Page 14 of The Shield
I swung my legs out, the floorboards groaning under my weight, and stretched, feeling the pull in my shoulders from yesterday's ride. No time for coffee yet. Routine first. Gym before fuel. Always.
The hotel's fitness center was tucked in the corner of the first floor, all polished wood and mirrored walls that made the space feel bigger than it was. I pushed through the door, expecting the usual upscale letdown—treadmills with screens no one used, arack of dumbbells that topped out at twenty-five pounds, maybe a yoga mat for the influencers. But this place? Overstocked. Racks of plates gleaming like money, squat cages bolted solid, even a heavy bag hanging in the corner, chains thick enough to hold a bull. Benches with adjustable everything, kettlebells in sizes that whispered promise. I'd stayed in fancier joints overseas, places with spas and saunas, but never one that looked like it catered to men who broke things for a living. Not that I'd logged many nights in spots like this. My life ran more toward forward operating bases and Motel 6s with questionable stains.
An older woman walked the treadmill in the corner, her steps measured, eyes glued to a muted soap opera flickering on the wall-mounted TV. Gray hair pinned back, arms pumping like she'd been at it since dawn. Respect. Effort didn't lie.
Across from her, a guy with a paunch strained through bicep curls, his form a war between belly and barbell. He grunted on the up, winced on the down, but he kept going. If you're trying, you're winning. That's what I'd tell my brothers back on the ranch, when the chores piled like snowdrifts and quitting felt like the smart play. No judgment here. Just motion.
I claimed the power rack, dropping my towel on the bench. Quick warmup—empty bar squats, lunges across the mat, push-ups until my chest burned clean. Then the plates. Four forty-fives on each side for deadlifts, chalk dusting my palms like old habit. The bar bent under the load as I pulled, back tight, hips driving, the strain singing through my legs like a remembered song. One set. Two. Sweat beaded, trickled, soaked the collar of my shirt. I racked it, breath steady, and moved to dumbbell presses—overhead, military style, locking out clean. The mirrors threw my reflection back: broad shoulders flaring, scars pulling white against the tan, veins mapping my forearms like rivers on a worn map. Not vanity. Just fact. I'd earned every line.
The door swung open midway through my third set, a pair of bridesmaids spilling in, all giggles and matching tanks, their hair still salon-fresh from whatever bachelorette hell waited upstairs. They claimed the ellipticals, sneaking glances my way when they thought I wasn't looking. I caught one mid-rep, her eyes wide, phone angled just so. Pictures, probably. Or video. I was used to it—the spectacle. Tallest in the room. Strongest, usually. Sometimes both. In Montana, folks nodded and moved on; here, in this polished cage, it landed different. Like I was the exhibit. But it barely registered anymore. A shadow you outgrow.
I wrapped at exactly sixty minutes, no more, no less. The timer beeped, weights racked, fourth towel of the session mopping my neck. The bridesmaids had gone quiet, their machines humming polite. I nodded their way—neutral, easy—and slipped out. The elevator waited, but habit died hard. I took the stairs instead, three at a time, my long stride eating the flights like they owed me. My lungs burned good, calves tight. Cooldown was done.
I took a shower next. Scalding water hit like absolution, steam fogging the glass, soap cutting through the sweat and yesterday's salt. I stood under it longer than I needed, letting the heat work the knots from my traps, mind drifting to Flapjack. He was probably knee-deep in fresh hay by now, some groom scratching his neck while he crunched carrots like candy. Dominion Hall's stables weren't some backlot lean-to. They were the real deal. Better care than I could swing on the road.
With a towel around my waist, I stepped into the room, air cool against damp skin. There was a knock at the door—sharp, professional. I yanked on sweats, and cracked it. It was a room service kid, cart loaded, white jacket crisp.
"Morning, sir. Delivery."
"I didn't order anything," I said, voice gravel from the workout.
He shrugged, easy as shrugging off rain. "From the owners. On the house." The kid couldn't have been more than twenty, all earnest eyes and quick hands, wheeling the cart in like he'd done this a thousand times.
Never turn down free food. That lesson had been drilled deep from a house crammed with seven Dane boys, elbows flying over the table, Dad barking to eat fast or go hungry. In the military, it was eat fast or eat dust.
I stepped aside, watching him unveil the spread. The word feast didn't cover it. A platter of eggs scrambled soft with chives, bacon thick-cut and crisp, biscuits flaked open with gravy pooling like sin. Fruit—berries fat and dark, melon sliced precisely. Yogurt swirled with honey, oats scattered with nuts. Coffee steamed in a carafe, black as midnight, and a side of cornbread, golden, butter pooled in the crevices. My stomach twisted, loud and demanding.
The kid finished with a flourish, handing over a small envelope. "Enjoy, sir." I palmed him a twenty—habit again, tip heavy because effort deserved it—and he vanished, cart rattling.
The envelope cracked open. Inside was a single sheet, heavy stock, with Atlas's scrawl bold and unapologetic:Welcome to Charleston. Us big guys need to make sure we eat. -Atlas
I laughed, low and rough, the sound bouncing off the walls. This echoed something from way back, a memory surfacing unbidden. Dad, Byron Dane, at the end of a brutal calving season, ranch house smelling of manure and stew. He'd piled plates high for us seven, grease shining on his forearms, voice booming over the clatter.
"Big appetites build big men, boys. Eat like you mean it, or the wolves'll pick your bones."
We'd shoveled it down, laughing when the youngest—little Levi, all knees and freckles—tried to match us and ended up with gravy on his shirt.
Dad had clapped my shoulder that night, me fifteen and already towering, his grip like iron. "You're the anchor, Ethan. Keep 'em fed, keep 'em strong."
Atlas's note hit the same vein—quiet command, wrapped in care. Big guys, yeah. We carried more than weight.
I attacked the spread, fork diving in, no ceremony. Eggs first, fluffy, tasting of cream and smoke. Bacon snapped under my teeth, salt blooming sharp. Biscuits dissolved, gravy rich with sausage bite. Berries burst tart, cutting the heavy. Coffee scalded black, waking the edges of my brain. I made a dent—plates half-empty, satisfaction settling heavy in my gut. I’d save the leftovers for later. Waste wasn't in the Dane blood.
Clothed now—jeans worn soft, boots polished by habit, shirt untucked over the scars—I pocketed my phone and key, my mind turning to Flapjack. I figured I ought to head to Dominion Hall, check the stalls myself. But he'd be fine. Better than fine. Spoiled, probably, with staff cooing over his blaze.
What I needed wasn't a drive. It was air. Legs moving. The city under my feet, not wheels. A walk to shake the rust, map the streets without a screen.
Palmetto Rose squatted on a corner lot, all wrought iron and climbing vines, the kind of place that whispered money without shouting. I hit the sidewalk, morning heat already building, air thick with the hum of distant traffic and the faint, green bite of live oaks overhead. Charleston unfolded slow, deliberate—narrow streets paved uneven, houses painted colors that didn't apologize: soft blues like faded denim, yellows warm as cornbread, whites crisp against the green. Porches stretched wide, rocking chairs empty but expectant, like the whole damn city was waiting for you to sit and talk.
I turned left on instinct, steps thudding steady, no destination but motion. Meeting Street, the sign said, and I let it pull me. Trees arched overhead, branches laced like fingers,dappling the walk in shadow that danced with each step. Folks nodded as they passed—women in sundresses clutching market bags, a guy in chinos walking a dog that looked too fancy for its own good. No stares today, or none that stuck. Just the rhythm of a place that moved at its own pace, unhurried, unlike the wide-open rush of Montana trails where silence swallowed sound.
The first stop caught my eye: Bitty & Beau's Coffee, tucked into a corner shop with a sign promising brews and heart. The window displayed mugs stacked whimsically, a chalkboard scrawling specials in looping script. Inside hummed gentle—baristas calling orders with smiles that reached eyes, customers lining up patiently.
I pushed in, bell tinkling soft. The air wrapped warm, rich with roast and cinnamon, counters lined with beans in jars like treasures. A girl behind the register—down syndrome, bright apron, grin wide—waved me over. "What can I get ya?"
"Black coffee," I said. "Large. Thanks."
She nodded, punching keys with focus, and rang me up. As I waited, I caught the story on a plaque: family-run, hiring folks with disabilities, turning jobs into family. Simple. Solid. The kind of thing Dad would've tipped double for, muttering about real work while the boys scarfed scones. My coffee came steaming, poured steady, and I dropped extra in the jar by the door. Effort like that deserved appreciation.
