Page 118 of The Oath We Take

Grandpa turns to face my father. “We know you’ve been doing more than exploratory conversations about this ranch. I did some digging in the last twenty-four hours and found out you’ve had plans drawn up for huge developments, touting it as the perfect commute into Denver for those who want to live out of the city. You started to quietly apply for the right permits to begin, wanting to be ready to go the day I die. And I know your major backer, Rurik Zakharov, is lined up with legal documents ready to sign because he wants a better trade route.”

“How could you do that?” I ask my father, who is standing defiantly in the middle of the living room.

“Because we’re sitting on all this money, tied up in stables and animals and land that might have oil beneath it. We could have much better lives than this old man will ever give us. And I don’t want to be so fucking old I can’t enjoy it.”

Grandpa faces him with the steely backbone of an Iron Outlaw. “Because you never understood you had to earn it. You hate the work, always have. You resent the land, you dislike your house because it’s too small, and you expect Hudson to take on your responsibilities.” Grandpa turns to me. “And I’m giving the land to you now.”

“What?” I ask, almost choking on the beer I just took a sip of.

“Oscar helped me write a handover plan. It includes me staying in the main house until I die, but you’ve always said you didn’t really want to live here anyway. And a salary as a percent of profits from the ranch.”

“You’re doingwhat?” Dad asks.

Oscar hands both me and Dad a manilla envelope. “Everything is explained in those letters. Hudson, it’s up to you if you choose to keep your father employed on the ranch.”

My father looks like he’s about to go apoplectic, with bulging eyes and tight lips, and I can see why. The throaty roar of motorcycles gets louder as they approach the house.

Dad eyes the window nervously as he wipes the sweat from his brow.

“There’s an extra detail in the will,” Oscar says. “If he ever tries to sue you for access, there is a pot of invested money to pay for any legal bills you might incur.”

“And there’s a trust that a percent of profits must be paid into each year that you can use to pay out to your sisters too.”

It all feels like such a…relief. I like that they’ll get some of the money too. It makes sense. And saved me from having to come up with the solution when the land becomes mine.

“That will be all,” Grandpa says to Oscar, and he leaves via the rear door.

My grandpa shifts the blanket on the sofa and pulls out his cut from beneath it. I haven’t seen him wear it in a while.

“Thank you,” I say to him as I help him put it on. “I’m honored you trust me enough.”

“I know the ranch will be in safe hands. Now, would you do me the favor of helping me take your father to meet the rest of his punishment?”

Dad looks up. “The rest?”

“The rest,” Grandpa says. “You didn’t think you could fuck with the club’s safety and side with an enemy without punishment, did you?”

“No. Fuck, no. Don’t do this,” my father yells.

Grandpa brushes a hand down the front of his cut, as if admiring it. “You have to stand for something, son. Now, Hudson, please?”

I grab my own father by the back of the shirt and shove him toward the door. In the last twelve hours, since we decided what needed to happen, I’ve had to grapple with what my father has done. There’s shame, but there’s a small piece of me that hopes Butcher doesn’t kill him. As much as I detest the man, he’s still my father.

And a dead father is as finite as it gets.

When Grandpa opens the door, Butcher and the club stand in an arc, facing us.

“Wheeler,” Butcher says. “You let your own greed get in the way of the club.”

My dad shakes his head. “I didn’t know he wanted to ruin the club. He was the one willing to pay the most for the land. I didn’t rationalize it more than that. It was a business thing.”

“Take off your shirt,” Wraith says.

“No, don’t do this. I’ll make it right. I’ll figure it out. I’ll get intel. Find out where Rurik Zakharov is. I’ll?—”

“Take off your shirt,” Butcher repeats.

Every person who becomes an Outlaw is expected to get club ink. It’s a rite of passage. But fuck with the club, and the penalty is the same.

---