My Biker Chose His First Love novel · Chapter 11 of 32

Chapter 11: Rhett's POV: The Cabin

Rhett's POV

I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

I took the Road King up Kettle Road with the cracked mirror showing me the road I had already driven.

It was forty minutes to the end of the pavement, and another ten on gravel.

I had made that drive twice a year for eight years, always alone, always to look at the place and never to go in.

I had thought the cabin belonged to an old woman who'd died.

Today I walked up to the porch and found the door unlocked.

Inside it was cold and smelled of woodsmoke and dust.

The same iron bed stood in the corner.

I stood and looked at it a long time.

There was a row of hooks by the door.

On the third hook hung a canvas jacket I hadn't seen in eight years, stiff with old mud.

It was mine.

I had thought I'd lost it in the crash.

I hadn't.

I had hung it on that hook myself the first night, because a girl with a split hand and a bad temper had told me, "You're not bleeding on my grandmother's chair."

I took it down and held it.

There was something in the pocket.

It was a hand-rolled cigarette, flattened, that I had never lit.

I had a strip of blue flannel in a sandwich bag in my left saddlebag, and I had carried it for eight years.

I had never known whose quilt it came from.

I put the jacket down very carefully.

The shelves along the wall held jars and a radio, and above them, thumbtacked to the beam, were school photographs.

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