Page 23 of When the Smoke Clears

Mr. Strickland gestures their way with his chin and projects his voice. “Said they want to see Maci.”

Sutton looks at me as I eye the bikes.

James leads the group.

“Everything’s okay.” I raise my voice over the engines.

They park in a sort of pod and cut their engines. James is the only one to get off his bike.

Sutton and Michael stare at me. “It’s my dad,” I manage.

“Pardon?” Mr. Strickland says, lowering the gun he’s holding, as Sutton says, “Come again?”

I’m sure Sutton’s remembering the night on Nana’s porch when I told him I wouldn’t know my dad if I saw him. I rub a hand over my face. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. He came by after lunch on Saturday.”

Sutton looks between us as James approaches. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Yes. It’s fine. I promise.”

“Gracie,” James says, his Irish accent only hinting through the nickname.

My upbringing tells me to smile and be polite, but with the way he keeps showing up unannounced, it’s hard. “Hi. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Sutton’s posture is stiff as he studies the group. “This is Sutton. I told you about him.”

James shakes Sutton’s hand and they hold each other’s eyes for a moment. I don’t know what kind of role my estranged father wants in my life, but I’m hoping he and Sutton start off on the right foot.

“This is his father. Michael Strickland.” I gesture to where Michael stands on the porch. James nods in his direction.

Sutton holds my eyes. “I have some things to do. I’ll let you two talk.” He kisses my head and surveys the rest of the bikers before mounting Johnny Walker and riding off behind the house.

The front door closes. I don’t bother looking to see if Michael went inside.

James looks me over, his appraisal intentional. “Your rancher is awfully keen on you.”

“It’s mutual.”

He nods. The sleeves on his white dress shirt are rolled up again. It doesn’t look windblown despite the ride. His dark jeans and riding boots look the same as before. “Heard there was an incident. Needed to see for myself.”

Instead of responding, I look behind him to his companions. Four other men sit on or mill around their motorcycles, their eyes scanning and bodies tense. Two study me openly, one my age and one James’. The other two scan the property.

I trail the lines of the large bird patch on the back of one of their leather cuts. The wings are spread wide like it’s landing.

“Hawks?”

“Falcons,” he corrects, calmly.

I frown, returning my gaze to him. I’m sure there’s symbolism there, but I don’t question it. “Why did you bring all of these guys with you?”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, but it’s not a sheepish move. “Habit.” He smirks. “Were you hurt?”

Even though he’s very good at casually directing the conversation, the hint of fear over potentially losing something he only just got back isn’t lost on me. His face remains composed, a little cocky even, so I don’t know how I know he feels that way, except thatI know.

My side throbs as if pain has been summoned. “Stabbed. It was Colt.” I motion around the wound with my hand.

He looks toward my hip and his face tightens, but he doesn’t seem surprised at the mention of Colt.

When he draws his eyes back up to mine, his features smooth over. “You finished him.”

He’s direct but not callous. I press my lips together and give the smallest nod in affirmation. No one else has said it. We all know, but we skirt the issue. I clear my throat.

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