“No relationship,” I say fast. As to who I am? I’m conscious I’m still flying under the radar. Now, more than ever, I don’t want to be dragged back to the club until I’ve got the answers I set out to seek. I can’t be Stormy, nor Finn. Though it seems wrong to give her a fake identity, I give her the name I’ve been using along my journey. “I’m Jeremiah. Jeremiah Briggs.”
“Army?” She weakly indicates the way I’d tucked the sheet in.
“Navy.” I give her the minimum. “Former.” I stare down at her for a moment. “I’ll be up later; we’ll talk more when you’re stronger. Call me if you need anything.” I swing on my heels to leave her.
“Jeremiah?” Hesitantly, she tries out my name. When I turn back, she’s looking concerned, and her bottom lip is trembling. “I’ve a horse, chickens. Can you check on them? If they, if they… There’s hay and chicken feed in the barn.”
“I’ll sort them out,” I promise her. I can only hope Weston left them alone.
14
Stormy…
I couldn’t let her see her beloved dog, I muse as I remove my shirt having found digging a hole in this unforgiving soil is hard work. Idiot that I am, I’ve chosen the spot carefully, under a tree. It’s certainly not the easiest, nor my normal method either. Usually I’d be burying a body where it would never be found.
I even carefully carried the dog instead of dragging it. He’d clearly been a good friend to her, and worthy of respect.
Not your fault, boy. I reckon you died a good dog. Too good, perhaps, trying to protect your mistress.
Once I’ve replaced the earth on top, I fashion a cross out of two pieces of wood.
The half a dozen hens who hadn’t made it, I throw in the trash, having checked that they’re no good for the pot. Luckily, the bulk of them had survived, and are very grateful for some feed and fresh water. The pony? He’d looked after himself, thank fuck. I wouldn’t want to be digging a hole for him.
I’d never had a dog growing up, or any kind of pet. I doubt it would have lasted long in our trailer. If I’d shown any affection for it, my dad would have seen it as something to taunt me with. On tours, I’d thrown a few scraps to some of the dogs hanging around our camps, but never had the urge to take one under my wing. It’s just something I’d never thought about. The service dogs though, I’d known them not to bat an eye at being strapped to their master and parachuting out of a plane. To my mind, they were to be respected as fellow soldiers.
Was Caspar a guard dog as well as a pet? Well, that doesn’t matter, nor that if he was, he failed in his task. At the end of the day, he’d been loved by Cat, and that’s all that matters.
As I lean on my shovel, watching the sun dipping in the sky, I realise I’ve steered clear of letting anything get close to me in my life. Dad would have killed it, broken it, or fucked it up. Even women. I used them for sex, but never for anything more. I’m not a bastard about it, never leading them on. As a SEAL it wasn’t hard to find a lady to put out for the night, my excuse being I couldn’t get attached as I was going on tour. As a biker, well, the hangarounds at our parties were equally eager to get their itches scratched. Sure, some might dream to be an old lady, but I’d always kept them at arm’s length. Sometimes there are benefits to being a moody fucker.
Am I even programmed to be a one-woman man? It’s not as if I’ve had a good example to follow. A psychologist would probably tell me I have a deep-seated mistrust of women, having been abandoned by my mom. Did she think my dad would take care of me after she’d gone? She must have been crazy if she did. His abuse to her was probably why she’d walked out, fed up with black eyes, swollen jaws and bruises covering her torso. Or was that not the worst of it? Did she leave because I was an unlovable kid? Was that why she didn’t maintain contact?
In my head I’d often pictured my mom with a new family, a man who could give her everything she wanted. I’d have been okay with that, if only once she’d remembered she’d had a son. Shaking my head, I do what I normally do when I think of the mother I barely remember, confine her to the past where she belongs.
After I replace the shovel in the barn, I walk back into the house. It’s charming, but again it strikes me how it’s not to a young woman’s taste. The PC on the desk is the only modern item here. I wonder what Cat’s story is. Does it suit her to live in this way, or, has she just moved in? Is this place rented, or owned?
Spying some photographs on a wall, I walk over. My head tilts as I examine the evidence. The first is a photo taken, I would guess, sometime before the second World War. A couple in love, arms around each other, in front of this house. Moving on, the man disappears from the pictures, replaced by a boy, then the boy grows up himself. The pattern repeats until the final pictures show another man with more than a familial resemblance to the ones who had gone before, now with a young woman who looks a little like Cat. She’s pregnant in one, holding the hand of a daughter in another. The kid’s got red hair and green eyes.
That’s Cat.
This must be her family’s farm.
Where are her parents?
Something else to ask her. Except, it doesn’t interest me. Not in the slightest. Snapping back to myself, I realise I’ve been lax. I’ve no answers to take back to Utah. I should press her, question her further. When I’ve got all the information that I can, I should let the authorities deal with her and hightail it back to the Satan’s Devils.
Or would that cause trouble for the club? Does anyone know Weston’s missing? If so, they might be interested if I turned up. Would the cops get involved, and would, somehow, my curiosity means his dead trail might lead them to the club?
Whatever compassion for her I have, I need to suppress it, and give her no knowledge in return for her answers—questions for her, however, abound. Why did Tiny leave her tied up and helpless, and was he coming back for her? Am I projecting when I think she hates him, their only connection being that they’re cousins? Am I judging her innocent when she’s nothing but? Maybe she’s up to her neck in this business.
He’d killed her dog.
Could she ever forgive him?
How the fuck should I know? Women, to me, are a mystery.
Going to the kitchen I find a well-stocked fridge and freezer and am happy to see there’s meat. With Cat’s affinity with animals, I’d hoped she wasn’t a vegan. I’m hungry myself and am wondering what I can pull together when I hear a whimpering, followed by a scream from upstairs.
My gun’s instantly in my hand. Carefully, I ascend, trying to keep to the sides to avoid the loose treads. Adopting a fighting stance, I leap through the doorway ready to shoot whoever’s molesting her…
She’s dreaming. No, it’s a nightmare. The bed sheets are twisted around her, and she’s thrashing, her hands warding something off.
It’s such a pitiful sight, it twists my gut. Putting my gun down, I go straight over to her, sliding onto the bed and pulling her into my arms.
“You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Just three short sentences repeated over and over.
Slowly she begins to still. Still half asleep, she burrows into me.