Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
We'd just gotten back from dinner at the Duns'. Havoc’s ribs and warnings. June givin’ Savannah a soothin’ tour through biker-wife life.
The far-side of twenty-three looking the near-side in the eye.
It was a nice time.
Then back to the clubhouse. Savannah in the shower with me, water running down her body, steam rising between us.
Then bed. Sleep.
But how did I get from there to here?
From warm sheets and her breath on my neck to a dirty floor and empty air in this abandoned silo?
I sit up fully, ignoring the protest in my ribs. The sound hits me again—a dirt bike engine, revving hard, then skidding to a stop just outside. My hand doesn't reach for a weapon. My pulse doesn't spike. That sound is wired into me different.
It carries no warning. No red flags. No flashing lights lettin’ ya know that you're about to create regrets.
That sound is freedom.
Then he walks in—me. Fifteen years old. Lean, but not skinny. Not as tall and broad as I am now, but gettin’ there. All those new muscles from hauling feed bags. He’s wearin’ a t-shirt and those faded jeans that came from the Goodwill in Glendive. No tattoos, not yet. Not many scars, either. Shaggy blond hair falling across blue eyes that haven't seen Whitefall yet.
Wow. I haven't thought about this kid in years. Over a decade, easily.
He's got no idea what's coming.
My younger self has a pack slung over one shoulder, canvas and dirt-stained. I know what's in there without looking—a ratty blanket stolen from the hall closet, two warm beers lifted from Deacon's stash, and an orange soda for Savannah, because she loves oranges. If she had a pack or a purse back then, there was always an orange in there.
He chose those items deliberately, planned every silo meeting like it was the most important moment in his life.
There are no demons in this memory, so me, Legion age 32, smiles.
The kid drops his bag in a practiced move I still use—one fluid motion, controlled fall, lands exactly where he wants it. He studies the silo, looking… landing. His eyes catch on a folded piece of paper stuck on a nail in the wooden ladder.
His whole body shifts, shoulders relaxing, mouth curving up at the corners. That smile—fuck, I'd forgotten I ever smiled like that. Like the world might actually be good for five consecutive minutes.
He crosses the concrete floor and pulls the note free. Unfolds it carefully, like it might dissolve if handled wrong.
The smile gets bigger as he reads. I know what it says without seeing it. Savannah's home from that fancy private school on the west coast, and she's already been here looking for him.
For me.
Every day at noon when she's home, that's our time. Our ritual. I came yesterday, first day of her summer break, but she didn't show. Ranch obligations, probably. Eleanor parading her around for photos, Cash makin’ her ride the fence line with him. But she came later, found my note, left one of her own.
I wrote: Missed you. Got a surprise. Gonna be a great summer with you at my back.
I always signed them: Me. Not a name or an initial. Just Me.
Like there was no one else in the world who could be writing to her.
I find myself smiling along with the kid. Remembering the weight of that pen, the careful way I would print each letter, trying to make my handwritin’ look better than it was.
And her reply—I can see it in my head now, the looping script she'd perfected years ago.
Dear You…
Couldn't get away. Hovering mother and older brothers demandin' my time like they own it or somethin'.
She always wrote like that. Complete sentences in an accent.
I thought that was the cutest fucking thing ever, how she dropped that g and added a little tick at the end in her written notes. That’s how she talked too. To me, anyway. Because that’s how I talked to her.
Then she said— You're not the only one with a surprise up your sleeve. I got one for YOU. And maybe YOU will feel good against MY back. This summer's gonna be the best… be there tomorrow for sure.
She always signed her notes: S.
Not Savannah.
Just S.
My past unfolds around me, my memory made real as the sound of hooves hits. Me at fifteen steps outside the silo, watching as Savannah Ashby, age thirteen, comes in at a hard gallop, then pulls up dramatically making the dust fly.
She always did love an entrance.
Savannah slides off her horse as it’s still hoppin’, lands light on her feet. Her boots hit the dirt with practiced grace. She's wearin' dark jeans that have never seen the inside of a thrift store and her hair is pulled back in one long, thick braid that falls down her back, comin' loose from the wind of her own creation.