“Mom says we have to leave tonight,” she whispered. “But I hoped Dad’s brothers might still find me.”
The words landed heavily.
Daniel crouched beside the motorcycle so they were closer to the same height. Up close, he saw that the ribbon was not ordinary fabric. A faded emblem had been stitched near one end—a black lighthouse surrounded by silver wings.
It was the old symbol of the Iron Harbor Riders.
Daniel reached toward it but waited until the girl nodded before touching the fabric.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was in my dad’s jacket.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Michael Cole.”
Daniel’s fingers went still.
For several seconds, the sounds around Mel’s Diner seemed to disappear. The passing cars, the hum of the neon sign, and the clatter from the kitchen faded beneath the name.
Michael Cole had ridden with Iron Harbor for nine years.
The club called him Lantern because he never allowed anyone to remain lost for long. If a rider broke down after midnight, Michael arrived with tools. If a family needed food, he left grocery bags on the porch without signing his name. When younger members became angry, Michael listened until they remembered what kind of men they wanted to be.
He had died three years earlier after a delivery truck crossed the center line on a rain-covered highway.
Daniel had attended the funeral with eighty-seven riders.
He remembered Michael’s widow standing beneath a black umbrella with a small girl holding her hand. The child had been five then, too young to understand why hundreds of adults spoke softly whenever they looked at her.
“Your name is Emma,” Daniel said.