Page 118 of Claimed By the Bikers

But before I can worry too much, Atlas appears, plucking our adventurous son from the tree and setting him safely on solid ground.

“What have we discussed about bikes and trees?” Atlas asks with mock seriousness.

“Trees for climbing, bikes for riding,” Caleb recites dutifully.

“And mixing them?”

“Makes Mama’s hair turn gray.”

“Exactly.” Atlas kisses the top of Caleb’s head, then moves to do the same to Connor, who’s been watching this exchange with the kind of superior expression that suggests he would never attempt such foolishness.

“Ready for archery practice?” I ask Connor, who’s been begging to learn since he was old enough to walk steadily.

“Yes! Can I use the big bow?”

“You can use the little bow designed for people who are two years old.”

“But Daddy Garrett uses the big bow.”

“Daddy Garrett is older than you and has considerably longer arms.”

Connor considers this logic while I retrieve his child-sized bow from the equipment shed. We started the youth archery program six months ago as part of our community outreach expansion. Turns out teaching kids to focus and follow safety protocols translates into better behavior at school and home.

“Stand here,” I instruct, positioning Connor at the line marked for beginning archers. “Feet apart, shoulders straight, remember what we practiced.”

He nocks his arrow with the careful concentration that characterizes everything he does. Unlike his brother, who approaches life like it’s a series of stunts waiting to be attempted, Connor treats each activity as a puzzle requiring careful solution.

“Breathe in, draw back, aim, breathe out, release.”

His arrow flies straight and hits the outer ring of the target. Not bad for a two-year-old who can barely reach the bowstring.

“Good shot!” I praise him. “Want to try again?”

“Again!”

We practice for twenty minutes while Caleb attempts to teach his balance bike new tricks that definitely violate several laws of physics. By the time Connor’s shot his tenth arrow, a small crowd has gathered to watch.

Evie Cross sits on the fence with her four children, all of whom are fascinated by our boys’ fearless approach to life. “Connor’s got natural form,” she calls out.

“Gets it from his mama,” Garrett says, emerging from his workshop with sawdust in his hair. “That woman can put an arrow through a quarter at fifty yards.”

“That woman learned from the best teachers,” I reply, watching Connor attempt his eleventh shot.

“Mais oui, we are excellent teachers,” Silas agrees, approaching with two of his apprentices in tow. “Connor, show these big boys how archery is done properly.”

Connor beams under the attention, drawing his bow. The arrow hits closer to center this time, earning applause from his growing audience.

“My turn!” Caleb announces, abandoning his bike and racing toward us.

“Your turn requires less running and more listening to safety instructions,” I tell him.

“I listen!”

“You listen to the parts you like and ignore the parts about not climbing trees with bicycles.”

“Trees are for climbing,” he says matter-of-factly, as if this explains everything.

“Not while you’re riding a bike.”