Preacher’s family’s campsite consisted of three successive sites. A lone pop-up trailer sat in the center, and behind it, a robin’s-egg blue Chevy van was parked amid a handful of motorcycles. Tents had been erected in every direction, ranging in size from single-person to large enough to house a family of four. A short distance from the trailer several picnic tables had been pushed together, their benches currently brimming with bodies.
Debbie swallowed back her surprise. Even after realizing Preacher’s family was here, she hadn’t anticipated that a bona fide army awaited her.
As their small group neared the picnic tables, Debbie’s anxiety reached its boiling point. She envisioned more eyes on her, studying her, judging her, wondering who she was and what she was doing with Preacher. Her late lunch swirled inside her gut and her palms grew sweaty.
A young man with long blond hair shot up off a bench. “Preacher!” he shouted, and the campsite went silent as everyone swivelled in their seats, turning their shocked and gaping expressions toward Preacher.
The picnic tables exploded. People jumped to their feet, cursing and shouting his name. A woman darted across the grass, her hand over her heart. “Damon!” she cried. “Oh God, Damon!”
She was a tall woman with wavy brown hair that hung thick and heavy to her waist. As she hurried across the campsite, her generous curves swayed and bounced beneath an orange and yellow sundress that billowed and swirled around her bare feet. Large, ornate earrings dangled from her ears, and a stack of silver and gold bangles lined each of her forearms. She was naturally beautiful and stunning in a way that reminded Debbie of Sunshine.
Who was this gorgeous creature? And why did Preacher look so happy to see her?
“Mom.” Preacher packed so much emotion into the lone word as he folded the woman into his arms. Debbie blinked, startled. This striking, bohemian woman was Preacher’s mother? She didn’t look like a mom, at least not any mom Debbie had ever known. Certainly not her own.
Debbie watched them embrace—a hug that seemed never-ending—and it caused swirls of envy to stir beneath her skin. The tiny twisters roused a maelstrom of emotions that swept through her like an unforgiving wind and sent her staggering back a step.
Her mother had never greeted her like that, never looked at her like Preacher’s mother was looking at him—with her hands on his cheeks, looking up at her son with such adoration, as if the sun rose and set in his eyes.
Hands clenched into fists, Debbie took another step back and released a shaky breath. It wasn’t that she was unused to seeing families. She saw them often quite often in passing and paid them the same amount of attention they paid her—next to none. Certainly not to the point where she’d allow herself to become overwhelmed with feelings.
Deep breath after deep breath, Debbie slowly but surely steeled her emotions, forcing them back down to the darkness where they couldn’t hurt her.
“So, uh, are you and my brother, you know…”
Debbie’s head swiveled to find Max beside her, grinning slyly. He might share his brother’s good looks, but there was a world of difference between the two. Max’s gaze was too bright and full of youthful mischief, whereas Preacher’s was much darker, heavier, and filled with things Debbie recognized, things she’d glimpsed in her own reflection.
“He’s just giving me a ride,” she mumbled, turning away. She searched out Preacher, finding him surrounded by nearly everyone in camp. Only one man remained by the picnic tables—older, of stocky build, he was heavily muscled with salt-and-pepper hair cut into a high-and-tight. Thick arms folded over his broad chest, he watched the happy reunion through narrowed eyes.
He was Preacher’s father, she decided. He had the same distinctive jawline, the same proud nose and broad shoulders as his son. As both his sons, she silently amended, glancing sideways at Max. The resemblance was uncanny, despite Preacher and Max’s taller, leaner frames.
“And you are?” A touch to her arm startled Debbie. A spicy, sweet scent filled her nostrils.
Swallowing her surprise, she blinked up at Preacher’s mother. “I, uh… Debbie. My name is Debbie. But, um, Preacher calls me Wheels.”
The woman’s dark brows shot up, and Debbie was entranced by her eyes. Surrounded by fine lines, ringed in thick, dark lashes, they were a deep shade of gray reminiscent of the sky just before it rains.
“Wheels? Any particular reason he chose Wheels?”
Debbie lifted her shoulder. “He says it’s short for Hell on Wheels.”
Chuckling, the woman shook her head and placed a heavily bejewelled hand on her chest. Stacks of gold and silver rings encircled her fingers. “Oh my dear, on behalf of my son, I’m so sorry. Wheels… good grief, these boys and their nicknames.”
She continued on, still shaking her head. “I’m Evangeline. But you can call me Ginny—everyone else does. Or little Ginny, if you can believe that.” She laughed loudly, and Debbie decided that even her laugh—a deep, throaty feminine rumble—was nearly as beautiful as the woman herself.
“Preacher met her on 89,” Max interjected. “She’s headed for the city and hitched a ride with him.”
Ginny’s eyes widened, brightening with curiosity. “You’ll have to tell me more about yourself, Debbie. And you’ll have to forgive me for not calling you Wheels.” She winked at Max. “She’s much too pretty for a name like Wheels, isn’t she Maxwell?”
Grinning impishly, Max’s eyes slanted in Debbie’s direction. “Yeah, Ma. Way too pretty.”
Five minutes in Max’s presence and Debbie was already tired of him. She attempted a smile, managing only a slight baring of teeth—a reminder of just how rusty and untried she was when it came to interacting with other people.
But neither Max nor Ginny seemed to notice. Max continued to grin obnoxiously, leaving Debbie to wonder if it was the teenager’s only expression.
“Come, Debbie darling,” Ginny said, offering Debbie her arm. “And meet everyone.”
• • •
The introductions felt endless, and Debbie’s mind was soon spinning with names and faces. Aside from the three men she’d already met—Max, Tiny, and Doc—Ginny introduced her to Preacher’s other brother, Joe, and his pregnant wife, Sylvia. Joe, who was shorter and stockier like his father, wore a black eyepatch over his left eye and had been aptly nicknamed One-Eyed Joe. Debbie had hardly had time to wonder how he’d lost his eye when she was turned around to meet the others.
Palms clammy, heart pounding an uneven beat inside her chest, Debbie reluctantly allowed Ginny to parade her around the campsite, introducing her to person after person.
She met Doc’s wife June—a slim woman with indistinct features who seemed as quiet and reserved as her husband. And Whiskey Jim, an older man with a head full of white hair, and his much younger wife, Anne. Blonde and beautiful, Anne looked as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.
Best friends with Anne was Louisa. And the two women couldn’t have been more different. Whereas Anne was tall and slim, polished and well-dressed, Louisa was much shorter, curvier, and covered in tattoos. Wearing a ratty band tee and jeans, she was cuddled up to a biker named Crazy-8. Also heavily tattooed, Crazy-8 had a rough and tough appearance, contrasted by an easygoing smile.
She met Smokey and Knuckles next. Smokey, a middle-aged widower who had a look to him that gave Debbie the impression that he’d seen and done it all. And Knuckles, twenty-two years old with an unruly mass of blond curls framing his flirtatious smile, he wore a T-shirt that read in big, bold lettering: FUCK HAIRCUTS.
Faking smiles and shaking hands, Debbie began feeling strange and desperate. Everyone was mostly kind, if not overly so, but made no effort to hide their questions. They stared at her with blatant curiosity, their thoughts clear. Who was she? And what was she doing with Preacher?
Each new face added to her growing anxiety, worse because Preacher seemed to have abandoned her to Ginny.
Eventually Ginny led Debbie to the picnic tables, where Preacher’s father still stood at the head, stone-faced and unmoving. He was an intimidating-looking man, his stiff, unfriendly demeanor making him seem all the more threatening, even more so up close.
And he practically exuded authority, so much so that Debbie didn’t need to read the PRESIDENT patch on his leather vest to know that, among these people, this man was king.
“Gerald, honey.” Ginny placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “This is Debbie. She arrived with Damon.”
Gerald looked her up and down with a critical eye, as a buyer might look over a car they were considering purchasing. Finished, he glanced over at his wife, his mouth pressed into a thin, grim line, leaving Debbie feeling not quite sure she’d passed his inspection.
“This is what he’s been doing all this time?” Gerald bit out. “Messin’ with girls? He couldn’t have done this shit at home?”
“Gerry,” Ginny admonished quietly. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Gerald shot back. “He can’t just waltz back in here like nothin’ happened!”
Unsure of what to do, Debbie glanced down at her hands, suddenly very interested in her nails. She was contemplating slinking away when a familiar arm came down around her shoulders.
“You doin’ okay, Wheels?” Preacher gave her a crooked smile. “You look a little green.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She glanced longingly at her pack on his back, feeling naked without it. “Can I have my backpack?”
“Lie,” he retorted softly, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “And no. Can’t have you runnin’ off with my stuff.”
She met his gaze, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his stuff if he didn’t give her the bag back, only to find his attention was elsewhere. His eyes were locked with Gerald’s, and both father and son were wearing identical scathing expressions.
“The prodigal son returns,” Gerald said flatly.
“The prodigal son is just visiting,” Preacher amended tersely.
Gerald’s nostrils flared, his fists clenched, and if Preacher’s arm hadn’t been wrapped around her shoulders, Debbie would have backed away.
Clearing her throat, Ginny glanced nervously between her husband and son. “You must be hungry, Damon,” she said. “We have—”
“Yeah,” Gerald loudly interrupted, “you must be hungry. And while you’re eatin’ my food, why don’t you tell us what your plans are? Will you be comin’ home with us, or headin’ back to God only knows where to do God only knows what with God only knows who?” At that, Gerald gave Debbie a pointed, disapproving look.
Beside Debbie, Preacher had gone stiff. His arm resting on her shoulders grew rigid. All around them, the campsite fell quiet, and Debbie didn’t need to look to know that all eyes were now on them.
“Gerry,” Ginny snapped quietly, “please. He just got here.”
Gerald’s hard stare remained fixed on Preacher. “Still doesn’t change the fact that he just up and took off on us, been gone for months now with no word.”
Debbie looked to Preacher, a dozen questions brewing. If Preacher noticed her eyes on him, he’d didn’t show it. His attention remained on his father.
“Well?” Gerald growled. “What have you got to say for yourself, boy?”
Preacher’s arm fell away from Debbie’s shoulders, his angry expression turning downright murderous.
“This ain’t the army.” Preacher’s voice quivered with rage. “And I ain’t your fuckin’ soldier.”
Gerald’s thick salt-and-pepper brows drew together, deep grooves appearing between them. His nostrils continued to flare, faster and faster like tiny hummingbird wings. His suntanned skin appeared to darken, reddening with anger. And just when Debbie thought Gerald was going to quite literally explode, he spun away and stalked off across the campsite. There were several slams as he disappeared inside the trailer, followed by a worrisome crash and several shouted curses.
Also cursing, Preacher marched away in the opposite direction. Biting down on her bottom lip, Debbie stared blankly after him. What was she supposed to do?
“Damon!” Ginny called. She gestured wildly with her hands. “Dammit, someone follow him!”
“I got this!” Tiny declared, waving at Ginny as he hurried out of camp.
Debbie eyed the rest of the group. Knowing glances were being exchanged. Others shook their heads and rolled their eyes. It seemed this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence where Preacher and Gerald were concerned.
“Lord help me with fathers and sons,” Ginny muttered. Pulling a leather pouch from her dress pocket, she flicked it open, revealing the dark brown cigarettes inside. Long and slim, they smelled both spicy and sweet once lit.
Sighing, Ginny gave Debbie a small, strained smile. “You must be hungry.” She gestured to the picnic tables. “Let me make you a plate.”