Jo came around the front of the truck, wiping his face with a bandana. He took one look at me, then pulled me into a hug so tight it cracked my ribs.
“You did good,” he said again, voice softer now. “It’s over.”
But I knew better. Even with the McKenzies, even with the shotguns and trucks and the chain, nothing was ever really over. Not with people like Harley.
I pulled back, blinked away the sweat and glass from my eyes, and looked at the brothers. They watched me, silent, all of them waiting to see if I’d break or stand up straight.
I stayed standing.
Jo ran a hand down my arm, fingers finding the place where the glass had cut me. He touched the bandage, gentle, and I almost lost it.
Instead, I smiled, just a little.
The brothers relaxed, tension bleeding out of the group as they realized we’d made it, at least for now.
Knox clapped a hand on my back, nearly knocking the air out of me. “You ready to go home?” he asked.
I looked at Jo, then at the battered truck, then at the family waiting behind me. “Yeah,” I said, voice steady for the first time all day. “Let’s go home.”
And with that, we piled into the trucks—broken, bloodied, but alive. For the first time, I didn’t care what the road held ahead. I just wanted to see what came next.
The ride back to the homestead was a funeral procession in reverse—six battered pickups in tight formation, headlights blazing, every driver hungry for a fight that had already ended.
We tore up the last two miles of gravel, the trucks close enough that I could see the faces of my brothers in the side mirrors, mouths set and eyes gone hard with the afterburn of adrenaline.
The sky was deepening to purple when we hit the turnoff. The old mailbox, shotgun-pocked and listing, marked the start of the drive. I watched it flash past, then let my gaze drift up the long curve of the hill to the farmhouse, where every window was lit up against the dusk.
From the road, the place looked like something from an overproduced beer commercial: barn in silhouette, fields going gold in the dying light, two horses grazing in the near pasture, tails flicking at flies.
I tried to take it in, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My skin crawled with leftover fear, the glass splinters and dried blood a roadmap for every second I’d thought I was about to die.
Jo parked the truck at the foot of the porch, engine idling. He didn’t move to get out right away, just let the thrum of the motor fill the cab. I kept my eyes on the house, counting the shadows that moved behind the kitchen window.
“You ready?” he asked, voice soft.
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.
He opened his door, the dome light flickering on overhead. I reached for the handle on my side, but my fingers slipped, useless, until Jo came around and opened it for me. He put one hand under my elbow, steady and unhurried, and I let him pull me to my feet.
The chill in the air hit all at once. My teeth started to chatter, and I realized I was still only wearing the thin white tee I’d thrown on that morning—now torn at the shoulder, smudged brown-red around the collarbone where Jo’s blood had soaked through.
The breeze carried the smell of turned earth and wood-smoke, but over it all was the sharp tang of something burning. I looked down and saw that Jo was still bleeding, the cut at his temple leaking a fresh, bright line down his cheek.
I wanted to say something—anything—but my voice jammed up behind my tongue.
We barely made it three steps before the yard exploded with brothers.
Knox, boots crunching gravel, shotgun still in one hand, other arm outstretched to grab my shoulder. He checked me over with a look, eyes darting between my face and the wound on Jo’s, then said, “What the fuck happened?”
Ransom was right behind him, shirtless in the cold, chest inked with a new set of bruises that made the old ones look like finger-paints. He punched me lightly in the ribs, a weirdly affectionate move, and said, “Did you total the truck again? Jesus, Bo. Ma’s gonna lose her mind.”
Quiad didn’t say a word—he just wrapped me in a bear hug that lifted my feet off the ground, then set me back down like I was made of glass. He patted my hair, then walked off, handsin pockets, head down like he was trying to disappear into the house.
Harlow hovered at the porch steps, chewing on his thumb, huge and anxious. “You okay?” he called, voice soft as a barn cat.
I tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come.
The noise was deafening—everyone talking over each other, questions and accusations, Knox barking orders, Ransom cussing, Jo saying nothing but keeping his hand at my back, right between the shoulder blades.
