Tonight was Meadow's engagement party.

Cyrus had almost stayed home.

Then Meadow had called him.

"Grandpa, please come."

So he had dressed carefully.

White shirt.

Dark jeans.

Church boots.

And the leather vest.

He had owned that vest since 1969.

It wasn't simply clothing.

It was history.

It was grief.

It was friendship.

It was family.

And sewn into its back was the symbol of the Black Hills Bison Motorcycle Club.

Cyrus had founded the club in the fall of 1969 with three other men:

Trxton Vog, a mining engineer.

Rhett Pomerine, a mechanic.

And Kestrel Elk, a Lakota rancher.

They hadn't founded a criminal organization.

They had founded a brotherhood.

Men who had returned from war.

Men who had lost people.

Men who didn't want to explain themselves every time they walked into a room.

The Bison gave them somewhere to belong.

Over fifty-six years, the club had grown.

Eleven chapters.

Three hundred and twelve patched members.

South Dakota.

North Dakota.

Wyoming.

Montana.

Most of those men had never met Cyrus.

But they knew his name.

Every chapter house carried a plaque.

CYRUS DELANEY — FOUNDER — 1969.

And every patched member wore the bison he had designed.

Cyrus had sewn the original patch himself.

At his kitchen table.

With a cheap needle and gold thread.

He had never imagined it would become a symbol recognized across four states.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Tonight, he was simply a grandfather trying to attend his granddaughter's engagement party.

The Patch

Cyrus slowly removed Trent's hand from his shoulder.

"Young man."

Trent looked at him.

"Yes?"

"I'm on the list."

"I heard you."

"My granddaughter is inside."

"I heard that too."

"Then why are we still having this conversation?"

Trent's jaw tightened.

"Because you're not dressed appropriately."

Cyrus looked through the glass.

Inside were men in expensive jackets.

Women wearing designer dresses.

People who had spent more on their clothes than Cyrus had spent on his truck.

He smiled faintly.

"You're right."

Trent seemed satisfied.

Cyrus continued.

"I'm probably overdressed."

Trent frowned.

Then Cyrus turned away.

He walked toward a wooden bench twenty feet from the entrance.

His hickory cane rested across his knees.

He stared at the neon sign inside.

DRINK WELL. LIVE BETTER.

A voice came from behind Trent.

"Trent."

It was Meadow.

She had seen everything through the window.

Her face had gone pale.

"Grandpa?"

Cyrus looked over.

"Sweetheart."

She rushed toward the door.

"What happened?"

Cyrus smiled.

"Nothing."

"But—"

"Nothing is happening."

He looked at Trent.

"This young man is doing his job."

Meadow stared at the bouncer.

Then at her grandfather.

She knew Cyrus.

She knew when he was angry.

And somehow, that was worse than if he had shouted.

Because Cyrus wasn't angry.

He was disappointed.

Odin Ivar

Another man stepped outside.

His name was Odin Ivar.

He was thirty-four.

He had grown up in the Black Hills.

His father, Nicolo Ivar, had been a member of the Rapid City Bison chapter.