
Two stalls, solid and square, braced against the garage wall with posts set in concrete and rails bolted tight enough to hold anything short of a charging bull.
Not pretty. Not permanent. But strong, and safe, and hers.
Teagan led Ginger into the first stall. The mare walked in, sniffed the fresh-cut lumber, and dropped her head to investigate the gravel floor. After a moment, she sighed—that deep, whole-body exhale that horses gave when they decided a place was acceptable—and cocked a hind leg to rest.
Teagan leaned against the rail she'd built with her own hands, in a compound full of outlaws, behind walls topped with razor wire, and watched her horse settle in.
Good enough. For now, it was good enough.