Page 70 of Resilience

“This morning, yep. Still got stitches in a few places, but I’m free.”

Gunner flapped his hand, indicating Sam’s neck. “I saw that one when it was fresh. Scared the unholy fuck outta me, kiddo.”

“Sorry, Unc. You saved my life. I’m sorry doing that fucked yours up so bad.”

“Shut the fuck up, Samuel. This is not your fault. I remember enough, and I’ve heard enough since I woke up, to know you saved us all that night. I would do exactly the same thing even knowing up front what would happen to me.” Gun’s eyes grew watery, and Sam felt a lump swell at the back of his throat. “Seeing you on your feet, looking so strong, when I thought you were dying? That’s worth it, Sam. Every fuckin’ time.”

At the other side of the bed, Leah sniffed and wiped her eyes.

Not knowing what else to say, Sam said, “You’ll walk again, Unc. And ride. I know you will.”

Gun smiled, but it was one of those smiles that meant the opposite. “Doesn’t look like it. The doc says there’s too much damage. The connections or whatever won’t grow back. Bottom half’s not talking to the top half anymore.”

“He’ll be able to ride, though,” Leah said. “Mav’s already working on plans to mod a bike for a wheelchair.”

Before Sam could respond to that interesting idea, Gun grunted with obvious distaste. “Yeah, I don’t know about that. Don’t much see how that’ll be different than those scooters old grandmas use to tear around Walmart.”

“Well, a modded Harley would be way cooler than that,” Sam said. “And, you know, street legal.”

Another dismissive grunt. “We’ll see. Can’t even fuckin’ sit up yet.” He turned a plaintive look on his wife. “I wanna go home, Lee. I gotta get home. I need home. I need the kids.”

Leah brushed his grey hair from his pallid, sweat-sheened forehead. “I know, baby. I know. We’re working on it.”

Gunner started to cry. When Leah curled over his head to hold him, Sam knew it was time to go. He backed away and eased from the room.

He was halfway to the elevators when Leah called his name. He turned and met her halfway. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks a bit damp, as if she’d only just wiped away a fresh spate of tears. She put her arms up, and he walked into her embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled against her shoulder. Guilt lashed through him with every beat of his heart. Each one of those heartbeats came at the expense of his uncle’s fucking legs.

“Hush, Sam. Hush. He meant it—he’d do it again, even knowing what would happen to him. That doesn’t mean it’s easy now. Just that it’s worth it.” She pushed him back and clasped his cheeks. “He loves you. And he’s still here. That’s what’s important. You just had a conversation with him. I can kiss him and hold his hand. Our children still have him in their lives. That’s what’s important. A wheelchair will be hard to get used to, but he’ll get used to it. We all will. A modded bike sounds like defeat right now, but he’ll see. He just needs time.”

Her expression narrowed to her ‘teacher look.’ “But don’t you dare minimize his sacrifice for you by feeling guilty about it. It’s not a thing you did wrong. It’s a thing he did right.”

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~oOo~

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Late that afternoon, Sam rode with his father in Mom’s SUV to the clubhouse. They left Mom at the Airbnb house they’d booked for them and Aunt Leah.

When the rest of the Tulsa Bulls had arrived in Laughlin, during the lockdown, they’d all stayed in the clubhouse, together and defended as if in a war—which, at the time, they figured they were in, without being entirely certain of their foes.

Sam had missed all that and had heard about it after the fact. Now he knew that the sheriff was behind the hit, and he also understood that Niko Volkov had gotten involved. He wasn’t sure what the Russian had done, but the lockdown had ended, and most of the Bulls had decamped to their own homes, if they were Laughlin Bulls, or to more comfortable accommodations if they were Tulsa. Tulsa meant to stay in town until Ben was buried.

Today, both charters would meet in the Laughlin chapel for a complete debrief—it would be Sam’s first time at the table, wearing a patch. His father had sewn his patch and rocker on for him while he was in the hospital.

“You’re quiet,” his old man said. “You feelin’ okay?”

Physically he felt mainly normal, except for a few sore spots. His neck itched like a fucker, and he was tired of not being able to move it without the stitches pulling. But those were minor complaints.

The thing making him contemplative on this trip was a massive case of nerves.

“Yeah, I’m good. But—" He faltered, not sure he had the balls to say the rest.

Dad didn’t let him off the hook, though. “But?”

He knew he could talk to his father and get good sense without judgment. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to say. “I’m ... scared, Dad.”

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