Walter looked at the boot.
Then at the man's face.
"Take that foot off my property."
"Listen, old man—"
"Take. It. Off."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the sound of another engine rose from the road.
A motorcycle.
Then five.
Then ten.
The two strangers turned.
Headlights appeared through the rain.
Dozens of them.
The riders approached in a long, disciplined line, their engines filling the darkness with a sound that seemed to shake the windows.
The first motorcycle stopped at the gate.
A tall man climbed off.
He wore a black leather vest bearing the emblem of the Iron Vultures Motorcycle Club.
His beard was dark, with a few silver strands.
His expression was cold.
He removed his helmet.
"Mara!"
The woman rushed toward the door.
"Gabriel!"
The man crossed the porch in three steps and wrapped his arms around her.
He held her tightly, as though he had spent the last hour imagining every possible disaster.
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded.
Then she pointed toward Walter.
"He helped me."
Gabriel looked at the old farmer.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he extended his hand.
"I'm Gabriel Callahan."
Walter shook it.
"Walter Briggs."
Gabriel looked toward the fireplace.
Then at the blanket around Mara's shoulders.
Then at the two men standing outside.
His expression hardened.
"Who are they?"
Mara lowered her voice.
"The same men who followed me."
Gabriel turned.
The men on the porch suddenly seemed much less confident.
He spoke quietly.
"You have ten seconds to explain why you're standing outside a stranger's house threatening my wife."
The larger man tried to laugh.
"Nobody threatened anybody."
Gabriel didn't smile.
"Then you won't mind explaining that to the sheriff."
The two men exchanged a glance.
One reached into his jacket.
Before he could remove anything, three riders stepped forward.
Nobody drew a weapon.
Nobody shouted.
But the meaning was unmistakable.
The men backed away.
Gabriel watched them return to their vehicle.
Then he turned to Walter.
"Sir, I owe you more than I can say."
Walter shrugged.
"She was cold."
Gabriel's eyes moved toward Mara.
"That's my wife."
"I gathered that."
"She's the most important person in my life."
Walter nodded.
"Then you should probably make sure she doesn't spend another night walking through a storm."
Gabriel almost smiled.
"You're right."
He looked around the farmhouse.
"Can we stay until the weather improves?"
Walter glanced toward the kitchen.
Then toward Duke, who had already decided that Mara was part of the household.
"Looks like the dog has already voted."
Mara smiled.
Walter stepped aside.
"Come in, then. But wipe your boots. Eleanor would haunt me if I let mud cover her floor."
For the first time that night, Gabriel laughed.
And outside, beneath the freezing rain, the Iron Vultures began gathering around the old farmhouse.
Walter didn't yet understand what he had stepped into.
He didn't know about the enemies following Mara.
He didn't know that Gabriel's club had been involved in a bitter dispute with a powerful local businessman.
And he certainly didn't know that the foreclosure papers sitting inside his kitchen drawer were connected to the same people who had tried to frighten the woman he had just rescued.
But he would learn.
And when he did, he would discover that saving a stranger was sometimes the beginning of a battle much larger than the one taking place outside his front door.
The story will continue with the discovery that Mara's attackers are connected to a dangerous scheme involving Walter's farm, Cole Dempsey, and a wealthy property-development group. The conflict will expand into an investigation, betrayal, arson, unexpected alliances, and a fight for justice.
The rain continued pounding against the farmhouse long after the Iron Vultures had gathered beneath Walter Briggs's porch roof.
By eight thirty, the storm had become so violent that even Gabriel Callahan, a man who had ridden through mountain blizzards and desert thunderstorms, admitted that nobody was going anywhere until morning.
Walter had never entertained so many people in his house.
There were twelve motorcycles outside, several pickup trucks parked along the driveway, and enough leather jackets hanging near the fireplace to make the farmhouse look like the headquarters of an outlaw organization.
Yet nobody was behaving like an outlaw.
The riders spoke quietly. They removed their boots before entering the kitchen. One of them helped Walter carry firewood. Another offered to repair a loose porch railing.
A broad-shouldered man with a gray beard introduced himself as Raymond, although everyone called him Doc.
He was the club's mechanic and unofficial medical adviser.
"That stove's older than I am," Doc observed while examining the kitchen.
Walter looked over his shoulder.
"She's older than you and still works better."
Doc laughed.
"Fair enough."