Page 6 of Snow in Texas

She heard a distressed sound building in her throat and pressed her knuckles to her lips. She couldn’t do this, not now. Panicking would solve nothing. And she wasn’t that woman anymore; she didn’t have reactions to things.

She put both hands down on the mattress beside her and took a sequence of deep, steadying breaths. She tipped her head back, brought her shoulders together, felt her chest open up. The exercise the therapist had walked her through; the therapist Candy had forced her to see, back when he’d first come home.

The tension bled out of her, draining from her head, down through her throat, leaving through her fingers. She imagined the soft fleece blanket beneath her absorbing the emotion, dispersing it somewhere safe, where it couldn’t take hold of her. When she felt calm, she opened her eyes, straightened, surveyed the room.

They called this wing of the clubhouse the sanctuary, and that’s exactly what it was. Seven years ago, when Candy came home, when he cleaned out the clubMagnificent Sevenstyle, he’d promised a new era for the Texas chapter. The renovations, physical and mental, had been slow, but steady. They had started here, with this added-on space that was their home, and then worked their way through the rest of the building. All that remained was the exterior at this point.

Back here, they each had a bedroom and bathroom. There was the living room where the boys were currently watching TV, plus a small kitchen and a porch that overlooked a long flat stretch of dirt where she watched the sun set most nights.

Jenny Snow was thirty-nine and she lived in an MC clubhouse with her older brother. A truly charmed existence compared to the life she’d finally shaken off seven years ago.

The fine tremors had subsided, and the knot in her stomach was gone.

“Get it together, Snow,” she muttered, and got up to change.

When she was in yoga pants and one of Candy’s old threadbare Longhorns t-shirts, she headed back out to the kitchen, in search of a snack. She’d skipped dinner, dealing with Aunt Edith, and that new prospect’s loaded-up barbecue plate had set off her hunger.

“Candy go out?” she asked as she passed through the living room and found only Fox.

“Yeah.”

The kitchen was a tiny affair, just a bank of cabinets, stovetop, microwave and fridge. “You hungry?” she asked over her shoulder as she pulled out the makings of a turkey sandwich.

“Nah. I wouldn’t turn down another drink, though.”

She grinned and shook her head as she put her sandwich together. She popped it on a plate and grabbed the half-full bottle of Macallan sitting out on the counter.

He held out his glass when she reached him and she poured a generous two fingers.

“Charlie, you’ve got a drinking problem, you know that?” she asked, dropping into Candy’s abandoned chair across from him.

The Scotch caught the light from the TV as he swirled it around. His eyes glinted, an unnerving blue in the dark. “Obviously.”

She laughed and snuggled back deep into the chair. It smelled like Candy, and that was a comfort.

He downed half the drink in one practiced swallow. “How much did you hear?”

She shrugged. “About what?”

“You know what.”

She took a bite of sandwich and stalled. “Enough.”

He sat forward, and his voice gentled, gained traces of something like emotion. “It’s not going to be like it was last time, Jen. I promise you that.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Her throat tightened, some of the panic lapping back in. “Because of…” She didn’t want to say his name, so she didn’t.

“He can’t hurt you. Not this time.”

“No,” she agreed. “I’m a much better shot this time around.”

He grinned. “Thank God for that.”

Five

Colin

There were worse jobs than scrubbing bathrooms. He knew that. It didn’t make it any more fun, though. After a life lived in various relative’s houses, hotels, the occasional girlfriend’s apartment, he’d never lingered long enough anywhere to be held responsible for its cleanliness. The first time he’d tackled the New Orleans shared half-bath, Bob had come in behind him, discovered missed flecks of soap scum, and withheld dinner.

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