SAVIOR: A Motorcycle Club Romance

by Garland, Fiona

  “It’s in the past, Enrique,” the woman replied, feeling a tinge in her heart. “I’ve gotten over it. Now, I’m trying to get this farm afloat before I drown with it.”

  “No young woman desires to spend her days going from leak to leak,” the man replied. “Trisha, you don’t have to do this. There are other to deal with your problems. You could always sell the farm-”

  “Out of the question,” Trisha interrupted. “Foxtail Farms in my birthright. It’s been in my family for generations. Mom and Dad worked so hard to keep this place running.”

  “I know you’ve been operating at a loss for months,” Enrique pleaded. “Think of your workers. Think of yourself. It’ll be a lot easier to move on if you cut your losses now rather than later.”

  “I don’t want to be the one who lost the farm…”

  “I know it’ll be hard but you have to do this. I’ve been in this business long enough to know when a business is on its last legs. This farm will go belly up in a few months. You don’t want to get caught under it and end up paying debts for the rest of your life.”

  “Not happening,” she said adamantly. “Besides, who would buy a failing business? I can barely afford to pay my workers. I’m up to my ears in debt…”

  “Listen, the business may not be worth much but the land is a different story,” he said. Her heart sank at his words. Trisha knew he was right but she hated the mere idea of it. “Look Trisha, I’m saying this as one of your father’s oldest friends. You need to do what’s best for you. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your reason. Sell the land and you’ll be able to live comfortably until you find some other type of work.”

  “Enrique, I’ve been a farm girl my entire life,” she said, trying to fight back tears. “I’ve grown up milking cows and putting turnips. This is my life. I can’t just sell what’s left my parents.”

  The man sighed. “It’s just something to think about, Beatrix. Just make sure to take care of yourself”

  Trisha gave a soft nod. “So long.”

  After watching Enrique depart, the young woman decided to take a stroll through her field. The farm wasn’t big compared to her rivals but she was proud of it. Watching the cycle of planting crops and watching them grow never got old.

  She watched her workers toil away I the fields. She couldn’t afford to hire many of them but she appreciated the work of the ones who worked for her. Trisha realized that it was not just her future at stake. Her workers had families to feed as well. Perhaps selling the farm would be the best choice in ensuring she and her workers had the best future they could possibly have.

  That’s when she saw a stranger talking with Harold, one of her workers. The looked dangerous between his leather jacket and his fingerless gloves. The young woman had seen him from somewhere before.

  There was an expensive looking motorcycle parked in the driveway. It looked way more powerful than her dad’s cold V92C. Its fuel tank had an emblem of some type of dog.

  The man would be just as intimidating if not for his boyish smile. His eyes were bright, welcoming, and intelligent. However, his body was as powerful and rugged looking as his motorcycle. A trail of intricate tattoos snaked its way across his collarbone and onto the side of his neck. There was a small scar running to across his temple. Trisha wondered if he got it from a motorcycle crash.

  Or a violent fist fight.

  That was when she realized who he was. That man was Dante Alastair, president of the Black Hound Motorcycle Club. She had seen his handsome face and his motorcycle club on the news and in her dad’s old subscription to Motorcycle Monthly.

  Now, the man was trying to start a motorcycle manufacturing company. She didn’t know why this man would care about her tiny farm. The motorcycle club president claimed that he wanted to legitimize his business and give back to the community. It was a line she had heard from every politician and businessman who wanted to make money at the expense of the poor, including her financially strapped family.

  Nevertheless, she was curious to why the bad boy biker was in her neighborhood.

  Harold seemed pleased with the man. The young man was enthusiastic about the mini-tour he was conducting. “This is Ms. Kaplan. She owns the place. She’s the one you should be talking to if you’re placing that big of an order.”

  Trisha’s ears perked up at the last word. “Hello, I am Beatrix Kaplan, owner of Foxtail Farms. And you are?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Beatrix,” he replied, his eyes fixated on the woman. “My name is Dante Alastair. I was just discussing a business to business deal with Harold just now.”

  Trisha fought and failed to keep from blushing. The biker was even more handsome and charming in person than he was in magazines. His face was proud and sculpted like that of a Renaissance statue. His windswept hair was of medium length and looked incapable of being combed properly. The man was gorgeous and he knew it. He had the tall, well-muscled build of a man and the boyish swagger of troublemaking teenager.

  “Likewise, Mr. Alastair.”

  “Please, call me Dante,” he laughed, causing her to turn flush again. “Mr. Alastair was my late father’s name. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being called that.”

  “Dante said he wanted to place an order,” Harold chimed in. “Actually, he wanted to place a lot of orders. He wants everything from turnips to strawberries. He even wants some of the wool we have left over from shearing!”

  “I’ll take it from here, Harold,” Trisha said, dismissing the kid. She led Dante to her house as she probed him for answers. “I’ll take you inside to fill out your order.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “It’s a long drive here from the city. This place is beautiful. I should have made the trip earlier.”

  “What brings you to Foxtail Farms, Dante?” Trisha asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “From the looks of it, you’re placing a very big order from an admittedly small farm. In fact, I would say that this sounds like a recurring supply order.”

  “Well, I enjoy… perusing smaller providers when selecting suppliers,” he answered, reaching the door to Trisha’s house. “The bigger farms can’t give the same attention to detail or natural quality as the smaller farms. I want to make sure we’re getting our money’s worth when supplying my business. That’s why I’ve come here.”

  “Is that so?” Trisha answered, suspecting that something wasn’t right. “Do club presidents, or CEOs or whatever they call you do the grocery shopping?”

  The man had to have an agenda. The biker was born into money and power. He never had to live paycheck to paycheck. He never had to worry if he had enough money to keep a roof over his head.

  Trisha wondered why the man had come here. He couldn’t be sick and twisted enough to see her failing farm as some sort of entertainment. He also couldn’t possibly interested in buying her land considering the money he had.

  Nevertheless, the man looked impressed at her line of questioning. “I learned of this place from my mother. I would always pass it when I would go out riding in this area. I figured I should finally drop by.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Whenever she was around here, my mother used to buy from Foxtail Farms,” he answered, looking somewhat nostalgic. “She always hated the city and preferred these parts. I remembered she would buy fresh fruits from here and bring it home for us. She would always get that dried grapefruit candy that was made fresh here. My sister Lucia and I would always fight over it. Do you still have some by any chance? I just got a craving.”

  Trisha’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m afraid not. We don’t grow grapefruit here anymore. It’s just too water heavy.”

  Dante smiled. “My mother always made small talk with the woman who helped run the place. I think it was Mary Kaplan. Is she still here? I always ride pass here but never got the opportunity to meet her.”

  “That was my mother,” Trisha whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “She died earlier this year from cancer. Dad didn’t la
st too long after that. He just stopped taking care of himself.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” the man offered. He seemed to internally curse himself for upsetting her. “I’ve lost my mother recently as well, Beatrix”

  “Please call me Trisha,” she replied, stopping the tears from flowing. This was now a time for business rather than reminiscing. “Beatrix is my real name but only my mother ever used to call me that. I always hated being called. It always made me feel old.”

  “Okay, Trisha,” he said. “I should have come here sooner for a joyride. The fresh air is already making me feel better.”

  Trisha gave him a teasing smile. “Happy to get away from the media frenzy surrounding your motorcycle club?”

  Dante shifted uncomfortable in his riding boots. “You heard?”

  “I may not be a city girl but I follow the news,” she replied. “I heard about the awful things they’re saying about your uncle. The man did his time. He should be able to live the rest of his time out in peace. It’s like as if the media wants another trial.”

  “The media has to justify its wages,” Dante said, bemused at her words. “I won’t blame a dog for wanting to bark.”

  “I apologize if I sounded rude earlier,” she said, opening the door to her home. “It’s just that when people come here to do business, I always expect them to give me offers for the land.”

  “I can assure you,” Dante said with a playful smile. “I have no interest in your land. Let’s go inside and discuss my order.”

  Life was hard for Beatrix Kaplan. Now, her burden felt a little lighter.