Shadow drops into the chair beside me and slides a fresh cup of coffee across the table without a word.
I take it.
He doesn’t need to ask how I take it—black, no sugar, same as always.
Years of brotherhood and the man knows my coffee order better than he knows his own shoe size.
“Bay’s looking rough,” he says quietly.
“He’ll come around.”
“Grace says the hooves need specialist work.”
“Grace says a lot of things.”
Shadow’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “She’s usually right.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
He studies me for a second.
That quiet assessment he does—the one where he’s checking my temperature without making a thing of it.
Shadow’s the only person who gets away with it because he earned the right.
He was there the night Rose died.
Drove me to the wreck.
Slept on my couch.
Stood beside me at the funeral and didn’t say a single useless word.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry.
Just watches and waits and trusts me to keep my own shit together.
Most days I manage it.
Phantom calls the room to order.
Business is light today—a run scheduled for next weekend that needs route planning, some maintenance on the south gate, a fundraiser the club’s sponsoring for the county fire department.
Normal stuff. Peacetime operations. No rival MCs breathing down our necks, no wars on the horizon.
The alliance with the Reapers Rejects and the Mojave Wolves is holding solid.
For the first time in years, the biggest threat facing the Shotgun Saints is a broken fence line and a horse with bad feet.
I should be grateful for the quiet.
Instead it just gives the noise in my head more room.
Phantom runs through the rest of the agenda.
I half-listen, taking notes on the run logistics—routes, fuel stops, formation, the usual Road Captain duties that keep my brain occupied and my hands useful.
Then someone mentions needing help with the annual barbecue—plates, setup, entertainment—and Spur volunteers before pausing.
