"Guys."
Six men immediately approached the tree.
Within seconds, they were working.
No discussion.
No complaints.
One man produced a chainsaw.
Another brought rope.
Another moved branches.
Walter stood beneath the porch.
"You don't have to do that."
Marcus looked over his shoulder.
"Looks like somebody does."
The chainsaw roared.
Walter watched.
Twenty minutes later, the tree was cut into manageable sections.
Another ten minutes and the driveway was clear.
Walter stared.
He hadn't seen that much cooperation in Cedar Hollow in years.
"Thank you."
Marcus shrugged.
"Storm's bad."
"Where are you headed?"
"North."
"Why?"
"Charity run."
Walter frowned.
"In this?"
Marcus smiled.
"We're bikers, not smart people."
Walter laughed.
It surprised him.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed.
Marcus noticed.
He didn't mention it.
One of the riders approached.
"Marcus, we're losing daylight."
Marcus nodded.
Then looked toward Walter.
"You got enough firewood?"
"Probably."
"Probably isn't an answer."
Walter sighed.
"Not much."
Marcus turned around.
"Get the wood from his shed."
Walter protested.
"No, really—"
"Old man, let us help."
Walter stiffened.
"I can still work."
Marcus looked directly at him.
"I know."
Something in his tone softened the words.
"I didn't say you couldn't."
The men brought wood to the porch.
They checked the generator.
One repaired a loose connection.
Another secured the damaged window.
A third brought Walter two gallons of drinking water from his motorcycle trailer.
Duke followed them everywhere.
Eventually, Marcus stood at the bottom of the porch.
"Anything else?"
Walter shook his head.
"No."
Marcus studied him.
"Sure?"
Walter nodded.
Marcus started to turn.
Then Walter said, "Why?"
Marcus looked back.
"Why what?"
"Why help me?"
Marcus's face became serious.
"My father lived alone."
Walter waited.
"He died in winter."
Marcus swallowed.
"Nobody checked on him for three days."
The storm seemed suddenly quieter.
Marcus continued.
"I promised myself I'd never drive past somebody who needed help."
Walter looked at the man's vest.
The patch.
The reputation.
The town's fear.
Then he looked at Marcus.
"Your father..."
"His name was Arthur."
Walter nodded slowly.
"Good name."
Marcus smiled.
"Yeah."
The riders prepared to leave.
Walter stood beneath the porch light.
Before Marcus mounted his motorcycle, he called out.
"Walter."
"Yes?"
"Don't tell anybody we helped."
Walter frowned.
"Why?"
Marcus grinned.
"Ruins our reputation."
The men laughed.
Walter laughed too.
Then the motorcycles disappeared into the storm.
Walter stood there long after the taillights vanished.
Duke leaned against his leg.
For the first time in months, the farmhouse didn't feel completely empty.
But the next morning, Cedar Hollow would hear a very different version of what happened.
And Cole Dempsey would hear it too.
The Paper Trail
The rumor reached Cedar Hollow before breakfast.
According to one version, a gang of bikers had broken into Walter Briggs's property.
According to another, they had been drinking.
Someone claimed they had threatened a neighbor.
By nine o'clock, the story had become:
"Briggs has been associating with criminals."
Cole Dempsey heard about it in the bank.
He sat behind his desk while his assistant spoke.
"Some of those Iron Wolves were at his farm last night."
Dempsey removed his glasses.
"How many?"
"At least ten."
Dempsey leaned back.
"Interesting."
His assistant hesitated.
"Should we be concerned?"
"No."
Dempsey smiled.
"It may actually help us."
That afternoon, Walter received another letter.
He opened it at the kitchen table.
His hands shook.
The bank was accelerating foreclosure proceedings.
The reason listed was concern regarding "property condition, financial instability, and potential liability."
Walter stared at the words.
Potential liability.
He laughed bitterly.
"The house is a liability now."
Duke looked at him.
Walter folded the letter.
Then came a knock.
Walter opened the door.
Sheriff Ray Collins stood outside.
Walter knew him.
They had attended the same high school.
Ray was now sixty-one.
"Morning, Walter."
"Morning."
Ray looked uncomfortable.
"I need to ask you a few questions."
Walter stepped aside.
"Come in."
Ray entered.
He removed his hat.
"About last night."
"What about it?"
"Were there motorcycles here?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"Did they threaten you?"
Walter stared.
"No."
"Did they damage anything?"
"No."
"Did you invite them?"
"No."
Ray looked confused.
"Then why were they here?"
Walter almost smiled.
"They cleared my driveway."
Ray lowered his eyes.
"I see."
"Who told you otherwise?"
Ray didn't answer.
Walter understood.
"Cole."
Ray sighed.
"Walter..."
"You know me."
"Yes."
"You know I've never caused trouble."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Ray stood.
"Because people are nervous."
Walter's voice became quiet.
"People are always nervous when they don't understand someone."
Ray looked at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Ray said, "I'll tell them there was no incident."
Walter nodded.
"Thank you."
After Ray left, Walter went outside.
He walked to the barn.
Inside, everything reminded him of another life.
Eleanor's old gardening gloves.
His father's toolbox.
A rusted milk separator.
A faded photograph of Walter at twenty-two, standing beside his first tractor.
He sat on a wooden crate.
And cried.