Page 55 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
“Breathe,” I tell myself, and do. Then I talk to my sons like we are in on the same plan. “New idea, my little profiteroles. We wait. We sing. We are exactly as brave as we need to be, and not one ounce more.”
I sing. They fuss. The car stays still.
White presses closer, quiet and relentless.
I watch the road that is not a road anymore and think about a kitchen that smelled like cedar and ginger and a man who told me to breathe like he had earned the right to ask.
I press my knuckles to my mouth and laugh before the cry can get through, and inside the laugh there is a small, sharp prayer.
Please. Let someone find us.
The wind answers with a careful shove.
The snow lifts and falls.
No lights. No engines. No signal bars waking to save us.
Only white, and the brave, soft noise of my sons reminding me I am not alone.
10
DEACON
The road from Ravenwell is a ledger line I balance with my thumb on the wheel.
The storm keeps changing the numbers and I keep correcting them.
We went down at first light for what a lodge needs when winter bares its teeth: diesel additive, two cases of rock salt for the south steps, a replacement gasket for the boiler that wheezes when the temperature drops, a coil of heat tape for the porch line, new chains for the plow truck, and an envelope to square a tab with the farmer who keeps us in eggs when the hens get temperamental.
That is why I am out in this.
Not because I like drama.
Because math and winter both reward discipline.
Hox rides shotgun, eyes on the dash like it is scripture.
Wren is in the back with a hand on the crates the way a good man learns to be ballast.
The wipers drag a white curtain back and forth, back and forth, like they are counting rosaries and losing track.
The heater works hard and still the cold sits in the cab like someone we did not invite.
“Speed,” I ask.
“Twenty-eight,” Hox answers, and does not blink.
“Load check,” I say.
Wren pats the stack behind me. “Salt double-tied. Additive locked down. Boiler gasket boxed and counted. Chains hung, not dragging.”
The south route was open when we went out.
Ravenwell was already bracing, light strings frosted and vendors strapping canvas down against a forecast that used polite words and meant something rude.
I paid the bill at the hardware, took the gasket and the heat tape from a man who looked like he had slept under the workbench, and told Gina at the co-op I would be back in two days for seed catalogs because hope is a habit.
On the way out I paused by the white tent in the square and watched volunteers wrap tables in plastic.
