I hate it. It’s not the Ridge I’ve come to know. I don’t like that he is pitying me, but it’s been a blessing. He fields all questions from others. He handled the funeral since my father had apparently been prepared and arranged and paid for everything.
Really, it left me with nothing to do but mourn the man I loved so much. It has been a weight off my shoulders.
Now, I watch the man I once looked at with disdain as he does what I’m not brave enough to do. He stands up to tell the room about my father.
“Mustang was my mentor. He often told me I was like a son to him. He took me under his wing when I joined the MC and showed me the ways the brotherhood could enhance my life. The time he spent molding me into the man I am today was in abundance. I never truly understood why he did it, but he saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself. I came to Mountain River MC as an angry kid just out of high school. I thought joining an MC would make me a badass who could work out his anger within the MC. Mustang showed me that I was wrong. Anger isn’t meant to be worked out in a violent way. It’s meant to be examined and understood. Now, that’s not to say I didn’t sometimes get into trouble. Lord, did Mustang ream my ass for it like a father would, but he also taught me compassion.Mercy. Love. Loyalty. He showed me what it means to be a man. I know many of you have your own stories about Mustang. That was the kind of man he was. He always wanted to help others. He liked making friends and being social. The man would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, even if he didn’t know you from Adam. He was a one-of-a-kind person. A soul the world will dearly miss. Until we can ride again on the other side, brother.” Ridge presses a kiss to his fingers, then holds them up to the sky.
My eyes are filled with tears at his words. Sure, I knew Ridge was always around, but I never knew what my father truly meant to him. The fact that he saw my father in that way... That has me feeling some sort of feelings I don’t want to process. I think I may be softening toward the guy, which can’t be right.
I hate him.
When he comes back and sits next to me, I don’t look at him. He doesn’t acknowledge me other than to hand me a tissue. I take it, wiping my eyes before focusing on the next person heading up to the platform.
I keep doing this until everyone has had a chance to speak. Once the pastor releases us, everyone heads outside, but I don’t. I head up to the urn next to where everyone spoke.
I can feel eyes on me, but I ignore them.
“You were the best dad. I know I wasn’t always easy to deal with, but I never once felt unloved. I always knew you would be there for me. No matter what I did, I knew that you would still love me at the end of the day, even if you were also disappointed in me. I know you always struggled knowing that I did not have a mom, but I didn’t need one. Not when you were there to love me enough for the both of you. I hate that you are gone, but I am grateful you are no longer in pain. I hope you have found your peace because you deserve it more than anyone. I love you, Daddy.”
I choke on a sob on the last words. A moment later, arms are around me, holding me to a broad chest.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. He only offers silent comfort as I let all my feelings out.
When I finally am able to catch my breath, I pull back. Ridge is there, wiping my tears away as he looks at me with concern.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
He nods. “Ride back to the clubhouse with me?”
It’s unusual. Men don’t let women who aren’t family or theirs on the back of the bike. While my father considered Ridge a son, he was never family to me. Not really.
I rode here with Maggie in her car. I should go back with her too.
This might be your last chance on a bike.
The thought enters my head unexpectedly, making a whole new set of emotions surge forward.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod.
He wraps his arm around me before walking toward the exit. He stops briefly at the pastor.
“Panther will be picking up the ashes before he leaves. He wanted to give everyone ample time to say their goodbyes,” he murmurs to the man.
“Of course. I’ll be praying for all of you.”
I want to snort and ask him what a prayer is going to do now. He’s already dead. We can’t bring him back to life.
I don’t, though. Even in my state of mourning, I know that would be rude. The pastor is only trying to be kind.
“Miss Wilson,” a man calls as soon as I step out of the church.
I look over to see a man I don’t recognize.
“Yes? Can I help you?” My tone is snippy, but my social battery is at zero.
I am drained. Emotionally and physically.
“I’m your father’s lawyer, Mr. Cohen. We need to speak urgently about your father’s will. I’m sorry, but it cannot wait any longer,” the man says.
