I straightened my shoulders and said, “We’ll go at noon. That way, the whole town can see we’re not hiding.”
The brothers nodded, and even Ransom got serious. “You want us armed?”
“Only with pens,” I said, grinning. “And maybe a notary stamp.”
The meeting ended with less chaos than I expected. The brothers dispersed to change into “court clothes,” which for the McKenzie clan meant plaid shirts with the least amount of visible blood or paint.
Aunt Georgia went to make sandwiches, and Pa sat by the window, staring out at the fields, probably thinking about whatit would be like to own them clear and free for the first time in decades.
That left Knox and me in the living room, the whiteboard still streaked with my terrible marker art, the air thick with everything unsaid.
He closed the space between us, one step at a time, until I could smell his skin and the faint trace of sweat that lived in his shirt collar. He reached up, hooked a finger under my chin, and tilted my face up to his.
“You did good, Bridger,” he said, voice low.
My insides went molten. “Thanks,” I mumbled. “Means a lot.”
He grinned, wide and wolfish. “Just wait till tonight. I’ll show you how much.”
I went red, again, but this time it felt like a medal. I’d earned it. Because tomorrow, for the first time in my life, I was going to walk into that bank and show my father—and everyone else—that I was here to stay.
And if I got to celebrate afterward by being thrown against a wall by the man I loved, well, that was just icing on the victory cake.
Chapter Fifteen
~ Newton ~
If you want to know what Hell smells like, it's a three-way blend of bank lobby coffee, industrial-strength air freshener, and existential dread. The taste is fear. The soundtrack is "On Hold" by whatever demon composes the music for regional financial institutions.
Knox’s hand at the small of my back was the only thing keeping me from levitating straight out of my own body. He said nothing, just pressed his palm there, warm and steady, and guided me through the glass doors of the McKenzie River Valley Community Bank like we were a couple and not two outlaws about to commit what I could only describe as a social felony.
I had worn the good jeans. Not just clean, but the kind that had never seen a farm animal or a spilled can of motor oil. Aunt Georgia had insisted on it, then triple-checked for lint. The white button-up—also Aunt Georgia’s choice—still smelled faintly of cedar and the kind of detergent that cost more per ounce than my childhood lunch allowance.
If I had to die today, at least I’d die looking like I belonged at a job interview. Or my own arraignment.
Sheriff Hardesty trailed behind us, hands on his belt, looking less like law enforcement and more like a man who had woken up at five AM to find out his best friend was involved in a hostage situation at the Waffle House. He radiated "I am here for procedural reasons only," which I appreciated.
The surprise guest was the FDIC rep. I had expected someone in a government suit, briefcase, maybe a generic badge. I had not expected a man who barely reached my shoulder, had hair the color of graphite pencil shavings, and wore a suit so aggressively blue it had to be a dare.
He introduced himself as “Mr. Mintz” with a voice that suggested his life’s passion was sending certified mail to people who deserved it.
We formed a weird, two-by-two group and made straight for the main counter. The lobby was empty except for the usual civilians—an elderly woman with a fistful of quarters, a kid using the free pens to draw dicks on deposit slips, and a man in a camouflage jacket who was either asleep or dead in a vinyl chair.
Knox’s hand flexed. “You good?” he asked, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.
“Define ‘good’,” I whispered. “If it means ‘not currently wetting myself,’ then, yes. If it means ‘not about to have a nervous breakdown in public,’ then… fifty-fifty.”
He smirked, and for a second it was like no one else in the room existed. “Remember to breathe,” he said, and then did that thing where his breath landed just behind my ear.
I nearly tripped over the welcome mat.
The manager—a woman with hair so white it hurt to look at, and an expression like she’d outlasted six economic recessions by sheer force of will—looked up from her computer.
She clocked us all in less than a second and then gave me a thin, professionally courteous smile. “Hello, Newton,” she said, and I realized, with a full-body cringe, that she had probably watched me eat paste in elementary school.
“Hi,” I said. “Uh, I’m here to pay off a loan. The—um—the farm’s mortgage. In full.”
If I’d thrown a grenade onto the desk, it might have generated less surprise. Her eyebrows went up, just a hair. “I see. Do you have an appointment?”
