When Buck didn’t respond, Ghost smirked. “You got that look on your face again, brother.”
“What look?” Buck asked.
“The one that says you’ve already decided to fix something that ain’t yours to fix,” Ghost assessed.
Buck shot him a flat, unimpressed glance. “She was half-frozen out there, and going out on those roads is suicide. I had no choice but to insist that she stay the night. You’d have done the same.”
Ghost knocked back the rest of his drink. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t be pacing like a man bit by his own conscience after.”
Buck ignored the jab, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself another without spilling a drop. He was always so neat and measured.
“Is she really with the government?” Ghost asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Wildlife Services. Said she’s looking into who’s poaching wolves around here,” Buck said.
“Hell,” Ghost muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Rhett used to handle that stuff.”
“Used to,” Buck said, voice low. “She asked for him by name, so I’m guessing that he had agreed to help her.” Ghost stared at the wood grain on the bar for a long moment. The noise of laughter and music had faded; most of the men had cleared out, leaving only the hum of the generator and the storm’s growl outside.
“I still see it, you know,” Ghost murmured finally. “The way we found him. Half-buried, like the snow wouldn’t even take him.” Buck said nothing. The silence between them became cold and sharp. They both carried Rhett’s ghost—the third man who’d kept them from killing each other more than once. The one who’d died when the club got too deep in northern territory routes they shouldn’t have touched.
“You think it was the other crew?” Ghost asked quietly.
“I think it doesn’t matter anymore,” Buck admitted.
“The hell it doesn’t,” Ghost growled.
Buck’s voice cut through the air, low but final. “It matters that I keep this club alive until Gorgon gets back. I’m not dredging up a war that’s already frozen over.”
Ghost snorted, bitter. “There he is—the VP talking. You forget we still bleed like humans, or did that ride up here train it out of you?” Buck met his stare then, and for a heartbeat Ghost remembered the man he used to follow—the one who’d shielded them under fire in Thunder Creek, dragged half the club through a blizzard with busted ribs, never once complaining. The same man now lived like the ice had crawled inside him and stayed.
“I didn’t forget anything,” Buck said. “I just learned when to stop feeding ghosts.”
Ghost gave a humorless laugh. “Funny. You feed me every time you pour me a drink.”
“At least you got the manners to come back alive,” Buck muttered.
That stung. Ghost leaned back on the stool, staring up at the low ceiling beams. “You always did talk prettier when you were mad.”
Buck grunted, half amusement and half warning. The silence grew again, thick as smoke, comfortable in a strange way—the kind of quiet shared only by men who’d bled for the same colors and the same wrong reasons. But something new moved under it tonight, something neither of them wanted to think about. Her—Wren Callahan.
Ghost had seen plenty of women over the years. Pretty, dangerous, clever, broken—he’d taken comfort and distraction where he could find it. But she wasn’t like that. She hadn’t flinched when fifty patches stared her down, hadn’t begged or pleaded or even softened her tone. She’d just stood there, small, fierce, and refusing to back down from either of them.
“You saw the way she looked at you,” Ghost said after a minute. Buck didn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tickedonce. “She’s watching you like she’s studying a wild animal,” Ghost pressed on, a faint smile curling his mouth. “And I think you like it.”
“You’re drunk,” Buck said evenly.
“Not drunk enough,” Ghost replied. He took another drag on his cigarette, the ember flaring. He tilted his head as his eyes narrowed. “Tell me something, Buck. You ever wonder if maybe you keep saving people because you couldn’t save her?” The words hung there. Sharp, cruel, but true.
Buck froze halfway through his next pour. For a moment, Ghost thought he’d crossed the line enough to earn him a punch. Instead, Buck set the bottle down and stared at it like the glass might break under his hand. “Leave the past where it is,” Buck said quietly.
Ghost exhaled a sigh. “The past ain’t what I’m worrying about.”
“Then what are you going on about, Ghost?” he asked.
He tapped his ashes into an empty bottle. “That woman upstairs. You think she’s just gonna walk away when the roads clear? She’s got questions. She’s got Rhett’s name, government creds, and a streak of courage wide enough to get her killed. You keep her close, and every man we’ve run off this land’s going to smell that weakness on you.”
Buck turned slowly, his eyes dark and steady. “There’s no weakness in protecting what’s under our roof.”
