Chapter 13: A Quiet Saturday
The desert sun climbed over the rusted ridgeline, burning the early morning frost off the top of my truck cab before most of the trailer park had even begun to stir. I sat on the splintered edge of Clara’s front porch with a black coffee that tasted mostly of chicory and stale grounds, watching a pair of mourning doves pick through the gravel near the propane tank. My shoulders felt heavy, the kind of deep, satisfying ache that comes from honest work rather than the restless tension of a hundred miles of interstate highway. Inside the trailer, the muffled thump of a small foot hitting the linoleum floor told me Leo was awake. A moment later, the screen door groaned on its rusty spring, and the boy stepped out, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. He had his mother’s thin wrists and straight hair, but when he looked up at me with those wide hazel eyes, the resemblance was undeniable.
"Morning, Jax," he mumbled, his voice still rough with sleep as he pulled the old worn zipper of his blue windbreaker up to his chin.
"Morning, partner," I said, sliding an inch to the side to give him room on the wooden bench. "Sleep alright?"
"The roof didn't leak," he said, stating it like a major engineering victory as he sat down beside me and hooked his heels through the bottom rung of the porch rail. "Mom’s still making coffee. She’s got that look on her face like she’s mad at the water heater again."
"Water heater’s a stubborn piece of iron," I agreed, taking a slow sip from my tin mug. "Takes a firm hand and a pipe wrench to convince it to cooperate."
Clara appeared behind the screen a second later, holding two mismatched mugs and pushing the door open with her hip. Her hair was pulled back in a loose clip, and though her skin still had that pale, translucent quality that worried me, the dark circles under her eyes weren't quite as deep as they had been a week ago. She handed one of the mugs down to Leo, who took it carefully with both hands, blowing across the surface before taking a tiny, cautious sip. She didn't hand the other to me directly; she set it down on the top rail of the porch within arm's reach, her fingers brushing lightly against the weathered wood before she pulled her hand back and wrapped both arms around herself against the morning chill.
"Big Jim and Cruz are gone for good," I said, breaking the silence before it could settle too heavy between us. "Saw them heading east toward the county line just as the light was coming up over the mesas. They aren't coming back."
Clara let out a long, slow breath that plumed white in the crisp air. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, looking out past the parked cars toward the open stretch of desert where the highway cut like a gray ribbon through the sagebrush. "You sound pretty sure of that, Jax. Men like that don't usually let go of a patched rider without making a point."
"They made their point," I said, setting my mug down and resting my forearms on my knees. "And I made mine. We’re square. What matters now is what’s right here."
Leo looked up from his coffee, his gaze shifting quickly between the two of us with a sharpness that reminded me of myself at twice his age. He didn't say anything, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper—the same paper he had handed me across the counter at Miller’s Diner days ago—and began creasing and uncreasing the corner with his thumb. It was an old habit, one I recognized instantly from the mirror every time I got restless on the road.
"We need to get some groceries," Clara said softly, breaking the quiet. "The pantry’s down to flour and canned peaches. If you’re staying another day, you’re eating what’s in the house, but by Monday we’ll need to make a run into town."
"I’ve got the truck," I said, standing up and stretching my back until the joints popped in the dry morning air. "And I’ve got cash that doesn't belong to the club treasury. Let’s all go. We can stop by the diner, let Martha see that Leo’s still eating real food."
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Clara looked at me for a long moment, her eyes searching my face for any sign of the old itch—the sudden urge to fire up the engine and vanish down the blacktop before the sun reached its peak. When she didn't find it, a faint, tentative smile touched the corner of her mouth, small and real as a desert wildflower pushing up through the cracked clay.
"All right," she said quietly. "Let's go to town."
