Page 9 of Bones and Ashes

But Savannah Ashby doesn't take hints well. Never has. So I'm calling her back.

It goes to voicemail, exactly like I knew it would. Destiny always was slippery—showed up when she wanted, disappeared when she didn't. The Kane family specialty, apparently.

"Hey, Destiny," I say after the beep, keeping my voice light and warm. "It's Savannah. I got your number from Legion. I just... I'd really love to talk sometime, if you're up for it." I pause, balancing precariously on the line between casual and desperate. "No pressure at all. Just thought it would be nice to catch up. Anyway. You can call me anytime."

I hang up and set my phone down, staring at the screen until it goes dark. Then I go back to my breakfast, watching the syrup make slow patterns across my plate.

I want Colt back. I want him to bring Destiny and the baby. I want to set up a nursery in the east wing where the light is softest. I want Sunday dinners with all of us around this giant oak table that's witnessed a century of Ashbys figuring out how to be a family.

I want the impossible—to have my broken brother and Legion's broken sister both heal enough to let us all try again.

But that's just the beginning.

I need them home if any of this is going to work.

And just as I'm thinkin' this, my phone buzzes on the table, lighting up with Destiny's name.

I exhale.

It's relief, this exhale.

And then I press answer…

CHAPTER 3

The dust is everywhere. Thick clouds billowin' up on the other side of the gate. And as it begins to settle a picture emerges.

Bikes. At least fifty or sixty of them. Fat cruisers with weathered leather saddlebags, choppers with handlebars reachin' for the sky. Every kind of bike you can think of. Each of them caked in dust, wearin' it like a badge.

My eyes are on June as she slowly unbuckles her skullcap and takes it off. She tucks it under her arm and lets out a long breath. I can't hear it over the thunderin' rumble of motors, but I see it.

She's sittin' on a Triumph.

Not one of the reproductions. Not a retro build. An actual pre-unit 650, hardtail frame, solo seat on coil springs, tank the color of old blood.

I've seen maybe three of these in my life and two of them were in museums.

Somebody built this for her.

Somebody who knew what they were doin' and had thirty years to do it right.

Every other bike in that dust cloud is thunder. Hers is a bark. Tight. Mean. A rifle shot in a room full of shotguns.

And I realize I've been readin' this wrong. Sons of Dust didn't bring her here.

She brought them.

She's flanked tight. Older man on her left, big fucker with a gray beard hangin' to his chest and forearms like oak branches.

But it's the younger one on her right that's drawin' my eye.

He's wearin' leathers with a president patch, skull-cap helmet painted with a red and black dust devil design.

He pulls his helmet off, and a mess of blond hair falls free. His eyes are blue, I can see 'em even from twenty feet away.

"Oh shit," Diesel mutters beside me, voice tight.

"What?" I ask, not even turnin' my head. Can't break this starin' contest if I wanted to.