2) Doubt

He was slowly making his way up my driveway, holding his arm. It was clearly injured, though I couldn't tell how badly from where I stood. His clothes were marred by something, and he looked like he'd been through a rough time. He was tall, from what I could tell, with a solid, muscular frame that filled out his leather jacket. His jeans were tight and torn to shreds around his legs. His ear-length, jet-black hair looked disheveled, although maybe that was the style he was going for.

I racked the rifle loudly enough to get his attention.

The stranger froze midstep and raised his free hand, his expression solemn. I watched his face closely. He was examining me just as carefully as I was examining him. His other hand remained pressed against his injured arm. Something had clearly happened to him.

"Can I help you with something, Mister?" I asked, taking charge of the situation.

I watched his eyes take me in. I imagine I made an interesting picture, but I really didn't care. I was wearing an old tank top covered in oil from working on the truck and jeans I hadn't bothered changing out of after working cattle all day. My dirty-blonde hair, which I'd thrown into a messy bun, was even dirtier than usual.

His eyes then traveled down to the supersized Shepherd crouched between my legs, baring his teeth.

The stranger took a controlled breath.

"I'm sorry. I think I picked the wrong driveway to wreck at the bottom of."

He watched my face for a reaction before continuing.

"A deer ran in front of my bike. I had to lay it down."

He gestured down my driveway with a finger, indicating the direction he'd come from.

My eyes followed his gesture down the winding, mile-long, washed-out driveway. I lowered my gun with a sigh. What he was saying seemed plausible. He seemed to relax a little at this and lowered his hand.

I looked down at Buck, who still appeared ready to tear our visitor apart, and sighed. I wasn't raised to be nasty to people who needed help, but I could have done without the unexpected visit today.

"Release," I muttered to Buck.

Buck crawled out from between my legs and sat dutifully beside me. I kept my rifle firmly in my other hand. With another sigh, I resigned myself to helping the stranger.

I trudged toward the porch, my feet feeling like they were made of lead.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up and looked at," I called over my shoulder.

Buck trotted beside me gleefully. He knew he'd done his job, and he'd done it well. He stopped hesitantly at the cabin doorway as I dutifully began stripping off my old boots. He seemed rather perturbed to see our guest following us up the front steps. I sighed and patted his head reassuringly.

That's when I noticed the MC patches and tattoos on our stranger.

My eyes settled on the large patch covering the back of his leather jacket. A winged skull sat at its center, framed by the words RIDERS OF THE BADLANDS above and MONTANA below. I recognized it immediately, and my stomach tightened just a little.

Well, that explained a few things.

The MC in town had always been an odd sort. They rolled in when the weather warmed and disappeared east before the first heavy snowfall settled over the Rockies. Most people knew better than to get involved in their business. The town treated them with a peculiar mixture of respect and apprehension, the kind that came from knowing some lines were better left uncrossed.

There were stories, of course. There were always stories. People who crossed the wrong member sometimes had a habit of disappearing from town altogether.

My family and the other ranchers around us had learned to keep our heads down and our business to ourselves. We went into town when we needed supplies, paid our bills, and came home. There was no reason to invite trouble onto our land.

The club had its own way of doing things. They looked after their own, and from what I'd heard, loyalty wasn't something they took lightly. There was a certain order to things within their ranks, too. Some members carried more weight than others, and when those men spoke, people tended to listen.

I wasn't particularly interested in finding out what happened when someone didn't.

I must have made a face because he glanced down at himself, trying to figure out what was wrong, all while still holding his bleeding arm.

"Boots off, please," I muttered, finally welcoming him into my home.

He clumsily shed his boots with his one good hand and began looking around. I shut the door behind him, and Buck immediately began herding him by nudging him with his nose.

The stranger laughed softly and raised his free hand in defeat.

"Okay, boy. I get it."

I sighed and opened the bathroom door.

This bathroom was one of the luxuries I'd sprung for when I built the cabin. Tan herringbone tile spread across the floor and continued into the raised shower, which had frosted glass doors. Darker stone, finished with an acrylic insignia of our ranch's crest, covered the countertops and shower seats. My dark claw-foot tub, finished with brass fixtures, was one of the best things I'd ever put in my cabin.

I opened one of the closets behind the door and retrieved a clean towel for my guest.

Looking behind me, I noticed Mr. MC hadn't moved. Buck was keeping him trapped by the front door. He looked up at me, absolutely helpless.

His eyes were a striking shade of green, like the sea glass I'd once seen on a beach in Washington while I was in college. They were so striking that I almost forgot myself.

I cleared my throat and shook myself back to reality.

Closing the distance between us, I shoved the towel into his hands. I pointed toward the bathroom and muttered, "Go clean yourself up. I'll get the first aid kit."

Both Buck and Mr. MC looked at me in disbelief.

"Well, all right then," he said with an incredulous grin.

He stepped around Buck, who looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown five heads for allowing a stranger into our home, and shut the bathroom door behind him.

"Don't look at me like that," I said to Buck, who was glaring at me as soon as the door closed. "He needs help. You can't eat people who need help."

I made myself busy.

Walking to my bedroom, I pulled out a pair of oversized shorts and a supersized T-shirt. His clothes looked pretty mangled, so I figured he'd probably appreciate something clean to wear.

I knocked on the thick bathroom door before opening it, not expecting him to already be in the shower.

I felt the blood rush to my face as it turned bright red. I dropped the clothes on the floor beside the bathroom door. He turned, and I thanked my past self for choosing frosted glass.

"Sorry!" I blurted out before quickly shutting the door.

Buck looked up from his post beside the bathroom door. I swear he must have thought I was an idiot.