Page 46 of Thornhill Road

I lost a little of my humor, too busy trying to keep a death grip around my will in an effort keep myself from falling in love with a man who hadn’t yet even bought me dinner.

Not sure how to respond, I didn’t. He didn’t seem to mind as he went back to looking at his menu. I followed his lead. When the bartender returned, I ordered a glass of cabernet and the filet. Mustang stuck with water and got the ribeye.

Another glance around the restaurant alerted me to the fact that Mustang was the only one in there with a branded, leather kutte and tattooed arms on display. These characteristics had been what drew me to him in the first place, so I didn’t feel strange sitting next to him in my red-soled heels. Though, I was still trying to figure out the man beneath all that swagger—the man, I was sure, who could walk into any establishment hepleased without caring a lick what anyone thought of him or his affiliation with the Wild Stallions MC.

That was the thing about motorcycle clubs. The real ones. Loyalty ran deep. He’d told me himself. He was more Stallion than anything else.

Having decided that I was going to do this—whatever it was—with Mustang, and acknowledging a dinner date meant I could pry a little, I asked, “What made you want to be a Stallion? I know you told me Bull took you under his wing when you were younger, but how’d you meet Bull in the first place?”

Mustang propped an elbow on the bar, extending his other arm across the back of my chair as he considered me for a moment. Then he said, “Told you about my first bike. Was a hunk of shit when I got it. Only place I knew to go get help fixing it up was the garage. Had some money from workin’ odd jobs around the neighborhood. Mowin’ lawns, rakin’ leaves, that sorta shit. I was only sixteen, so I didn’t know what the hell I was doin’, but I’d borrow mom’s car and drive over there asking questions about parts and whatnot. Kept comin’ around. Guess you could say Bull was the first one who didn’t think I was an annoying pain in the ass. He saw how much I wanted it. The escape. The freedom.”

He paused when our bartender came back with my wine. I thanked him, looking to Mustang as soon as he was gone. I was learning a lot, but I wanted more.

Mustang didn’t disappoint. He continued, “After mom died a few months later, I ran away. Couldn’t stand to be in that house. I even left the bike. It wasn’t road worthy by a longshot. Didn’t know where to go, so I found myself on the compound. I’d break into the garage after closing for a warm place to sleep at night.

“Bull and Winona weren’t married yet, but he’d made her his ol’ lady and they were living together. Winnie was already workin’ in the office, and she found me one morning. Scared theshit out of her at first, but it didn’t take her long to read the situation. That night, and every night until I turned seventeen, I crashed on their couch. I was allowed to stay under two conditions—I put in my time at the garage, and I work to get my GED. Even back then, Bull was a hard-ass, thinkin’ ten steps ahead.”

Mustang paused again; this time lost in a reverie he didn’t share. I watched him, not daring to pull him from where he’d gone. Finally, his eyes cleared, and he told me, “Closest thing I’ve got to a father is Bull, but he’s my brother, too. He helped me haul that bike to the garage, and we worked on it together in my spare time.

“Nothin’ else made sense by then. The Stallions were already family, even if I wasn’t officially one of them. When I turned seventeen, I became a prospect and moved into the clubhouse. I was voted in on my eighteenth birthday. Youngest to ever become a Wild Stallion.”

I didn’t respond right away, not sure what to say.

There was so much there, and a few more puzzle pieces fit into place.

He let me have a minute, allowing all that he’d said to settle in my mind.

“I thought Bull was kinda cool when I met him, but now I know he’s the shit,” I said, completely serious.

Mustang grinned at me.

A zing sparked in my belly, then ricocheted like crazy.

Mustang was hot all the time, but he was downright handsome when he grinned.

“Yeah, sugar,” he spoke in reply. “No doubt about it.”

I was sipping at my wine when he asked, “What about you? How’d you end up a nurse?”

Right. It was my turn.

I set my glass down and laced my fingers together in my lap.

“I was eleven when my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. For a short while, we thought maybe she had the chance to beat it, but she didn’t. Near the end, she was so tired of hospitals and doctors, she just wanted to be at home with my brother and my dad and me. I was twelve when we got to that point, and it had become really hard for me, losing my mom so slowly and yet way too soon.

“Anyway, her hospice nurse, Debbie—she was incredible. Somehow, she took care of all of us. She didn’t make it easier. There was nothing easy about my mom dying. But she made it seem possible to bear. And I remember after my mom passed—I remember her hugging me and sitting with me for hours while my dad wept in the room with my mom.”

I dropped my gaze into my lap as I pictured Debbie as I first knew her.

She was around my age back then.

“In retrospect, I understand she let herself get closer to my family than she probably should have. She’d never admit it to me now, but I know. Not that I could blame her. I get how hard it is to draw emotional boundaries in my job. But with Debbie—sometimes I think it was meant to be. We still keep in touch. She’s retired now, but still living in Casper. I consider her my greatest mentor.” With a sigh, I sought out Mustang’s eyes and concluded, “Debbie’s the reason I decided to become a hospice nurse. I wanted to be able to take care of people the way she took care of us.”

Our roles reversed, Mustang looked at me for a long moment without saying a word.

“Sorry to hear about your mom, baby.”

Warmth washed over me like a tidal wave.

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