Train's Clash (The Last Riders Book 9)

by Jamie Begley

  “Don’t bother; I promised to buy pizza when we finish.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.”

  “Anything you fix would be fine.” Train smiled gently at the soft-spoken woman. She was dressed as if she were going to an afternoon tea, and not the housework she had described.

  “I don’t want to disappoint Hammer and Jonas if they’re expecting pizza.” She stared at her daughter as if she didn’t know what to do without her say-so.

  “You know they’ll like anything you fix. Okay?”

  “All right. If you’re sure.”

  “I am. We better get started.” Killyama went to the door, and Train followed, carefully shutting the screen door behind them so it wouldn’t slam shut.

  When he was sure her mother couldn’t hear them, Train said, “That can’t be your mother.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know why everyone says that when they meet her.”

  “You don’t see the differences?” Train lifted a mocking brow. “You’re twice her height, and I don’t think you inherited that attitude you carry around your shoulders from her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Train jumped out of the way when a hammer fell between them. Looking up, he saw Hammer’s head peeking over the side of the roof.

  “Sorry, it slipped out of my hand,” Hammer apologized.

  Train wanted to throw it back at him but restrained himself. He waited beside Killyama as Hammer climbed down to retrieve his tool, politely giving it back handle first instead of burying it in the arrogant asshole’s head.

  “Is it safe to leave you three working together while I mow?” She stepped between them as they stared at each other challengingly.

  “It depends on whether you have another hammer I can defend myself with,” Train drawled. He wouldn’t make the first move to pick a fight with Hammer, but he would be damned if he backed away from one.

  Jonas stood overhead with his hands on his hips, watching the standoff. From their contemptuous stance, both of them wanted a confrontation.

  Killyama raised her voice. “I invited him here. You can deal with it or leave. If Mama doesn’t hear any work going on, she’ll be out here, wanting to know why.”

  “Everything is fine. Go mow,” Hammer gritted out.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. I’m going inside to make some lemonade. All this testosterone is making me hot. Train, anytime you want to take that shirt off, feel free. It’ll give me something to stare at while I mow.”

  Killyama was teasing, yet she didn’t go inside to make the lemonade until he nodded that he would ignore the men’s attempts to start a fight.

  “The extra hammer is in the toolbox in the back of the Escalade,” Jonas called out as Hammer started climbing the ladder.

  Train found the hammer before he followed, keeping a cautious eye for any other missiles to mysteriously go sailing over his head.

  The men worked steadily, nailing down the shingles, while he wondered where the lemonade was. That’s when he heard the mower start and saw Killyama driving it through the grassy field.

  “Hammer, Jonas, Train, I brought you something to drink.”

  Train let Hammer and Jonas go first, worried they would accidently push the ladder over. Once he was safely on the ground, he took the lemonade Peyton handed him.

  After Train thanked her, she blushed before going back inside.

  “You hurt that little girl, the squad will be searching for two new members.” The warm smile Hammer had worn for Peyton dissolved.

  “Killyama isn’t a little girl, and I have no intention of hurting her.”

  “You think I’ve forgotten the women you and Shade bragged about fucking when we were on a mission? The times we visited you in Ohio, you weren’t hurting for company there, either. If you think Jonas is going to sit back and watch our girl getting the same treatment as those cunts you claimed for The Last Riders, you better buckle up, because it’s going to take more than a parachute to save you.”

  Train set his drink down on the porch bannister, taking off his shirt then turning so Killyama could see his muscular back. “Killyama has no problem taking care of herself. The Last Riders have all tried to guess where she came by the skills to fight the way she does. You two have done an excellent job training her.” He paused before asking, “Which one of you is her father?”

  “Crash’s skills let you down again?” Jonas scoffed at Train’s lame attempt to discover who her father was. “Let me make it easy for you. Neither Hammer nor I are her father. A day hasn’t gone by that I wish it were true, but she’s not.”

  Train sighed. He had worked with them on missions for years, so he knew that, if Jonas said one of them wasn’t Killyama’s father, they weren’t. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. They considered her their daughter, blood or not.

  “I’m not going to apologize for my past. I’m not the only man here who enjoyed a good time. The only reason you and Jonas haven’t settled down yet isn’t because you haven’t met the right women, but because both of you haven’t met the right woman. I can sling mud just as easily, or we can call a truce and admit we want what’s going to make Killyama happy. I promise to do that to the best of my ability, but if you’re expecting me to cut off my left nut to keep you two happy, then I guess we’re all shit out of luck.”

  Hammer reached for Train’s T-shirt, tossing it back at him. “Right now, I’ll be happy if you put that back on. She’s mowed the same patch of grass three times.”

  Train grinned as he tugged it back on.

  “Truce?” Holding out his hand, the men reluctantly shook it.

  The window in the kitchen opened, and the men turned to see Killyama’s mother.

  “The only one I see out there working up a sweat is my daughter. Do I need to put my jeans on and show you how to nail on a shingle?”

  Killyama would have snarled profanities at them. Peyton did it much more delicately, but her message was the same.

  “No, ma’am.” Train winked at her as Hammer and Jonas scrambled back up the ladder.

  The rest of the afternoon passed without incident as they worked in unison, sweat pouring down their backs.

  Not caring if he made Jonas or Hammer angry, he removed his shirt and was about to call in a favor to Cash to help when he realized they were on the last row.

  As he worked, the aroma of whatever Peyton was cooking wafted upward, competing with the sun to torment him.

  “I hear your stomach from over here. Didn’t you have breakfast?” Jonas nailed a shingle with more force than was necessary.

  “Only coffee and toast.” Train brushed the sweat out of his eyes.

  “Don’t expect us to feel sorry for you. You have a clubhouse of women cooking for you. Peyton only cooks for us when Killyama invites us over.”

  “I would have thought you were as close to Peyton as you are to Killyama.” Train didn’t expect either of the men to answer, so he was surprised when Hammer did after a slight hesitation.

  “Peyton stays pretty much to herself … other than Killyama.”

  “That’s hard to believe. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “She’s a one-man woman,” Jonas chimed in.

  “Is Killyama’s father dead?”

  Hammer stood up, giving Jonas a hard stare. “We’re done. Let’s go see if lunch is ready.”

  The men climbed off the roof and went into the trailer that had seen better days. Train could tell it was cared for, but he bet the couch was the original one, and the curtains and the carpet were frayed around the edges.

  Guessing they weren’t going to feed him any more information, Train found himself studying the woman who fussed over them after they had washed up in the bathroom while Killyama was washing up at the kitchen sink.

  “You sit by Killyama, Train. Jonas and Hammer can share the other seat.”

  The table was a four-seater booth that was at the side of the kitchen. Train slid over on the seat so Killyama could sit down,
while Hammer and Jonas elbowed each other for room on the other side, fitting like two sardines in a can.

  “Where are you going to sit?” Train asked as he started to get out, but was pinned in by Killyama.

  “I’ll pull over a chair after I put the food on the table.”

  Train expected Killyama to help her mother. Instead, she slid the huge bowl of hamburger pasta her mother had set down toward her, leaving Jonas and Hammer to start on the modest bowl of salad. They stared at the pasta that took up most of the table like ravaging wolves.

  “Guests first.” Killyama gave him the serving spoon as Peyton placed her chair at the edge of the small table.

  Seeing Peyton nibble at her salad, unobtrusively watching him, Train took a modest spoonful, placing it on his plate. He had learned to take small portions until he decided if he liked it.

  “You sure you don’t want more?” Killyama asked, taking the serving spoon from him and ignoring the sulks from the other side of the table.

  “I had a big breakfast.” Train stabbed a lone noddle with his fork.

  “You snooze, you lose at this table. It’s Hammer and Jonas’s favorite. Mama makes it for them whenever they come over.”

  Train waited until Peyton had taken a small serving before he took a bite of the dish. Not caring about being overly polite, Hammer filled his plate with enough pasta to feed three grown men. Jonas had no problem doing the same, leaving the bowl empty.

  “I tried to warn you.” Killyama dug into her own large portion. “It’s kind of addicting.”

  Train enjoyed the one bite he had taken. It was good, but it wasn’t great.

  “It’s really good. Thank you for lunch,” he complimented.

  “You’re welcome. It’s just poor man’s goulash. I used to fix it for Killyama when she was a little girl, when the budget was tight. A neighbor of mine gave me the recipe years ago. Her trailer used to be further down the holler. She would come over for visits until she passed away.”

  Train listened as she talked. Looking down, he saw his fork was scraping an empty plate. Frowning, he stared at the empty bowl then at Hammer’s and Jonas’s still full plates.

  Killyama used tongs to place a mound of salad on his plate. “I tried to give you a heads up. That was a double batch, too.”

  “I’ll leave my number so if you need any more chores done around here, I can swing by and help any day you feel like cooking.” Train politely smiled at Peyton.

  “I’ll get Killyama to key in your number on my phone.” Peyton smiled back, blushing at the compliments the men gave as the two women packed the dirty dishes to the small sink.

  Train was about to volunteer to do the dishes when they each returned carrying two delicate dessert plates. This time, Train made sure to nab the largest serving, trying not to flinch as the men used their boots to stomp on his foot.

  He forgot about the pain when he slid the warm spiced peaches with ice cream into his mouth.

  “This is delicious,” Train complimented.

  “I can the peaches myself. Next time you come over, I’ll make you a cobbler.”

  Train tucked his feet behind Killyama’s, having no problem being a coward where food was concerned. He even scavenged hers for her last bite.

  “Why haven’t we had this before?” Jonas plaintively asked, staring down at his empty plate.

  “Usually, Killyama hides the spiced peaches when I get finished canning them. She set out a couple of jars to use today.”

  Train slid his hand under the table to squeeze her thigh when she would have slid out from the table. “It was delicious. Thank you for sharing them. I can understand why you hid them. Some things are just too good to be shared.”

  “Jonas, go get the air fresher out from under the kitchen sink. The smell of bullshit is making me want to lose my lunch,” Hammer quipped.

  Peyton, who had stood to gather the dessert plates, crashed a plate down on the side of Hammer’s skull. Hammer shrank back from the fury that had Peyton shooting sparks.

  Train gaped, too scared at the sudden attack from the delicate woman to laugh at Hammer’s discomfort.

  When Killyama would have taken his plate, Train stopped her. “I take it back.”

  “What?” Her eyes twinkled in merriment. Killyama had enjoyed Hammer getting struck upside his head.

  “You and your mom could be twins.”

  “You think so?” Killyama cocked an eyebrow at him as her mother cleaned the shards of glass off Hammer’s shoulders.

  “Hell yes.” He helped her carry the dessert dishes, enjoying Peyton scolding Hammer for his bad manners. “I have to admit; I didn’t see it coming, and neither did he.”

  After doing the dishes, Peyton cleaned the table as the group sat down in the small living room. When she was done, she sat down on the recliner, while Hammer and Jonas sprawled out on the couch. There wasn’t a place for Train and Killyama to sit, so he started to bring in the chair that Peyton had been sitting on at the table when Killyama solved the problem.

  “Scoot over, Jonas. Let Train sit down.”

  Train would have rather have gotten the chair, but he sat down on the couch when Jonas made room for him.

  Killyama sat down on the floor, settling against her mother’s legs. He was struck by the closeness of the two as Peyton rocked the recliner and Killyama laid her head on her mother’s thigh.

  Conversation flowed around the room much easier than he had expected. Train listened without taking part as Hammer talked about repairing the underpinning of Peyton’s trailer.

  “Let me know the next time you go out for a few hours. I’ll have to jack the trailer up to get underneath it. I want to lay some more support beams. I’m afraid the floor in the kitchen is going to give if it isn’t fixed soon.”

  “A piece was ordered last week. I was going to get started on it tomorrow, if that’s convenient for you?”

  “That works for me.”

  Peyton, seeing Train’s curious look, explained, “I sell my pieces at a shop in town. Sometimes customers come in and commission me to make something for them.”

  “You’re an artist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you paint or—”

  “I do a little bit of everything. I paint, but my favorite is sculpting.”

  “I would love to see some of your work. Do you have any pieces here?”

  Peyton’s cheeks turned pink. “No. There isn’t much room to store them here. The neighbor I was telling you about who gave me her recipe passed away three years ago. She had no family, so she left her trailer to me. I’ve been using it as a studio. I make a mess when I’m working, and it gives me a place to store the finished items until I’m ready to sell. Killyama, hand me my album, and I’ll show him—”

  “Mama, Train wouldn’t be interested—”

  “I would really like to see your pictures.” He couldn’t understand why Killyama didn’t want him to see her mother’s work. Maybe she was embarrassed Peyton’s work wasn’t any good. Jamestown wasn’t exactly New York, where exclusive shops exhibited artists’ pieces.

  Killyama rose to her knees to open a drawer in the side table, pulling out a thick photo album. Instead of immediately giving it to him, she opened the book toward the back before leaning forward to give it to him.

  Train straightened on the couch, staring at the beautiful picture of a bridge. Unlike most pictures that focused on the idyllic beauty of a summer day, the sky in Peyton’s painting was grey and gloomy. The bridge was old, and part of it was broken. The water below seemed to toss with dark undercurrents. It was striking and thought provoking that the bridge had stood the passage of time, still standing, though withered with age.

  He turned to see picture after picture, each brought to life by Peyton’s brush. Train turned one page, taking in the intricate beauty of a sculpture of a mother and child. The woman’s face was lined with age and worry as she kneeled at the child’s feet. The little girl was wearing a dress that was too bi
g for her, slipping off her shoulders. She was crying while the mother wiped her tears away. Train had never been affected by art in his life, but the statue touched a part of him that he had never known existed.

  “Have you sold this one yet?” Train asked gruffly.

  “Which one?” Peyton looked as he lifted the book to show her. “I’m sorry. That one isn’t for sale. That is in my private collection.”

  “If you ever think of selling, I would love to buy it,” he said sincerely, staring down at the talent that showed an almost tangible bond between the mother and child.

  Train flipped another page, his heart stopping. It was another statue, except this one was in bronze. It had the same features of the little girl from the previous page, but this one was an older girl. Her features were partially obscured by windblown hair curling tumultuously around her. Behind her stood a man with his hand on her shoulder. The man’s features were hidden, his head turned to the side, showing only a profile that was also obscured by the girl’s hair that had blown upward, seeming to strike him in the face. It was as beautiful as the other one, maybe even more so. The pain in the girl’s face struck a chord in him, which the artist had intended.

  “Is this one for sale?” Even as he started to lift the album, Peyton was already shaking her head. “You’re very gifted. If you take commission, I would be willing to have both of those pieces redone.”

  “I don’t do duplicates. Even if I tried, I don’t think they would come out the same,” she said apologetically. “When I finish the current painting I’ve already sold, I have another piece I’m looking forward to starting. When I finish that, I’ll give you first choice before I sell it.”

  “I would appreciate it. Your talent is remarkable.”

  “Thank you. I started a class when Killyama went to kindergarten. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to make a living off what I had only expected to be a hobby.”

  “I can see why. It’s a shame that collectors haven’t seen your work. I wish I knew someone …”

  Peyton shook her head. “I’m happy just piddling around in my studio, making the pieces I want at my own speed.”

  Train flipped through the rest of the pages, deciding to go to the beginning of the portfolio where he saw snapshots of Killyama.