Then she looked toward the emergency room.
“I gave you the girl,” she said quietly.
Her voice hardened.
“You fix her.”
And before anyone could stop her, Miriam climbed back into the truck and drove home.
She believed that was the end of it.
She was wrong.
Very wrong.
The Morning the Desert Shook
At 7:01 the next morning, Miriam stepped onto her porch with a mug of black coffee.
Barnaby followed her.
The desert was quiet.
Too quiet.
Then Barnaby froze.
His remaining eye narrowed.
A low growl rolled from his throat.
Miriam looked toward the highway.
At first, she saw dust.
Then she heard the engines.
One motorcycle.
Then ten.
Then fifty.
The sound grew until the windows behind her began to tremble.
Miriam slowly lowered her coffee.
“What in the hell?”
The horizon darkened.
Motorcycles appeared over the rise.
Hundreds of them.
Black leather.
Chrome.
Headlights.
Flags snapping in the desert wind.
Miriam stood motionless as the first bikes turned onto the dirt road leading to her house.
Then came more.
And more.
And more.
Barnaby began barking furiously.
Miriam set her coffee down.
“Inside.”
Barnaby did not move.
“Barnaby.”
Still nothing.
“Fine,” Miriam muttered. “Die stupid.”
She went inside.
When she returned, she was holding the shotgun Amos had kept beside the front door.
By the time she stepped onto the porch again, the first motorcycles had reached her property.
The riders stopped.
Then the next row.
Then the next.
Engines continued arriving until the desert around her house seemed alive with thunder.
Miriam counted until she gave up.
There were hundreds.
Maybe more.
And then she saw the patches.
Hells Angels.
Miriam narrowed her eyes.
“Well,” she said.
Barnaby barked.
Miriam rested the shotgun against her shoulder.
“Looks like we’re having company.”
The Woman Who Came Back From the Dead
The motorcycles shut off one by one.
The sudden silence was almost worse.
Dust drifted through the air.
A man stepped forward.
He was huge, gray-haired, and broad enough to block half the porch. His beard was braided. Tattoos covered his arms.
Miriam pointed the shotgun toward the ground.
“Before anybody says anything,” she called out, “I’d like it officially noted that I am too old to clean blood out of my carpet.”
The man stopped.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then someone laughed.
A few riders joined in.
The enormous man smiled.
“Miriam Vale?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who’s asking.”
Before he could answer, another motorcycle rolled forward.
The rider was smaller.
Slower.
The bike stopped.
A woman removed her helmet.
Miriam stared.
The young rider from Highway 50 stood beside the motorcycle.
Her right leg was heavily braced, and she leaned on crutches.
But she was alive.
Miriam’s expression changed.
“You.”
The young woman smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Miriam lowered the shotgun.
“You look terrible.”
The woman laughed.
“So do you.”
“My age is natural.”
The woman’s smile faded.
She walked as close as her crutches allowed.
“My name is Rebecca Cross.”
“Miriam.”
“I know.”
Rebecca looked toward the hundreds of motorcycles behind her.
“The doctors said I lost enough blood to die three times.”