I’m twenty-two years old when I inherit what’s left of Duke’s empire.
Time passes slowly now that he’s gone. Will stays with me the rest of the summer, lending a hand, an ear, and anything else I need. But when summer leaves, so does he. It’s just until Thanksgiving—I’ve promised to spend Christmas with him and his family on the coast—but his absence makes me ache, all the same.
At first, everything’s hard. Like slogging through knee-deep mud. Running the legit businesses is almost as difficult as keeping a hold on the darker side of North County. But day by day, week by week, month by month, I learn, I manage. Cooper and Wayne are by my side, and I rely on Mo more and more until it becomes clear Jessa has to take over most of her duties at the Ruby. The Sons of Jefferson keep to their promise, and Paul’s more of a help than I expected, more of a businessman than I realized.
It’s almost November by the time I relax enough to think this might work. That I can do this.
Then I get a call in the middle of the night. It’s not on my regular cell, but the one whose number is given out to women who might need help.
I’m still awake because I don’t do much sleeping still, so I pick up on the second ring and leave Will, who’s come for the weekend, asleep in bed. I step over Busy snoring on the rug and walk out into the hallway.
“Hello?”
There’s a long pause, but I can hear breathing.
“This the McKenna?”
I don’t recognize the voice. It’s a woman’s. “Yes.”
“Exit six forty-eight on the Three. If you take the main road north ten miles, you’ll come to a dead end. Go east on foot. You’ll see the tracks. Follow them.”
I frown. “What am I looking for?” I ask.
“You’ll know it when you see it,” she says.
Another long pause. There’s a rustling sound. Is she running? She doesn’t sound out of breath.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“A friend,” she says. “They’re moving in. You need to take care of it.”
The line goes dead. I stare down at my phone.
“Harley?”
Will’s up. I look toward the bedroom.
“Coming,” I say.
I wait a day before I go searching. The first snow comes early this year, and when I get off on exit 648, I see that the road ahead hasn’t been plowed.
I take the road carefully—I never did like driving in the snow—and sure enough, in ten miles or so, there’s a dead end. I park my Chevy, shoulder my pack, and hop over the long chain that’s strung across the end of the road.
The forest is white-tipped and quiet, the sun filtering through the pines, making the snowy forest floor sparkle. My boots crunch as I move east, deeper into the forest.
I walk for hours, my legs and lungs burning from the effort of slogging through the snow. I’m just about to give up when I spot something in the distance—a disturbance in the smooth, untouched whiteness. I crest the hill at a jog, stopping dead when I make it to the top.
Tire tracks on a makeshift road, leading west.
My hand goes to my revolver tucked under my shirt in its holster, and I start to move slower, more cautiously. It takes another mile of following the tracks, but eventually the rough road they’ve cut through the forest opens up to a natural valley between the mountains.
I stay hidden behind the timberline, scrambling up one of the pines for a better vantage point. I pull my scope out of my pocket and focus it on the valley below.
And there they are: three trailers grouped in a triangle, with blacked-out windows and at least four sets of footprints in the snow.
I wait there, high in the trees, patient, gaining energy from the cold bite in the air. I start sketching it out in my mind: a new plan. To catch the runners, I’ll need guys stationed at all four corners of the valley and more on the road through the woods.
The triangle formation of the trailers makes it a little tricky. When they’re ambushed, the cooks might use the trailers as cover. But that’s risky, using meth labs as armor. One spark in the wrong place, and you’re done for.
One of the trailer doors bangs open, and a man steps out.
He’s wearing a gas mask and those white coveralls that zip up over your clothes.
My stomach clenches. This is organized.
Professional.
“Take off the mask and let me see you,” I whisper under my breath, staring at him through the scope. His arms are covered; I can’t see any tats.
He pulls the mask off.
White. Shaved head. I focus in and see it: the 88 tattoo on his neck.
Fucking neo-Nazis. Looks like they’re moving in.
And looks like my mystery woman on the phone—whoever she is—isn’t too happy about it. I don’t blame her. They’re the worst kind of scum. You steep yourself in that kind of hate, there’s no redemption.
Duke used to say they should be put down like rabid dogs, and my fingers itch to do just that. I bite my lip hard against the urge.
I wait until he pisses and goes back inside the trailer, then I slip down the tree and head back to my truck. I’m mindful of my tracks, worried they might see them when they head out.
When I reach my Chevy, I’m sweaty and I’ve got my jacket tied around my waist. I slick back a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my braid, climb into the cab, and grab the bottle of water I left there, guzzling it down.
Turning back to the highway, I head toward home. I should call Cooper and Paul, let them know what I’ve seen, but I wait. For now.
I’m halfway home when red and blue lights flash in my rearview. Before I pull over onto the shoulder, I gun the engine, just to be an ass.
I roll down my window and stick my arm out, waiting for the telltale crunch of boots on snow.
“Deputy,” I say.
“Harley,” she replies.
I look up at Frankie. Running for office looks good on her. Gone are the bouncy ponytail and fluffy bangs. Nowadays, she’s all sleek braids and strong shoulders.
“Heard Harris was thinking about dropping out of the race,” I say in a conversational tone.
“That’s the rumor,” Frankie answers with a shrug. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She pauses, her voice lowers even though there’s no one around to hear us. “Was that tip you got solid?”
I nod. “It’s the Aryans. I didn’t recognize the one I saw. I don’t think they’re from around here. But they’re pros.”
“Sacramento branch?” Frankie suggests.
“Maybe. Or Southern Oregon. I tracked them to a spot about eight miles east from the trailhead, deep in the pines. Three trailers set up. Not that big, but not that small, either. And winter’s almost here. The rangers have already cut hours so they’ll have enough left in the budget to pay for fire watch this summer. So these people aren’t gonna have anyone bothering them out here for a while—and they know it.”
“They’ll have all winter to expand and train their guys.” Frankie taps her fingers against the edge of my window.
“Not if we let them know how unwelcome they are.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know how you’re going to do that?” she asks.
“Do you ever?”
She sighs. It’s taken her a while to come around. But she has. And so have I.
In some ways, at least.
“No killing,” she says.
“No killing,” I agree.
“Let me know if you need anything.” She turns back to her patrol car.
“Let me know when Harris drops out,” I call back.
“He’s not gonna,” Frankie says.
Even if he doesn’t, she’s going to beat him. I don’t know how to fix a ballot box, but I do know how to play the people, which is just as good, maybe better.
She drives off, heading toward town, toward that bright future and all that power I’m gonna make sure she has waiting for her.
It’ll always be risky having her around, because I can’t control her, not really.
But she can’t control me either. So we’ll circle…and sometimes we’ll be on the same side; sometimes we won’t.
She’s the best for the county, for the town. She can keep the law there.
But in the backwoods, she can’t, and we both know it. The backwoods never forget and rarely forgive. It was Duke’s domain, and now it’s mine.
As I pull back onto the highway, I keep my window rolled down. The temperature’s dropping each night as we head into winter. The cold air’s crisp in my face, and I breathe in deep, the smell of the forest in my hair, on my skin.
Will and Busy are waiting for me at home. It makes me smile just thinking about it. Him and home. Someday, there’s gonna be the sound of little feet to match the scratch of paws on the wood floors. There’ll be picnics at the park with the Rubies, where punch and the smell of tri-tip fills the air, and the kids run around in the grass, laughing. There’ll be holidays in Hoopa with his family, and Will’s hand will be at my back, always near.
I’ll get Frankie elected because McKennas don’t lose, and together we’ll build something new. It won’t be all good and it won’t be all bad, but it’ll be better than Duke and Springfield’s world.
There’ll be nights when I don’t come home when I’m supposed to. Nights when Will has to wonder if I’ll make it home at all. Nights when I can’t talk about what I’ve done as he helps clean off the blood.
I will become a troubled whisper on the wind. A rumor only the brave seek out. A shadowy figure in the woods who protects her people, who guards the land.
I will love the good parts of Duke I remember and hate the bad parts that haunt me and mourn all the parts of him and Momma and Jake that are dead and buried.
I will keep Duke’s lessons close to my heart, but never in it.
I will move forward: Eyes on the target. Hands steady. Aim true.
Only way, Harley-girl.