“Thank you,” I said as Colt offered me a glass of water.
I barely knew Packard, any the men really, but I still felt the pang of his loss. When I’d first met the BDMC, I thought they were just hired guns or a bunch of thugs. I’d quickly realized I was wrong, but it wasn’t until six days ago that I understood just how wrong I’d been. Packard gave his life for mine, and Limpkin would have… and yet, even after that, the club was still willing to put their lives on the line for me.
When Colt had returned to my RV after Packard’s death, he looked haggard. While Colt was gone, Fish had told me he’d left to break the news to Packard’s wife, and his obvious grief washed over me like a wave during the telling. After Fish left, seeing Colt’s sorrow caused me to start crying again. I could tell he was hurting, and hurting badly, but his face was hard and he refused to cry. I begged for his forgiveness, as I’d begged the same from Fish. Fish had given me absolution while insisting it wasn’t my fault. Colt, however, steadfastly refused to forgive me, assuring me time and again I couldn’t be forgiven for something I hadn’t done.
I was exhausted, but when I finally went to bed, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, unable to forget how Packard had groaned with pain as he crawled out of the Jeep, and the sound of rapid shooting behind me as I sped away. The next morning, Colt had looked even worse, as if he hadn’t slept at all. We’d gone to the recording truck where we barely spoken to each other. That afternoon I asked if I could attend Packard’s funeral, wanting, needing to pay my final respects to him and his family, to silently thank him for what he’d sacrificed for me. Colt had told me I didn’t have to, but I’d insisted I wanted to… unless I wasn’t welcome.
Now I was in the Buitre del Demonio clubhouse, along with all the brothers and sisters of the club, and the entire crew from the drill rig. I knew I’d catch hell from dad for shutting the derrick down for a half day, but I couldn’t have cared less. He was already pissed at me for refusing to return to Houston, so he could just be pissed at me for this too. I used the excuse that I wanted to stay until the sounding was finished, but the real reason I wanted to stay was because I was afraid to leave the protection of the BDMC.
Colt had urged me to return to Houston where a professional protection service could protect me, but when I’d finally admitted I wasn’t staying because of the sounding, and reminded him of the danger’s he’d outlined in Houston after the second attempt on my life, he’d relented.
I’d also ordered the funeral home to bill Larke Oil for Packard’s funeral. If Aunt Pam or Dad didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves. These men, all of these men, deserved the company’s utmost respect and gratitude. Yesterday, the men on the drill rig had asked me if they could come to Packard’s funeral to pay their respects, and I’d approved the rig’s shutdown without a moment’s hesitation.
The roughnecks and the bikers couldn’t be from two more different worlds, but a week ago they’d each earned the respect of the other. The drill crew respected how the bikers had put it on the line for me and Enrique, and the roughnecks had repaid in kind by coming to the aid of the two men.
Limpkin and Packard had saved me. They’d shot the radiator of the following truck full of holes, and that had ultimately allowed me to escape. After they’d emptied their guns into the truck, Limpkin had managed to dodge out of the way of the speeding Ford, but Packard, because of his injury, had been too slow, and had been struck by the vehicle as it blasted past in pursuit of my Jeep. The roughnecks had followed the tracks and run-down scrub until they found Limpkin staggering under the weight of his friend as he carried him, struggling to bring his brother home. The crew had reverently taken Packard from Limpkin and laid him gently in the back of the truck on a bed of their own shirts.
“That wasn’t what I expected,” I said.
“What?”
“The funeral.”
Colt had left me in the care of the drill crew this morning, and I’d ridden to Rio Lago surrounded by burly men in one of Larke’s company trucks. We didn’t have clothing for a funeral and had to attend in clean, but obvious work clothes. Nobody seemed to care, and the BDMC had acknowledged us with nods.
As I stood at the graveside in a tight knot of men from the rig, the brothers had arrived on their bikes, dressed all in black with their jackets worn proudly, riding as an honor guard for the hearse. They pulled Packard’s casket from the big black car, handing it brother to brother down a double line, every man taking part of the load, until the final six men, Limpkin, Colt, Fish, Grace, Morell, and Stuart, carried the coffin to the gravesite before pausing as the brothers once again lined up to pass Packard to the scaffolding over his final resting place.
The men formed up and stood with military precision as a minister gave the eulogy, their faces and eyes hard. When the eulogy was finished, Colt stepped forward and spoke about how Packard had died a hero, how he’d given his life in service to another, how he was the first to begin wiping away the stain of their past, and how the club was now working for the betterment of their fellow man and was creating a new tradition they could be proud of. He’d had to stop a couple of times to gather himself when his voice broke, but when he was finished, he stepped to the coffin, removed a pin that matched their colors from his jacket, and laid it on top of Packard’s casket. He then stepped away and knelt before Lilly and Jacob, Packard’s wife and son, and said a few soft words I couldn’t hear.
Each man stepped forward, one at a time as the previous man rose from Lilly and Jacob, and repeated Colt’s ritual of removing the pin and placing it on the casket before kneeling and speaking. The ceremony was conducted with utmost respect, the traditions of the club obviously important to them, and I’d wept openly.
“That was beautiful what you said.”
He looked down, stared at the floor, and cleared his throat. “That was second the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Only telling Lilly that Geoff was dead was harder.”
“Do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do… if she’ll see me.”
He waited a moment before taking my hand and steering me toward a knot of brothers. As we approached, the crowd parted to allow us through.
The pain and sadness on Lilly’s face was more than I could handle, and I began crying again. “I’m so, so, sorry for your loss,” I whimpered, struggling through my tears to say what I needed to say. “If it weren’t for your husband, I wouldn’t be here today.” I whimpered and tried to reel in my grief, but it was hopeless. “He died a hero, and I’ll never forget what he did,” I finally gasped out through my tears.
Lilly’s face twisted as I spoke, and she pulled Jacob in close for support. “Thank you,” she wept.
I shook my head and gasped softly, trying to get control of my emotions, Lilly’s pain washing over me and tearing at my heart. I didn’t know Packard had a son, but as soon as I returned to Houston, I was going to make sure Larke Oil set up a trust so Jacob could attend college. I was losing it, and so was Lilly, our grief and tears feeding on each other’s. Colt gently pulled me away.
“Oh God,” I sniffed, wiping at my eyes as I allowed him to lead me away, “that was so hard.”
“That’s a good thing you did, and it took guts.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t, but I’m sure Lilly appreciated it.”
I kept close to the Larke men as the club grieved. The men, like me, felt like outsiders. “We should probably go,” I said softly. “Let me tell Colt.”
I stepped away from the men and walked to where Colt, Fish, and Grace were speaking softly to Lilly. I paused a respectful distance away, and after a moment, Grace noticed me standing there, and approached.
“We’re going to go,” I said softly.
“Okay. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for…”
“Yeah,” he said softly when I ground to a halt.
He followed me back to the drill crew and offered his hand and a thank you to each man. Before he’d completed shaking each man’s hand, the rest of the brothers approached and shook each man’s hand in turn and murmuring their thanks. I stood to the side as silent tears crept down my cheeks. I didn’t know why the BDMC quietly expressing their gratitude to the Larke men affected me so, but it did. Limpkin held back until he was last, and added a special thank you, along with an extended handshake, to each man who had come to his aid.
We left immediately after Limpkin finished shaking hands. I was quiet the entire ride back to the drill site, but I could tell from the quiet conversations of the men around me, they’d never look at bikers the same way again.
.
.
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COLT
“Where are you?” I asked after pushing the button to accept the call.
“We’re about to turn onto Eagle Pass,” Juice said.
“Okay. We’ll meet you at the RV.” I ended the call and turned my attention to Willow. “Food’s here. Or will be in about twenty minutes.”
“We could have gotten the groceries ourselves.”
“The guys were coming anyway. Why should we drive almost two hours when we can have them do it?”
“Hank, I’ll see you back in Houston,” she said as she closed her laptop and began stuffing it into its case.
This was the last day of sounding. She was going to stay another few days, waiting for the derrick to bring up the first core samples, but then she’d return home to Houston where she could do a deeper analysis of the samples.
“Yep. See you there.” Hank spun in his chair and extended his hand toward me as he stood. “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you, Colt.”
I took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Same. If you get back in the area, look us up.”
“I might just do that.” I tried to pull my hand back, but he held it. “I just want to say… I’m damn sorry about your man… we all are… but thank you for keeping Willow safe.”
I nodded as he released my hand. It’d been nearly a week since we buried Packard. Willow was more like her old self, and my grief had morphed into a grim determination.