by Cathryn Cade
Everyone trooped into the house for a quick tour, then Remi and Lindi unloaded the chicken, salads and rolls while Sara got out dishes, and Kit put out glasses for the wine. The guys already had beers opened.
They took their food outside along with the kitchen chairs, because it was stuffy in the house even with Sara's new oscillating fan blowing.
The food tasted better because it was shared with her friends. Sara munched happily on her fried chicken and laughed as Remi tried to toss cherry tomatoes up for Keys to catch in his mouth. When Keys caught one, Kit cheered loudly, and everyone laughed when Keys tipped his head forward and coughed. "Damn near swallowed the thing whole."
“He’s good at swallowing.” Remi waggled his ebony brows, and Kit giggled and hid her face in her napkin. Jack chuckled, and Lindi and Sara shared a wide-eyed look. Sex jokes, whoa.
"So whose dog is that I saw?" Jack asked as they cleaned up after eating.
"What dog?" Sara asked, stopping at the back door to look toward the house next door. Did Stick have a dog?
"Big, black one," Jack said. "Don't think Stick has a dog, he's never mentioned one."
Sara shook her head. "It must have wandered out from town, I guess. Hope he isn't lost."
Or feral, which happened occasionally. She'd heard about a pack of strays north of Spokane in the farm country that had caused trouble chasing livestock.
Keys and Jack exchanged a look. "Maybe we should go and ask if its Stick's," Keys suggested.
Jack nodded. "Be back in a bit, girls. Remi, you comin'?"
The three men walked the length of the hedge and disappeared on the other side.
Lindi ran some hot water in the sink while Kit tied off the full trash bag. Sara set her pile of plates down by the sink and peered out the window, although of course she could see nothing through the caragana. "Oh, I wish I hadn't said anything to Keys about, you know."
"It's all good," Kit assured her. "The guys are just making the point that you've got backup, even though you're out here alone. If Stick wants to play head games, he'll know you've got brothers he respects on call."
"Do you think he'd actually do anything to hurt her?" Lindi asked Kit, a worried line between her brows.
Kit shook her head. "No. I really don't. I've seen Stick take what the club ho's offer and then ignore them afterward, but I've never seen him disrespect any of the old ladies, or any other women, like the cleaning crew that comes in."
She gave Sara a side-hug. "You're not an old lady, but you're sure as hell not a club ho. Plus, he thinks you're hawt, or he wouldn't have had sex with you. Now that you're here right next door, he probably doesn't know what to do with you."
"You ask me, he's pissing on his fence posts," Lindi said, rinsing a plate before handing it to Kit, who was drying. "Guys are just like big ol' dawgs sometimes. ‘You my woman, this my place’."
Sara snorted. "I'll agree with the dawg behavior, but he hardly wants me to be his woman, that I'm sure of."
Kit and Lindi exchanged a look. "Best not to assume, with a man like Stick Vanko," Kit said. "Hey, if we're through here, can I see your leather-working stuff? I'd love to have a belt, if you need Christmas ideas. Just sayin'."
"Me too," Lindi said, raising her hand like a kid at school.
Sara laughed. "Good to know, because belts are the easiest to make. Come and see my stuff."
It was fun showing her friends all the tools and pieces of leather. Lindi fell in love with a piece of golden-brown suede, and Sara resolved to make something for her with it. Kit liked the black, so Sara marked that for her. Then, since the house was stuffy, they went back outside with glasses of wine.
The men wandered back, relaxed and smiling as the sun dropped below the western hills. Keys winked at Sara, and moved close to speak in a low voice. "All right, babe. It's been firmly established that you're in Kit and Lindi's posse and therefore ours, so it's all good."
"And if it ever ain't good, you let me or Keys know, like immediately," Jack added, giving Sara a pointed look.
"I will," she agreed, her heart swelling. "Thank you, guys. I didn't hear any heads cracking, so you're still okay with, uh, your president?"
Jack chuckled, and Keys gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Yeah, we're all good, babe. No head crackin’."
She breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good. I would never want to cause any trouble for you."
Remi gave her a chiding look. "That's what nearly made you sick, isn't it? Chokin' back your feelings instead of speaking up and lettin' it out. Sometimes shit has to be confronted."
Her face flushed. "I guess you're right." Then, desperate to change the subject, since her friends were all gazing at her, she rose, waving a hand at the east garage. "Hey, I've got something to show you all. Turns out I inherited more than a house."
The Caddy was a huge hit, especially with Keys. He started the car up, listened to the engine run, then nodded his approval. Then he grinned at Sara. "Mind if we take her for a spin?"
Everyone piled in, and he backed the big car carefully out, turned it around, and they rolled out of the drive and onto the county road.
And as they sped away into the dusk, the windows open and the warm evening breeze blowing the women's hair around, Sara realized one of her wishes had come true—Stick had a chance to see her smiling and carefree in the Caddy.
Of course, who knew if he'd even notice.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next afternoon Sara set the last of three pans of freshly baked cinnamon-and-sugar dusted snickerdoodles on cooling racks in her 'new' kitchen, and blew a sigh of relief, swiping back a stray lock of hair from her cheek with one flour-dusted hand.
Whew. She couldn't remember the last time she'd baked cookies. In Coeur d'Alene, she'd had a gourmet bakery & coffee shop up the street, although she'd rarely allowed herself the decadent treats displayed there.
But something about this house, or maybe just being out here on the edge of the hay fields, with hot sunshine pouring down like butter from the blue sky ... and her mother's mention of cookies the day before. Whatever the spur, as she'd cruised the grocery store aisles that morning, Sara had a craving for cookies. And not just any cookies, but home-baked, fresh from the oven cookies.
Thus, here she stood, wearing a vintage, ruffled apron with a pattern of tiny green leaves and red cherries, the kitchen smelling of warm, butter and cinnamon, a sink full of dishes and counters littered with flour and utensils.
She was smiling as she ran the sink full of hot, soapy water. It was so quiet out here, just the sound of the warm, afternoon wind rustling in the trees and the caragana hedge. Although, the rustling in the hedge was a bit loud for just a breeze.
Leaning forward, she peered out the open window over the sink. It faced north, so she could see the length of the tall hedge between her property and his.
And there appeared to be some kind of critter hiding in the lower part of the hedge.
Then she heard muffled giggling, and childish voices, along with more rustling. Sara grinned to herself. Not a skunk, that was a relief. She worked quietly, keeping one eye on the hedge.
She was rewarded for her vigilance when the leafy branches parted to reveal a small boy, with tousled blonde hair as light as her own. He peered both ways before erupting from the hedge. He wore a sleeveless blue tee, sturdy jeans and sneakers, and his face was round, with big blue eyes, a button nose and mouth curved up in conspiratorial glee.
Grinning to herself, Sara waited to see his sibling. Then she gasped as a second boy emerged--identical to the first except for his red tee. Twins. Her heart melted into a warm, gooey puddle like the cookie batter had on being placed in the hot oven. The two were just so stinking cute.
"I toldja I smelled cookies," the boy in blue said.
His twin inhaled dramatically, looking like a puppy scenting the wind. Sara had to clap a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggle. "Aw," he groaned. "I want cookies."
"Let's go knock onna door."
>
"No. Papa said don't go in strange houses or cars."
"But I want cookies. Papa don't make us cookies."
Sara's eyes widened. They kept mentioning a papa, but no mama. Holy heck, could they possibly be his children?
Without conscious thought, she found herself opening the cupboard to take down a sandwich plate—it was an old one, with a crack in it, so she didn't care about getting it back. She arranged several cookies on it, slipped it in a zip-lock bag, and carried it out through the back stoop and through the screen door.
The boys turned as she appeared around the corner of the porch, shoulder to shoulder, wide eyes on her.
"Hi," she said gently, smiling at them. "So, you guys live around here?"
They eyed her, each other, and then the boy in red pointed silently through the hedge. Her fingers ached to comb their messy waves of hair, and smooth the dirt from their cheeks, but no way should she get that close. She was a stranger to them, and needed to keep her distance.
"I'm Sara, your new neighbor. It's nice of you to come over, although next time you do need to ask your, um, papa first."
Whereupon he would no doubt roar like an enraged polar bear and forbid them ever to set foot on her property again.
They looked at each other, and then nodded in unison. The twin in blue eyed the plate in her hand. "We smelled cookies."
"Well, that's because I just baked some." She held out the plate. "Here you go. You take these home, and ask your papa if it's okay if you have some. But you have to ask him first, right?"
"Right," the boy in blue said. He nodded, as did his brother, their gazes rapt on the plate. In unison, they moved forward to take the plate, and then backed away, eyes huge as they looked at the cookies.
"Bye," Sara grinned, waggling her fingers.
"Bye." The pair turned and dashed for the hedge. She watched them duck through an opening she hadn't seen before, and heard metal scrape. Moving closer, she saw that the hedge had grown up around an old metal fence. The gate hung crookedly, with just enough room for two little boys to climb through.
She sighed regretfully. That was probably the last she'd see of the cute little rascals. What a shame their father was her personal nemesis.
* * *
"Dash! Kick! Come," Stick called, stepping out of the big, free-standing garage. He wiped his hands on a rag as he scanned the sprawling yard and surrounding fields. He'd seen the boys not five minutes ago, chasing each other around with their plastic guns while they waited for him to load up the SUV, to go fishing for the afternoon.
The pair appeared from around the big, white farm-house, running full speed as they always did. "Coming, Papa!"
As they skidded to a halt before him, he eyed them suspiciously. They'd been up to something. Then he shook his head. They weren't bruised, bleeding, or crying, and they were always up to something, so why waste his time worrying?
He opened the back door of the SUV and reached down to pick up Dash, lifting him into his car seat as Kick waited his turn. Buckling Kick in beside his brother, Stick sniffed. "Why do I smell ... cookies?" he asked.
The boys shrugged in unison, their eyes wide and innocent. Were the crumbs on their shirts from breakfast, or something else?
A drum solo rattled from his hip, and Stick palmed his phone and answered it as he shut the vehicle door.
It was Bouncer. "Corbin wants a meet tonight. You ready?"
"I'm ready," Stick said. "He'd better be ready for our terms." Corbin was a survivalist from the northern reaches of Idaho who stockpiled weapons frowned on by the police. He also dealt, and the Flyers occasionally transported for him.
Bouncer grunted. "Yeah, my thoughts exactly. Awright, nine o'clock, our place."
"Good." Stick ended the call, swung into the driver's seat and started the engine, looking in the rearview at his boys. "Who's ready to go fishing?"
"We are!" they called, pumping their fists.
"All right." He was smiling as they drove past the house, along the hedge that separated his place from his annoying new neighbor.
Strangely, as he pulled out past the end of her driveway, both boys craned their necks to peer at the little house there.
Stick narrowed his eyes. They were curious, paying attention there, and this was not good. The smell of cookies on the warm air was enticing, especially to little boys. They ate store-bought cookies, but neither Marta or Velvet were the cookie-baking type.
"You boys listen now," he said. "You stay away from that house, and on our side of the fence, da?"
They subsided in their seats, brows drawn together, lower lips thrust out. "Da, Papa."
Shit, something was definitely going on. The woman next door was even more dangerous than he'd thought. He wanted to tap her, not have her spend time with his boys.
So she was soft and pretty, and had a gentle touch, and a ladylike dignity, so what? So she was already enmeshed in the Flyers' framework of people, tight with Jack and Keys' women, and thus their men. Didn't mean she should stay around here, or get involved with his boys.
Dash and Kick had women in their lives—Marta watched them when Velvet and Webb could not. And okay, both women were hard-as-nails, able to drink and swear like Russian sailors. But they were good women. And his boys would likely stay in the life when they grew up, like him, so why did they need to learn any different?
They didn't, that's what. And Sara could stay the hell out of their lives.
But he'd sound them out later, back at home. Fishing time was sacred. He turned off his phone, told only Pete, Rocker and Bounce where he was going, and tried not to think about the problems heaping his plate as president of a bunch of rowdy, irascible bikers, their various businesses, and their women. He wanted his boys to always want to come fishing with him, not dread it as a time to be grilled or criticized. They were all his now, but their teen years and adulthood would be here before he knew it.
A small shiver passed over the back of his neck despite the heat of the afternoon. If they were anything like he and then Peter been at that age, he was in for a few years of sheer hell—times two! Da, he needed a good foundation to build on. And fishing was part of this.
"Where we going fishing, Papa?" Kick asked.
"Our pothole," Stick answered.
"Pothole!" both boys crowed, and then burst into giggles. Stick chuckled with them. He had no idea why they thought the term for the big ponds that dotted the high plateau west of Spokane was so funny, but they laughed every time he said it.
Their favorite pothole was a thirty-minute drive from home. They drove south of the highway, off the Cheney exit and into the scrub pine a few miles, through a locked gate to which Stick had a key, courtesy of the land-owner, a traditionalist who liked big guns but not the laws that governed their ownership.
Being a private fishing hole, there were no facilities, but a path led around to a shady spot on the far side, just right for setting up with his big rod and their small ones, a cooler with drinks and snacks, and some lazy time with nothing to do but wait for a line to jerk, indicating they'd caught a perch or a bass.
Perch were all right, but bass were fine eating. They all liked a supper of fried fish fillets, tater tots and slaw.
Home-baked cookies and prissy women, they could live without.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Finished cleaning up from her baking spree, Sara took her phone out in the shade and tried to phone her youngest brother. Now that she knew Seth had lost his job, she couldn't rid herself of a niggling worry.
Seth was a good guy, but he was ... impulsive. He got an idea in his head and went with it, without thinking out the pros and cons. He'd always been that way, from the time he tried to 'fly' out his and Sam's upstairs bedroom window in a red cape, resulting in a broken arm, to older adventures such as using all the money Gran had given him for his first year of college, to buy a used sports car instead. Turned out the car had been wrecked, so it drove a little wonky and went through oil fast enough to
keep a small refinery busy.
They'd all breathed a sigh of relief when Seth found a job and apartment in the Tri-Cities. But now, if he'd lost his job, what would he do for money? Maybe she could talk him into coming to live with her for a while, and look for work in Spokane. He could help her around the place instead of paying rent.
Although he'd have to help with groceries, because at 6'2" and 25, he ate twice as much as she did.
He didn't answer, so Sara left a message. "Hey, little brother. It's Sara. Call me, okay. Just want to talk to you, see how you're doing ... and share my crazy life. Get this, I now have an MC president for a neighbor! Me and a biker, not the greatest match, right? Anyway, love you. Call me back soon."
Having done this, she flipped through her messages. An Ulta coupon, some pictures from Kit of the three of them dressed and made up for the 4th of July barbecue. In one pic, they were all smiling, in the next, making silly faces. She smiled—she was so lucky to have Kit and Lindi in her life. Her mom might find them an unlikely trio, but Sara couldn't imagine her life without the two women.
Funny, she'd always seen herself as the mature, stable one of their trio, but now, much as it hurt her pride, Kit and Lindi were showing her how to deal with the uncertainties of upheaval and change. They'd both been through it in different ways.
Lindi had been set with a steady guy and her cafe when he died in a motorcycle crash. Now she had Jack, the love of her life, but it had been a hard road to finding him. Sara loved the way he treated her bubbly friend, as if she was his to protect and shower with gifts and comfort.
Kit had spent her entire life drifting around the edges of the Devil's Flyers' MC with her flighty mother, a biker mama with little common sense. Now Kit had not one, but two men who clearly treasured her, and had shown her how to capitalize on her math smarts and savvy, and believe in herself. The zany redhead was blissfully happy.
Sara saved the pictures, sent Kit a quick thank you. She nearly called Lindi just to talk, but remembered her friend would be in the middle of a shift at the BeeHive, so sent her a text as well. She deleted a few other messages, and then frowned. She had an odd, prickly feeling, as if someone was watching her. It wasn't the boys, or their father, as they'd all driven out in a big, macho, gold SUV a short time ago.