Chapter 6: Her Name on the Sign

"I'll take the bay," I said, loud enough for all six riders to hear.

Rafe didn't smile. He nodded once.

"On what terms?" he asked.

"Nothing on paper goes in anyone's name but mine."

"Agreed."

"And nobody decides anything for me. Not where I work, not what I paint, not who I talk to."

"Then tell me to stop when I'm wrong," he said. "I'll listen."

"You'd better."

Behind him the six patches shifted on their bikes.

One of them said, "Stephanie, come on. Dutch only wants to talk."

"Then he can talk to a lawyer," I said. "Move your bike."

Nobody moved.

Rafe didn't say anything. He just walked to the nearest motorcycle, rested one hand on the handlebar and looked at the rider.

The rider was older than Rafe, with a gray goatee.

He looked at the Nomad patch, then at Rafe's face, and I watched him decide.

He started the bike and rolled it out of the way.

The other five followed.

It took me twenty minutes to load. Birdie carried the compressor out herself and wouldn't let Rafe touch it.

"Room's yours if it doesn't work out," she said, and hugged me hard.

"Thank you for everything."

"I'm not done being useful yet. Go."

I drove out of the lot with Rafe's truck behind me.

Six club patches lined the edge of the gravel.

I rolled past them with my window down and didn't turn my head.

I had never been so proud of a single mile of road.

Brasher Restoration sat on the edge of Bend, Oregon, in a brick warehouse that had been a lumber mill.

It was eight hours from Pine Fork, and the whole way I thought I would turn the truck around.

Inside, the building smelled of leather, solvent and hot metal.

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