Chapter Four
Two days of silence made her nervous.
No trucks following her to town. No boot prints in her yard. No escalation after the canoes—just quiet, the kind that felt like a held breath before a scream.
Tamsin packed gear for a client trip she wasn't sure she could complete, folding dry bags and checking straps with hands that wanted to shake.
She'd rented a canoe from a contact in Ely—temporary solution, emergency rates—but her routes were compromised and her confidence was cracked, and the silence felt worse than the violence.
Lockjaw had been checking in. Brief texts, clipped calls, the particular rhythm of a man who communicated through presence rather than words. He'd been at church, he'd told her. The club was handling it. She should stay alert.
She was alert.
That's why she saw the headlights before she heard the engines.
Two trucks swept up her driveway at 9 PM, high beams cutting through the darkness like searchlights. Tamsin grabbed her rifle and moved to the window, counting bodies as doors opened.
Eight men.
And stepping out of the lead truck with a pleasant smile and a red gas can—a man in his forties with salesman's eyes and a calculation running behind them.
"Ms. Rowe!" His voice carried across the yard, friendly and loud, like they were neighbors stopping by for a chat. "Gordon Pruitt sends his regards. He was hoping we could have a conversation about your guide routes."
Tamsin's finger found the safety on her rifle.
The man—Bryce, she thought, the lodge manager she'd heard about—set down the gas can with deliberate care. The message was clear. The smile stayed pleasant.
"We'd prefer to keep this civil," he continued. "Mr. Pruitt is a reasonable man. He's willing to compensate you generously for any inconvenience."
"I told your people where to put their compensation a year ago." Tamsin's voice came out steady despite the hammer of her heart. "The answer hasn't changed."
"Circumstances have." Bryce spread his hands, the gesture of a man being patient with a difficult child. "Your equipment is damaged. Your business is struggling. And the Boundary Waters can be dangerous for guides who operate alone." His smile widened. "Accidents happen."
Movement in her peripheral vision.
Something shifted in the shadows near her shed—shadows she'd been watching, shadows she'd thought were empty.
Lockjaw materialized like he'd been carved from the darkness itself.
He stepped into the light with a tire iron in his hand and murder in his eyes, positioning himself between her cabin and the eight men in her driveway. His cut caught the headlights, the Savage patch visible even from thirty feet away.
Bryce's smile flickered.
"Well." His voice had lost some of its pleasant edge. "The rumors were true. The guide found herself some outlaw protection."
"The guide found herself in Savage territory." Lockjaw's voice was flat. Dangerous. "And you're standing on it."
"This is private property—"
"Her property. Club-protected water. And you brought eight men and a gas can to threaten a woman who told your boss to get bent." The tire iron tapped against his thigh, casual and deliberate. "That's a problem."
"For who?"
Lockjaw smiled.
It was the most terrifying thing Tamsin had ever seen—not because it was cruel, but because it was patient. The smile of a man who knew exactly how this was going to end and was willing to wait for it.
"For you."
Engines.
The sound hit before the lights did—multiple bikes roaring up the forest road, the thunder of V-twins tearing through the night. Headlights swept through the trees, and then three motorcycles burst into the clearing, circling wide to flank Bryce's trucks.
Tundra. Ironside. A third brother Tamsin didn't recognize.
The balance shifted instantly.
Eight men with a gas can versus four Savages with the particular energy of men who'd been hoping for a fight. Bryce's crew shuffled, hands drifting toward waistbands, but nobody drew. Not yet.
"You called backup." Bryce's voice had gone cold. "That's disappointing. I was hoping we could handle this like professionals."
"Professionals don't threaten women with arson.
" Lockjaw stepped forward, and even Tamsin felt the temperature drop.
"Here's how this works. You get in your trucks.
You drive back to Pruitt's lodge. And you tell him that the Boundary Waters are Savage territory—always have been, always will be.
Any operation he's running through our water happens with our permission, or it doesn't happen at all. "
"And if Mr. Pruitt disagrees?"
"Then we'll have a different kind of conversation." Lockjaw's jaw clenched, that familiar tension that made his whole face go hard. "The kind that ends with his lodge burning instead of her cabin."
Silence.
The eight men looked at each other. Looked at the four Savages. Looked at the tire iron, the bikes, the absolute certainty radiating off Lockjaw like heat from an engine.
Math that didn't work in their favor.
Bryce bent down and picked up his gas can.
"This isn't over." His pleasant mask had cracked, something ugly showing through the seams. "Ms. Rowe, I suggest you reconsider your associations. The people you're choosing to align with have a limited lifespan in this territory."
"Get off my property."
Tamsin's voice surprised her—steady, cold, carrying across the yard like a shot. She'd stepped onto her porch without realizing it, rifle in hand, positioning herself beside Lockjaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bryce looked at her. Really looked, maybe for the first time.
Whatever he saw made his jaw tighten.
"We'll be in touch." He turned toward his truck, then paused. "Oh, and Ms. Rowe? The next time we visit, we won't bother with conversation first."
The trucks pulled out, gravel spraying, taillights disappearing down the forest road.
The clearing went quiet.
Tamsin's hands started shaking.
"You need to come to the compound."
Lockjaw's voice cut through the adrenaline fog, and Tamsin turned to find him watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"I have clients—"
"Cancel them."
"I have a business—"
"You have a target on your back." He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell leather and engine oil and something that was just him.
"Bryce Hedlund doesn't make empty threats.
He runs Pruitt's day-to-day operations, handles scheduling for the gambling and the legitimate business both.
When he says the next visit won't include conversation, he means it. "
"So I'm supposed to hide?"
"You're supposed to survive." His hand came up, almost touching her shoulder, then dropped. "The compound has walls. Brothers. Resources you don't have here. Let us protect you while we handle Pruitt."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need protection." His voice softened, just slightly. "You've been protecting yourself for years. But this isn't about need. This is about math. One woman with a rifle versus Pruitt's entire operation. The numbers don't work."
Tamsin looked at her cabin. At the destroyed canoes still piled in her yard. At the tire tracks Bryce's trucks had left in her gravel.
She thought about the gas can. The pleasant smile that didn't reach his eyes. The promise in his voice when he'd said the next time.
She thought about the man standing in front of her—the one who'd materialized from shadows to put himself between her and danger, who'd called backup before she even knew she needed it, who was looking at her like she was something worth fighting for.
"I'm not good at this." The words came out rough. "Trusting people. Letting someone else handle my problems."
"I know."
"I spent four years building a life where I didn't have to depend on anyone."
"I know that too."
"And now you're telling me to pack up and follow you to a biker compound because some lodge manager threatened me with a gas can."
Lockjaw's jaw unclenched. Just slightly.
"I'm telling you that you're not alone anymore. Whether you want to be or not." His eyes held hers. "Come to the compound. Let us help. And when Pruitt's handled, you can go back to your life—whatever that looks like."
Tamsin wanted to argue.
Wanted to tell him she'd survived worse than Bryce Hedlund and his gas can. Wanted to prove she didn't need anyone, the same way she'd been proving it since she'd signed the divorce papers and driven north without looking back.
But her canoes were destroyed.
Her property was compromised.
And somewhere in the last two days, she'd stopped wanting to face this alone.
"Fine." She turned toward the cabin, rifle still in hand. "But I'm bringing my dog, my maps, and my rifle. And if anyone touches my gear without asking, I'm shooting first."
"Fair enough."
She packed in fifteen minutes—essentials only, the bag she kept ready for wilderness emergencies finally serving a purpose she'd never anticipated. Her dog, a mutt she'd found at the Ely shelter last year, pressed against her leg like he could sense the tension.
When she stepped back onto the porch, Lockjaw was waiting.
The other Savages had gone—checking the perimeter, she assumed, or heading back to report. It was just him, standing in her driveway like a sentinel, watching the forest road for threats that might not come tonight but would definitely come eventually.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No." She shouldered her bag, grabbed her dog's leash. "But let's go anyway."
She followed him to his bike, loading her gear into the saddlebags he'd apparently emptied in anticipation.
Behind her, her cabin sat dark and silent—the life she'd built, the independence she'd fought for, receding in the rearview mirror.
Ahead of her, a biker compound full of outlaws and the man who'd materialized from darkness to protect her.
Tamsin climbed onto the back of Lockjaw's bike, wrapped her arms around his waist, and held on.
Whatever came next, she wasn't facing it alone.