Something About a Bounty Hunter

by Em Petrova

  “What’re you riding?” James asked him.

  Wes told him and added how he’d souped up the engine and tricked out the body. James nodded in appreciation.

  Finally, Wes felt comfortable pointing to the leather work he’d been admiring. “That the piece you’re here for today?”

  James followed his gaze. “Oh yeah. Turned out fucking beautiful, didn’t it?” He stroked his graying goatee as he admired it.

  “I’d love to support your club. Do you have an event?”

  James bobbed his head and reached into an inside pocket of his cut, coming out with a folded flyer. Wes took it and read over the bike night they were throwing as a way to support patients at a nearby VA hospital.

  “This is great.” He meant it. Most of the clubs he’d hung around supported charities from children to the elderly. Wes admired all their efforts, but he could get behind this cause. His cousin Aiden had been a Marine and he’d met his share of war vets in Operation Freedom Flag.

  “You can count on me to be there,” he said to James.

  The man clapped him on the back. “’Preciate it, man. Look me up.”

  “I will.” He understood he was dismissed and drifted away but kept an ear on their conversation as they were presented with the leather work and paid for it in cash.

  Wes waited till they left the shop and the sound of their engines had faded before he leaned on the counter and looked at the owner. “How can I find that club?”

  The man eyed him warily. “If you’re smart you’ll just attend their bike night and not walk up to them on their own turf.”

  “So they’re tougher than most?”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Awful interested, aren’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I am. I’m new to town and I’m lookin’ to find guys who love the life.”

  “Being stupid could get your ass hurt.”

  Wes pulled up his sleeve to show a burn mark on his forearm where one of the fugitives he’d been chasing across the county had tried to stub out his cigarette. Next to that was a twisted scar he’d gotten when a horse kicked him, but the guy didn’t need to know that.

  “I’m no stranger to pain.”

  The shop owner grunted. “The club’s hidden in the foothills. Not easy to find.”

  “That’s all the information I need.”

  Wes purchased a few items out of courtesy and left. His bike waited for him. He curled his fingers around the handlebars and eased his leg over, mounting it with no less reverence than he would a horse.

  He’d come to think of himself as walking between worlds. The cowboy he was at Eagle Crest wasn’t the same man who got along with bikers. Yet if he was right about his roots, his father had been—or was—a club guy. His momma had spent time with bikers and come home pregnant. She’d given Wes up to her sister and her new husband to raise.

  He could take the shop owner’s advice and attend the bike night to ease his way into the Bighorns. But he wasn’t the kind of guy who waited around for things to happen. He took action.

  He had a reputation for getting things done. People relied on him to get it done. He sure as hell wasn’t slacking off in his own affairs, sitting on his thumb waiting.

  Heading out of the small town and into the foothills, he steeled himself for what was to come.

  * * * * *

  As Stormy walked into the clubhouse kitchen, she threw a look at the women sitting around the table, sharing coffee and gossip.

  “Now Stormy, sweetie, how the hell do you do that?”

  “What are you complaining about now, DeeDee?” Stormy walked to the coffeepot and grabbed a mug. She needed the caffeine to wake up, not get sober after a long night of partying. Though after celebrating Sundance’s thirtieth year with the Bighorns, there had been a lot of booze flowing.

  “You were awake all night same as we were.” DeeDee waved her hand around the table. “But you look like you just stepped out of a spa.”

  “She’s right. Girl, your skin glows,” another lady added.

  “That’s from a hot shower.” Stormy scoffed off their compliments. She took her mug to the table and sank into a seat. “What’s on the agenda today? Chili to cook?”

  “Yeah, we got the big pots out and ready to go. Green Hills chapter riding out tomorrow and we gotta give them a good send-off.”

  “Where’s my dad?” Stormy asked, taking a sip.

  “Heard Druid on the phone with your brother,” DeeDee said in a lowered voice. The woman was in her late thirties but looked like Stormy’s older sister.

  Stormy straightened. “My brother?”

  “Yeah. I wondered if he was bringing him in for Sundance’s party. He’s a Bighorn too, after all.”

  Stormy’s brother Alexander had been living outside the club for months now. He’d fallen out with some members and their father, known as Druid, had sent him away. But when Stormy asked him about it, he’d only kiss her softly between the eyes the way daddies kiss their little girls and say, “I’ll handle it, okay?”

  She pushed out an irritated sigh. “Well, if he’s bringing Alexander back, I’ll have a chance to talk to him at least. I haven’t been able to get hold of him in months.”

  “Men come and go, girl. Time you get used to that, even if they’re your family.” DeeDee had been the mother figure Stormy had never known, and the woman was always offering advice. But Stormy’d grown up around the Bighorns and she knew what DeeDee said was true. Nobody could hold these men down for long. There was a reason they chose the Bighorns—and it wasn’t only the freedom they got on two wheels.

  A scraping noise of chairs being shoved back from tables in the other room had all five ladies in the kitchen on their feet.

  A sound like that meant trouble. Stormy started toward the door.

  DeeDee grabbed for her sleeve. “Your dad won’t be too happy with you walking into men’s business.”

  “I’m not a child and I have a right to know what’s going on.” She walked out the door.

  Behind her, DeeDee said, “That sassy mouth o’ hers will be the death of me.”

  “You’re the one who encouraged her to speak her mind at all times,” another woman commented.

  Stormy entered the main room of the club, hanging with smoke and smelling of last night’s party. Liquor and sex.

  The guys were all on their feet, as expected, a wall of black leather and rough denim, facing the monitor in the corner of the room. But they weren’t watching sports—they were looking at the live surveillance footage.

  A lone biker had just rolled up to the club, parked his bike and was walking up as bold as if he was a brother.

  Stormy’s gaze glued to the screen. The man was tall and built but that was all she could make out.

  “Dumb fucker, ain’t he?” her dad said.

  “Doesn’t know the code, that’s for sure. Time to head this off before he reaches the door,” Breaker said.

  Three men moved toward the big metal door that wasn’t remotely welcoming and anybody who knew the Bighorns realized you couldn’t just walk through without invitation from one of the club members.

  Stormy held her breath. Her father reached over the bar for a nightstick and caught sight of her. “Get back in the kitchen, Stormy.”

  She raised her jaw a notch and met his stare. There were other women in the room, and she had just as much right to be here.

  A rap on the door had her father turning away, leaving her forgotten. Silence fell over the group.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” someone asked.

  “Ballsy, ain’t he?”

  “No, he’s plain stupid,” her father snapped.

  “I’ll go out and ask him what he wants,” Stormy offered.

  Her father growled, which slapped grins over the faces of several big burly guys who just loved seeing her father go apeshit trying to shield his little girl from the club life he’d introduced her to.

  “Stormy.” Her name came out as a warning.

 
But she wasn’t listening. She was gawking at the door as it opened.

  Two guys rushed it, hurling it open and facing down the man who stood there.

  A man dressed in black wasn’t so unusual around here. But Stormy held her breath as she got a clear view of the man’s face. Angular jaw with a stubborn tilt, a chiseled nose and dark, dark eyes.

  What color were they? Brown or black for sure. She grabbed onto a chair to steady herself as she waited for what would come.

  “Who the fuck’re you?” Her father barked the question.

  Breaker threw out an arm across her father’s chest. “Wait a minute. James, isn’t this the guy we just met at the shop?”

  James moved through the group to the door, not looking very happy with what he saw. He folded his arms over his chest and eyed the newcomer. “You got a problem understanding the protocol here?”

  “I mean no disrespect.”

  “Opening a door that doesn’t belong to you’s a damn good sign of disrespect,” her father said.

  “Let me handle this. The guy seemed fine at the shop.” James stepped outside with him and closed the door. On the screen, Stormy watched the back of James’s head blocking her view of the guest.

  Her father glared at her from across the room, but she’d long ago learned to stand up to him. He might be the protective father in all the right ways but at times it got out of hand.

  Ignoring him, she watched the screen. James turned to the door and came inside, leaving the newcomer outside. He didn’t leave, though, just stood waiting, looking as if he owned the place.

  “He’s asking for Sundance.”

  “He asked for him by name?” Her father looked surprised.

  “He asked for the member who’s been here longest. Says Sundance knew his mother.”

  “Stormy, go get Sundance.”

  Chapter Two

  Wes Roshannon went balls to the wall and never said die. But he’d basically stomped on all the rules by demanding entrance to the Bighorns’ club. These guys weren’t going to open their door like Grandma for the Big Bad Wolf, but he’d lost his mind a little thinking that the man who’d fathered him could be inside.

  The club perched on the side of the foothill surrounded by pines like an ornament on a Christmas tree. The low building was large enough to house a lot of chickens or sheep. But Wes wasn’t in ranchin’ country anymore.

  Inside were a lot of rough men, some he’d probably seen on the walls of the fugitive recovery office he was dispatched from. But he wasn’t here for that reason.

  He stared at the metal door, waiting for the verdict. Things could go wrong fast, though he was confident he could handle pretty much anything.

  Finally, James came out again and closed the door.

  “You’re lucky, Dirty. We’ve got some guys inside who’d like to use you for target practice, but I vouched for your good behavior. Don’t make me look bad.”

  Wes nodded. “Thank you.”

  James’s expression was far from welcoming as he opened the door and stepped inside. Wes followed.

  The interior was dimly-lit and clouded with smoke, and he couldn’t make out the shapes of people right away. But as soon as he stepped inside and someone else shut the door behind him, his eyes adjusted.

  A dozen or so men stood like guards with hands on hips or folded over their chests. Wes resisted the urge to reach for his sidearm. Knowing he couldn’t risk insulting these guys by bringing a weapon onto their turf, he’d left it in his saddlebag. He couldn’t risk challenging them either. But in a pinch, he didn’t need firepower when a perfectly good knife was stuffed down his boot, and Wes had taken on worse situations.

  “Who the fuck’re you? And why are you looking for Sundance?” A brute of a man stepped up to Wes. Dark hair with strands of white running through it gave away his age as late forties. He was as big as Wes but lacking the bulk he had and he bore a jagged scar through one eyebrow, splitting it in two.

  “He knew my mother,” Wes answered. “Her name was Blanche. Went by Baby?”

  A wiry-looking man with steel-gray long hair and piercing blue eyes moved into the greenish light cast from overhead.

  Wes went still. This had to be Sundance.

  He studied the man. Okay, studied was an understatement. He drank in his appearance like a shipwrecked man slurped up water. But what he saw wasn’t quenching his thirst.

  Wes was six-two and two hundred pounds with thick dark hair and steel gray eyes. But Sundance—the only man who might be his real, unnamed father—stood much shorter with a toughness to his smaller frame like dried meat clinging to the bone. His hair was faded to gray, but Wes could tell by the lack of pepper amidst the salt that Sundance had never had dark hair.

  And their eyes were completely different, though Sundance could give a hell of a mean glower.

  He peered at Wes more closely. “Known lots of women over the years. Who was your mother again?”

  “Blanche Washington.”

  Sundance’s gaze zeroed in on him.

  “I think she was called Baby.”

  Sundance blinked. “Now that’s a blast from the past. Hell yeah. I knew your momma, boy. Jesus Christ, you’re a big ‘un. I never would have guessed she’d have a son of your size. Sit and have a beer with me.”

  Wes’s pulse jumped as he realized this was it—he’d tracked down the right guy who could tell him more about the woman who’d birthed him, then run out, leaving Wes with her sister and brother-in-law to raise him.

  The place smelled of booze and something earthier that was weed or sex or both.

  Sundance nodded toward the wooden row of stools in front of a bar and circled behind. “Pull up a stool. What do they call you?”

  “Dirty.”

  “Now that’s a memorable name. Who gave it to ya?” Sundance grabbed four beers, two in each hand. He set them on the bar, and Wes realized no one else was drinking with them. They each had two.

  He sank to a stool and wrapped his fingers around the cold beer to steady himself. This was fucking surreal, coming here. How many years had he thought about doing just this?

  Since he was a kid, wondering why the cousins he shared a home with had a mom and dad and he didn’t.

  Or since he was eight years old and rumors started flying that his real daddy was actually the man he lived with, his uncle Matthias Roshannon. A lawman had to investigate every lead before coming to a conclusion, though, and Wes was touching all his bases with the biker club.

  “I was in Colorado for a while and the Disciples gave me the nickname.”

  Sundance grunted at the mention of the other club, and Wes went on. “Funny story. I was invited up to the clubhouse for a barbecue and it was raining when I set out. By the time I reached the club, I was soaked to the skin and covered with road muck.”

  A woman edged up to the end of the bar. Wes turned his head and met her stare. Warm brown eyes and long dark hair along with a peaches and cream complexion made him forget what he was saying.

  Then the big man who’d challenged him at the door stepped in front of her, blocking her from Wes’s view. He took her by the arm and led her out of the room.

  Wes swung his attention back to Sundance, hoping he hadn’t committed another social crime. He’d probably find his ass beaten and tossed out after what he’d pulled to get inside.

  Sundance didn’t sit but remained behind the bar, steadily watching him. Wes had a hell of a poker face, though, and the man wouldn’t see anything to raise suspicions. Lifting his beer to Wes, Sundance said, “Let’s drink to your momma.”

  “To Blanche.”

  “To Baby.”

  They clinked bottles and Wes pursed his lips around the bottle. The hops and flavors hit his tongue, a welcome distraction from the fire coursing through his system. His mind was still on that woman. The way she’d fixed her gaze on him, so boldly…

  Sundance drained his beer and turned his bloodshot, wary stare on Wes.

  He nursed his own
beer, weighing his words. And he eyed Sundance’s empty bottle. All he needed was a split second of distraction to gather the DNA off the rim. “So you knew my mother.”

  He nodded. “That I did. Beautiful woman, couldn’t find a sweeter one. Thought she’d make a fine old lady to someone one day if… Well, I was sorry for what happened.”

  Sorry that she’d overdosed on sleeping pills and never lived long enough for her son to confront her about giving him up.

  Wes nodded his acceptance. The other members had relaxed a fraction, no longer surrounding him as if ready to pick him up and spear him on a spit. But they were still watching him—closely.

  Sundance talked about his mother for a while, giving Wes the stories about her time here with the Bighorns that he’d longed for his entire life. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the dark-haired beauty again. She stood off to the side and he noted that when the big guy moved, she did too. Trying to keep out of his sight?

  Finally, the oldest member and leader of the club asked Wes what he was riding. They went outside to look at his bike along with a few other guys acting as guard in case Wes pulled any shit.

  “You’re a Harley man. Your momma would approve.”

  “Can’t resist beautiful curves on a bike or a woman, can we?”

  Sundance barked a laugh. “No, that we can’t.”

  Wes touched his pocket, hoping the film with the smear of DNA would be enough.

  Then Sundance clapped a hand on Wes’s shoulder. He didn’t realize it was a dismissal until the man pointed to the road leading down into town. “A clear ride home for you. C’mon back and see us, Dirty. Baby was a dear friend of mine, and I see her strength and her love of life in your eyes.”

  All the way back home, Wes played and replayed this encounter. The lawman side of his mind tried to pinpoint some action that would cause him to question Sundance—his motives, what was truth or falsity. But he couldn’t find any holes in what Sundance had shared with him.