Page 5 of Big Timber

After a couple of years as a paramedic, I was ecstatic when positions came open on the Flagstaff Fire Department last year and I was offered one of the spots. Things don’t tend to be asinterestingas they can be as an EMT, at least until today.

I’ve been to warehouse fires before, where we had to force our way through the gate to even get close to the blaze, but it was the dark smoke that tipped us off this was going to be a doozy. Then, as we approached the gate, it took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. Someone had attached chains to the gate and yanked it outward.

It was the burning body, posed on top of a motorcycle that was propped up by the large tires surrounding it, that painted the grim reality of the life the men who wore the Royal Bastards’ cuts leads.

You simply don’t grow up in Flagstaff without seeing, or hearing, the columns of their bikes riding through town. Not to mention girls from my high school class who were obsessed with sneaking into their parties. Most of them failed but come their eighteenth birthday, they’d be right out there again.

I know what people say about these guys. I also know that charges never seem to stick on the rare occasions any of them are arrested. But I’ve also seen grief, and how strong families support each other when any one of them faces a loss.

And that’s what I see here. Now. As I watch the Royal Bastards president breaking the news to one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in person and that guy puts his hand on Declan’s shoulder, as though needing his brother’s strength to hold him up.

“Workman!” Rook, my captain, calls my name drawing my attention away from the exchange.

Turning, I see Timber sitting in the same spot, but with his leg extended along the back of the vehicle, an ice pack resting on his ankle. His dark eyes are trained on me, even as he responds to the detective by his side.

The pull I feel to him is inexplicable, except duty calls, so I hurry past him to get, and then fulfill my orders.

*

This is ridiculous, I think to myself a couple of days later. Sitting in my truck outside the house of the MC’s president, I have to either drive off or get off my ass.

My shift ended this morning and after spending the last thirty-some hours thinking about the man from the fire, I convinced myself it wouldn’t be weird to show up at this house to see how Timber’s ankle is doing.

My cousin lives down the street, so I already knew where Declan lived, but I’m not sure how big of a fool I’m about to make of myself.

A rap at the window startles a scream out of me and lifting my head off the steering wheel, I see Timber standing next to the passenger door. I click the lock and he opens it.

“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning inside, those warm chocolate eyes of his making my heart skip a beat.

“Trying to figure out how weird it would be to check on you.”

He grants me a chuckle before sliding onto the passenger seat and placing a backpack between his legs. “As long as you give me a ride, I won’t say a word about it.”

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, having thought that he lived at the clubhouse for some reason.

“My parlor. I’ve got a couch in back, so I’ll sleep there until the inspectors say we can move back to the clubhouse,” he tells me, and I draw my lips into a hard line. “What?”

“It’s just that your tattoo parlor probably doesn’t have the correct occupancy classification for you to live there. Even temporarily,” I inform him, not feeling comfortable leaving him there.

“You are the most contrary woman I’ve ever met in my life,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“What? It’s true! It could be really dangerous, especially since there’s someone running around setting people on fire,” I respond, frustrated enough to throw one of my hands up in the air, even though I’m completely confident in the validity of my argument.

“The sky is blue,” he says when I stop at a red light. I peer up through my windshield, nodding in agreement. There’s not a cloud in sight. Timber is laughing when he continues, “While it’s nice you aren’t trying to tell me it’s purple, why did you have to look up to confirm that?”

“Honestly, your comment came out of nowhere, so I was buying myself some time while I considered where the nearest mentalward is,” I reply, unable to keep some of the snark out of my tone.

“Funny.”

“Look, do you have someone you can stay with?” I ask him, pulling over to get this worked out.

“Yes. Myself. At the shop. Trust me, I’ve slept in a lot worse places than that,” he answers, and I continue to study him, weighing his answer as one given out of frustration rather than throwing himself a pity party.

Nodding my head, as if I’m agreeing with him, I take the next left. We make it a couple of more blocks before he starts looking around in confusion.

“I think you missed the turn,” he says, turning toward me just as I’m pulling into my driveway. “Where are we?”

“My place.” I have the door open and am halfway out before I answer him, quickly turning back once I think of my bag of dirty clothes from the past couple of days.

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