“Yeah.” I smiled at my man. “My butt hurts and my skin prickles like crazy, but I’m great.”
Nothing but the truth there. I might be sore and itchy—and coated head to foot with road dust—but no mere physical discomfort could negate how stinking happy I was to be traveling with my tribe.
“We still got miles to go, and the roads are only getting rougher. Maybe you should take Sahdev’s advice and ride in the jeep. Least for a while.”
I shuffled over to Ripper, then recoiled when I caught sight of myself in the Road King’s mirror. I’d tucked my ponytail into my shirt, but the hair clinging to my skull was lank and sweaty. Powder-fine dirt clung to my face, except for around my eyes where the visor had somewhat protected my skin. I looked a fright. Narrow rivulets of sweat cut channels through the caked-on dirt.
Ripper, on the other hand, looked dusty and sweaty, but in that sexy, scruffy, disheveled way that some men could pull off. Instead of being turned off, I wanted to lick him clean. Road dust didn’t diminish his appeal one iota, while I looked—in Aunt Debbie’s words—like something the cat dragged in. Or puked up.
Not fair.
I wiped my lips on the back of my hand, then fished in my pocket for some lip balm.
Ripper wrapped both arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Seriously, Mac. Take a break and ride in the jeep.”
I shook my head. “You eager to get rid of me?”
He ran a finger over my grubby cheek, then wiped it on his jeans. “Nah, darlin', but if you don’t take a break, you won’t be able to stand up straight or walk when we get to Valhalla.”
“We’ve missed spending time with you, Kenz.” Kyle walked up and handed me a bottle of water. “Ride with us. Hector has missed you, too.”
Hector. Kyle knew my weak spot. And I was tired of bouncing over the punishingly bumpy roads. “Well, if Hector needs me, I’ll ride in the jeep for a little while.”
Ripper’s teeth flashed white against the dust coating his face. He swatted my ass, then bent over to speak in my ear. “Don’t want you worn out and sore tonight. Least not before we get started.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t suppress my grin.
Ten minutes later we were back on the road.
The land we drove through resembled an alien landscape, nothing like the lush, verdant Willamette Valley where I’d grown up. I was accustomed to the sight of emerald ferns dotting the terrain or cascading from tree branches, droplets of water sparkling on their fronds after the rain. Here, dry, silvery tumbleweeds skittered across the road ahead of us and wedged against the fences built to keep cattle from wandering the roadway. Nature painted the world here with a different palette. The arid hills of the central part of the state glowed a rich golden hue, burnt umber dappled with scraggly juniper and pine trees.
Our small caravan stopped three more times to consult with the map and check Bear’s instructions for how to find his family ranch. He’d told Kyle that the ranch was at the ass end of nowhere, and the description was apt. We wended our way along increasingly narrow, unmarked lanes. At one point, Kyle checked a compass before pointing to the right-hand fork in the road.
Valhalla’s isolation had to be a good thing, didn’t it? Where better to ride out the breakdown of society than an out-of-the-way cattle and hay ranch. Bear had told Kyle that they had wind turbines to provide electricity, solar panels to power a dozen interconnected wells, buried pipelines that fed water tanks for the stock, a creek, and a huge garden. The Rasmussens had owned Valhalla for over a hundred years. They had to know how to survive and thrive without all the modern amenities. And they’d operated a guest ranch, which meant they should have enough bedrooms for everybody. The prospect of a bath and comfortable bed made me positively giddy.
Sahdev sat shotgun, checking and double checking the map. In late afternoon, he tapped the map and turned to Kyle. “We’re getting close.”
Kyle flashed the jeep’s lights, the signal for Ripper to pull over.
We parked the jeep and joined the others for one last consultation before arriving at our destination.
“The road curves to the west a mile up ahead. Less than a mile after that, we should see the turnoff to Valhalla,” Sahdev said.
“Bear told me that you can see the ranch gate from the road, but the driveway is long, and the house and outbuildings are hidden behind a low hill,” Kyle said.
“I want to ride the rest of the way on the back of your bike,” I told Ripper.
“Maybe I should go in first,” Kyle suggested. “It might be a bad idea for a bunch of outsiders to descend on them unannounced. They might think we came to loot the place. One man showing up would be less threatening. And if I don’t see Bear, I could tell them that I’m a friend of his, so they know I’m not some random stranger up to no good.”
Ripper nodded slowly. “Maybe. I wanna get the lay of the land before we commit to a plan.”
Hannah danced over and hugged me, her eyes sparkling with excitement and a wide smile on her face. “Do you think they have horses? I’ve always wanted to ride a horse.”
“Bear was a rodeo star. He must have grown up with horses, so I bet they do.”
She squealed. “Maybe he’ll teach me how to ride.”
“Maybe he will.”
I climbed on the bike behind Ripper, and we led our caravan over the final miles toward our destination. When we saw the gate to Valhalla, we all pulled onto the gravel turnout. Ripper cut the engine, but we didn’t dismount. Instead, we stared at the entrance to the ranch.
The ranch gate looked like something out of the Old West. Three sturdy tree trunks—two upright and one horizontal—formed the framework for the gate. In the center of the horizontal post, Valhalla was spelled out in wrought iron letters on a wooden plaque. Two old wagon wheels flanked the sign. Substantial wrought iron gates guarded access to the property. Two padlocks secured the swinging gates. Decorative iron pineapples, an old symbol of hospitality and welcome, topped the gates.
The friendly welcome symbolized by the pineapples contrasted starkly with the crude warnings spray painted on plywood and affixed to the swinging gates. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT read one and KEEP OUT the other. Beneath the KEEP OUT were the words Wilcox Brigade and a swastika.
A swastika. Our safe haven was in the hands of a bunch of Nazis. My stomach clenched, and I tightened my arms around Ripper’s waist. He laid a hand atop mine and squeezed reassuringly.
“I got you, Mac.”
The Wilcox Brigade had made news a couple of years ago when their founder, Eben Wilcox, had been arrested for throwing a pipe bomb over the fence of a Jewish day school in Portland. Luckily, the bomb failed to detonate, and outraged neighbors chased down and apprehended Wilcox.
During his well-publicized trial, he ranted about Judgment Day, when fed-up citizens would supposedly rise up against the “mongrel” government and establish a white ethnostate. He expected his family brigade to play an important role maintaining order in the new, all-white state. To his public defender’s obvious despair, Wilcox kept disrupting the trial by leaping to his feet and shouting Sieg Heil! The press ate up the spectacle.
After his conviction, members of his sorry crew—his son and nephews—had posted flyers and dropped banners over freeway overpasses proclaiming FREE EBEN. Their attempt to turn Wilcox into a folk hero failed miserably. Nobody bought it, or at least, nobody who wasn’t a racist asshole bought it. In prison, Eben must have mouthed off to the wrong guy. Within three months of his incarceration, somebody stabbed him. I’d assumed that his ragtag band of losers had disbanded after their leader’s death.