Page 39 of The Shield
My mind drifted back, unbidden, to the years with my father, Byron Dane. He was gone so often, off to save the world—or so he’d said—leaving us boys to fend for ourselves on our Montana ranch.
I remembered the long stretches of silence, the empty chair at the table, the weight of responsibility settling on my young shoulders. But then he’d return, swooping in like a storm breaking, his presence filling the house with energy. He’d gather us—me, Levi, Jacob, Caleb, and the others—teaching us lessons with a rough tenderness: how to ride the old mare without falling, how to rope a calf with a clumsy knot, how to tie a fly for the creek with hands that fumbled but learned. There was always love in those moments, a warmth in his voice as he teased us for the batter splattered across the kitchen during pancake mornings, or the way he’d hum off-key while Mom danced with a spatula. We’d talk over each other, seven voices clashing in a chaos of laughter, and for a while, it felt whole.
Yet I couldn’t shake how it ended.
I was sixteen, the summer stretching ahead with promise, when Dad planned a trip—just the two of us, a chance to fish the high lakes, to talk man to man. I’d packed my gear, waited by the porch, watched the horizon for his truck.
He’d never showed.
Days had turned to weeks, and then he was gone for good, no word, no explanation.
That pain had burrowed deep, a wound that never healed, driving me to become the nomad I was—always moving, always alone, carrying the burden of a family I couldn’t hold together. My brothers called, invited me back, their voices echoing with the ranch, but I’d found excuses, missions to chase, distances to keep. They let me be, understanding the fracture Dad’s departure had left, knowing I’d been their rock until even rocks could break.
Now, sitting in this war room, the notion of not just six brothers but thirteen—six from Montana, seven from Charleston—felt like a dream too wild to grasp. Fourteen Danes, a family doubled in ways I couldn’t fathom. It seemed impossible, a thread of fate too tangled to unravel, and yet here it was, laid bare before me.
I tried to picture it—Levi’s freckled grin beside Ryker’s intensity, Jacob’s steady hand with Marcus’s quips, Caleb’s quiet strength mirroring Atlas’s calm.
The Montana boys, rough-edged from the plains, alongside these Charleston men, polished yet hardened by their own battles. Could we be kin, bound by blood I’d never known?
The thought stretched my mind, pulling at memories of Dad’s eyes, his smile, the way he’d scratch his chin—traits I now saw reflected in these men. It was a world I hadn’t dared imagine, and the weight of it left me adrift, needing time to sort through the pieces.
Atlas sat across from me, his presence a silent invitation, his patience a steady current I could lean on, if I chose.
But I wasn’t ready.
The questions—about the gray-suited man, about Caleb and Jacob, about this sudden family—hovered just out of reach, and I let them linger, my thoughts circling back to the past, to the pain, to the possibility of something new.
The rain outside grew heavier, a soft drum against the windows, mirroring the storm within me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, a sharp vibration that snapped me out of my brooding. I pulled it out, the screen glowing with a text from Natalie:Miss you. At City Hall, if you want to visit. Things are happening I want to tell you about.
Things.
The word hung there, vague and loaded, stirring my curiosity. What things? A promotion, a storm update, something more?
The thought of her—her steady voice, her warmth—cut through the fog in my mind, offering a tether to the present.
I looked up at Atlas, meeting his calm gaze. "I have to go," I said, my voice rough but resolute.
He nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes, though a shadow of concern crossed his face. "I get it. But be careful. Whoever that man in the gray suit is, it can’t be good. Something’s off, and I don’t like it."
I didn’t need to respond, didn’t need to voice the truth—that I’d been looking out for myself since I was a kid, navigating dangers most people couldn’t imagine. But he could. He’d lived it, too.
I rose, my chair scraping softly against the floor, and made my way out, my steps echoing in the empty hall. The staff offered to escort me, but I waved them off, needing the solitude of the walk to the truck.
The rain greeted me again as I stepped outside, but I paused at the driver’s side door, my hand on the handle.
Grounding. That’s what I needed.
And that meant Flapjack.
I turned toward the stables, the path slick underfoot, the stable hands nodding as I approached. Flapjack nickered from his stall, his ears perking at the sound of my voice, his dark eyesbright, despite the weather. He seemed eager, almost relishing the rain, his coat glistening as I saddled him up. The leather felt familiar under my hands, the girth snug but kind, the bridle settling over his poll with a rhythm I’d known since I was a boy. He shifted with anticipation, and I swung up, the saddle creaking under my weight.
The rain pattered against us as we left Dominion Hall, his hooves thudding softly against the wet ground, trailing memories and questions in our wake.
17
NATALIE
