Page 5 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

"You can't stay here," she argues, her voice rising in frustration. "I don't have a guest room. I don't have a team of bodyguards. I have a honey shed and a farmhouse that hasn't had the heat fixed since my grandfather died."

"I don't need heat."

"I work eighteen-hour days."

"I don't sleep."

She lets out a sharp breath. The sound hits me like a fist. She turns fully away, grabbing the smoker and pumping the bellows. Sweet-smelling pine smoke billows over the open hive. She uses the smoke to drive the remaining bees down into the frames, then grabs the wooden lid and drops it into place.

"Do whatever you want," she mutters. "Just stay out of my way."

She grabs the handle of her wagon and starts hauling it up the hill toward a small, weathered wooden structure. The honey shed. A single window faces the mountain ridge. The structure leans slightly to the left, battered by years of mountain storms, but standing firm. Just like her.

I watch her walk away. The sway of her hips under the bulky canvas suit. The determined, exhausted set of her shoulders.

My jaw locks. Heat crawls up my neck. The three bees finally lift off my hand, buzzing back toward their wooden home.

I’m never leaving this mountain.

Gravel crunches at the bottom of the long driveway. The unmistakable rumble of a modified diesel engine breaks the quiet hum of the apiary. A battered truck hauls itself up the incline, pulling to a stop right in front of the farmhouse.

Mac.

The retired military mechanic cuts the engine. He steps out of the cab, his boots hitting the dirt with a thud. He doesn't look at me immediately. He walks to the bed of the truck, unlatches the tailgate, and hauls out a folded military-issue canvas cot. He carries it up the wooden steps of the farmhouse and drops it on the porch.

Next comes a brick-heavy tactical radio. It lands on the railing with a solid clack.

Finally, he reaches into the cab and pulls out three fully loaded extended magazines of 9mm ammunition. He walks up the steps and sets them neatly beside the radio. Black steel gleaming against the weathered wood.

Mac turns. He looks down the hill at the hive line. He looks at me standing there, wearing no protective gear, surrounded by the hum of thousands of agitated insects. He looks at my bare hands.

He doesn't say a damn word about the missing veil. He doesn't mention the lack of distance between me and the beekeeper. He doesn't ask if I'm coming back to the bunkhouse.

Mac just snorts softly. A quiet, knowing sound. He shakes his head, turns around, gets back in his truck, and drives off.

The club knows. The brotherhood always knows when the fire catches. They sent Mac to drop the supplies because Logan knew the second I laid eyes on this woman, the evacuation order was dead.

I walk up the hill. The high-altitude wind bites through my plain black t-shirt, carrying the chill of the coming evening. The sun is beginning to dip behind the jagged peaks of the western ridge, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the meadow.

I reach the porch. The farmhouse is old, the white paint peeling in long strips. The wood groans under my boots. I grab the canvas cot and snap it open, the fabric pulling taut with a sharp crack. I set it against the wall, right beside the front door. The ultimate chokepoint. Nothing gets through that door without stepping over my dead body.

The relief of that fact is staggering.

All my life, the violence inside me had no container. I fought in the dirt, I bled in the clubhouse ring, I took assignments that required broken bones and shattered teeth, but there was never a reason behind it. I was just angry. A stray dog snapping at the air.

Now, I have a door to guard.

I sit on the edge of the cot. I pull the Ka-Bar knife from my boot sheath. The steel is cold. I slide it under the thin canvas pillow. I pick up the three magazines and stack them within arm's reach. I turn on the tactical radio, twisting the volume dial down to a low, barely audible static hiss. Channel four. The club frequency.

Down the hill, the door to the honey shed opens.

Susan steps out. She’s finally stripped off the bulky canvas suit and the mesh veil. She’s wearing worn, faded jeans and an oversized wool sweater. Her hair is dark, messy, pulled into a knot at the base of her neck. Stray strands stick to her cheek, caught in a smear of golden honey and dirt.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The breath stops. The bond hums louder, a frantic demand behind my sternum. My hands grip the edge of the cot. The wood splinters slightly under my fingers.

She locks the padlock on the honey shed door. She turns and walks up the hill toward the farmhouse. She sees me sitting on the cot. She sees the cot. The radio. The magazines of ammunition.