The office had smelled like leather and expensive coffee.
Dempsey had folded his hands on the desk.
"Walter, nobody wants this to become unpleasant."
Walter had stared at him.
"You've been sending me letters twice a month."
"Because the loan is overdue."
"I've been paying."
"Not enough."
Walter had clenched his jaw.
"I've paid every month for thirty-two years."
"And you've also refinanced several times."
"Because of the hospital."
Dempsey had sighed.
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
Dempsey's expression had hardened.
"The farm isn't producing enough."
Walter looked down.
"I know."
"You need to be realistic."
"What do you want?"
Dempsey leaned back.
"The land is worth considerably more than its agricultural value."
Walter immediately understood.
"Developers."
Dempsey smiled.
"There's interest."
Walter's hands trembled.
"My family has lived there since 1951."
"Sentiment doesn't pay a mortgage."
Walter looked directly at him.
"My wife is buried on that land."
Dempsey's smile disappeared.
"That is unfortunate."
Walter had left without another word.
Now, three weeks later, foreclosure notices were arriving.
The first had been frightening.
The second had been humiliating.
The third had simply made Walter tired.
That evening, after returning home, he fed Duke and ate a piece of cold toast.
He stood at the kitchen counter.
The house was dark.
The wind rattled the windows.
Walter looked toward Eleanor's chair.
"Ninety-three dollars today," he whispered.
Duke lifted his head.
Walter swallowed.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this."
He looked at the photograph in his hand.
Then toward the dark hallway.
"Nobody'd notice."
His voice cracked.
"If I just stopped..."
He looked down.
"Nobody would even notice."
Outside, the wind began to howl.
And far beyond Cedar Hollow, on the highway, another sound was approaching.
Deep.
Heavy.
Mechanical.
A motorcycle engine.
Then another.
And another.
Walter heard them before he saw them.
A long line of headlights moved through the darkness.
He had no idea that before the week was over, those men on motorcycles would change his life.
And Cedar Hollow would finally discover that the people it feared were not always the people it should have feared.
The Storm
The storm arrived Tuesday night.
By four in the afternoon, the sky had turned purple.
By five, the first drops struck the windows.
By six, the wind had become violent.
Walter stood at the kitchen window watching the trees bend.
Duke whined.
"I know."
Walter checked the weather radio.
Freezing rain.
Strong winds.
Possible power outages.
Walter sighed.
He had lived through worse.
Blizzards.
Tornado warnings.
Floods.
Farm fires.
The great winter storm of 1978.
He had survived them all.
But surviving alone was different.
At 7:18, the electricity went out.
The farmhouse fell into darkness.
Walter found his flashlight.
"Duke?"
The dog was beside him.
"Good boy."
He lit two oil lamps Eleanor had bought decades ago.
The wind struck the house.
The walls creaked.
Walter checked the windows.
One in the upstairs bedroom had begun leaking.
He climbed the stairs slowly.
Halfway up, his knee gave a sharp warning.
He stopped.
Breathed.
Then continued.
At the window, he pushed an old towel against the frame.
Outside, rain was turning to sleet.
The fields disappeared behind sheets of gray.
Then came a loud crack.
Walter looked outside.
One of the old oak trees had fallen across the driveway.
"Great."
He descended.
At the front door, he put on his coat.
Duke barked.
"I'm not going far."
Walter opened the door.
The wind nearly knocked him backward.
He stepped outside.
The cold cut through his coat.
The oak had fallen exactly across the driveway.
Walter stared at it.
He couldn't move it.
He couldn't even imagine how.
He closed his eyes.
For one moment, he felt completely defeated.
Then he heard engines.
Not one.
Several.
The sound grew louder.
Walter turned toward the highway.
Headlights emerged through the rain.
Motorcycles.
A convoy.
Six.
Then eight.
Then twelve.
The riders slowed as they approached the fallen tree.
Walter stood beneath the porch roof.
The motorcycles stopped.
Men climbed off.
Leather jackets.
Heavy boots.
Gloves.
Helmets.
They looked exactly like the people Cedar Hollow feared.
One of them walked toward the farmhouse.
He was enormous.
Gray beard.
Broad shoulders.
Black leather vest beneath a rain-soaked jacket.
A patch on his back read:
IRON WOLVES MOTORCYCLE CLUB
Walter's first instinct was to retreat.
The man stopped several feet away.
"Evening."
Walter nodded.
"Evening."
"You all right?"
Walter looked behind him.
"I'm fine."
The biker glanced at the fallen tree.
"That yours?"
Walter almost laughed.
"No. The county sends trees here to inconvenience me personally."
The biker stared.
Then laughed.
A deep, warm laugh.
"Fair enough."
He removed his gloves.
"I'm Marcus."
Walter hesitated.
"Walter."
Marcus extended his hand.
Walter shook it.
The biker's grip was firm but careful.
Marcus looked at the farmhouse.
"Anybody else inside?"
"Just my dog."
"Family?"
Walter paused.
"My wife died six years ago."
Marcus nodded.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't say anything else.
That mattered.
Most people said something useless after hearing about Eleanor.
Marcus simply accepted the grief as if it were a fact that deserved respect.
Then he turned toward the other riders.