Page 3 of Crow’s Haven (Savage Legion MC #15)

Crow

I t’s hotter than sin today. Once my shirt gets sweaty to the point that it sticks to me, I take it off in favor of going bare-chested.

It’s another Saturday morning and I’ve got the boys at the clubhouse. My twins are playing in a blow-up pool on the patio with Siege’s youngest two. It’s really small but they like it. I have to keep them where I can watch them. That’s the most important thing.

Meanwhile, I’ve got half a dozen prospects in the backyard behind the clubhouse, trying to teach them hand to hand combat.

“Wider stance, Evan,” I snap, stepping in and knocking his feet apart with my boot. “Ya plant ‘em that close together again, someone will sweep your legs and drop ya on your back hard enough to jar your teeth loose.”

He nods and redoubles his efforts. Evan takes being a prospect for the Legion seriously. He’s intent upon learning every new skill he can get his hands on.

They all think this club is about bikes and brotherhood, about leather cuts and loose rules. It really ain’t. It’s survival. And survival starts with knowing how to throw a punch that matters and how to take one that doesn’t drop you.

I circle back to the center of the yard and wave the next one forward.

This one’s taller, and cockier. His shoulders are back like he thinks size makes up for skill.

It doesn’t. I let him come at me, wait for the left shoulder to shift and then move quick, knocking his center of gravity out from under him with a hard twist. He hits the ground with a grunt and surprise is written all over his face.

“Hands up don’t mean jack shit if your feet don’t know what to do,” I tell him, offering nothing more than a glance. “Again.”

Off to the side, just within view, the kids tumble around the back patio so quickly my eyes can hardly follow them. Scout and Chase might be young but they’re as wild as they come. Cleo has taken her kids inside, so at least I only have my two terrors to keep an eye on.

I refocus on the next round, shifting to a defensive drill, but I keep half an eye on the patio. Chase’s climbing a chair backward. Scout’s chasing a bug with a plastic bat.

Then I hear the screech of metal from their direction, and my gut tightens before I even look.

Scout’s halfway up the back stairs. He’s grinning, wild-eyed, ‘cause this son of mine loves testing fate.

“Scout!” I yell across the yard, voice sharp enough to capture his notice. “Get your ass down. Now.”

He looks at me and that damn grin widens.

I drop my sparring stance, rush forward, intent upon getting to him before he does something stupid.

He gleefully jumps. It probably doesn’t look like a huge jump from where he’s standing but does from my perspective.

I’m still running towards him at full speed and the sound his body makes when he lands is unmistakably bone hitting concrete. A dull, sick thud followed by the sharp snap of something giving way.

Everything else disappears as I kneel down beside him. I barely hear the prospects shouting for someone to get Rage, our medic.

Scout’s curled on his side, his face twisted in pain, his body shaking with breathless sobs. I’m pretty sure he’s broken his arm.

I check him over, careful as I can. Luckily—well not for him—it’s just his arm and a grazed knee.

“I got you, Sprocket. You’re tough,” I murmur, using the voice I always use when they’re hurt. “You’re alright. Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll get you to the docs.”

Chase runs over, his face pale and round-eyed. “Is he dead?”

“No,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Your brother’s injured. I want you to stay right by my side and be as quiet as you can.”

Rigs asks, “What do you want to do, go to the ER?”

“Hell no. I’m taking him to see Patch.” Our club doctor has admitting privileges at the local hospital. Unless it’s life or death it’s usually quicker if we go through him. I want the best for my boy, and Patch will make sure he gets to the right place without us having to wait hours to be seen.

Rigs jerks his chin towards the back parking lot. “I had them bring the van around for you.”

I climb in the van, keeping Scout tight against me as I buckle him in.

“I’ll drive so ya can spend time with your boy,” Evan volunteers.

“Thanks, Evan, I owe ya.”

Evan tells Chase, “Come on, buddy, you can ride up front with me, but you gotta wear a safety belt.”

They make short work of getting the situation sorted and then the engine rumbles to life, and Evan shifts the truck into gear.

Hurts like hell, seeing Scout like that, but he’s stopped crying now. Instead, he’s giving little sniffles.

“We’re going to see Patch,” I tell him, shifting hard onto the road. “Doc’ll fix ya up.”

By the time we pull into the gravel lot outside the clinic, Scout’s gone quiet.

“You okay, buddy?” I ask.

He’s looking pale. Damn it! I should have taken him to the ER.

When Evan parks up, I grab my boys fast, cradling Scout against my chest like I did when he was an infant and cried through the night. He’s bigger now, but not by much. Still small enough to remind me just how fragile kids are and how quick they can break.

“Patch!” I shout before I’m fully inside. “Doc, I need ya now!”

The waiting room is empty except for a woman behind the front desk. She stands as soon as she sees the blood on Scout’s shirt and the way I’m holding him.

“He fell off the back deck,” I tell her gruffly. “I think his arm is broken.”

“Come with me.” Her voice is calm. I don’t know who this woman is but she’s professional. She rounds the desk, already pulling gloves from the wall dispenser as she leads me into the nearest exam room, leaving Chase and Evan behind.

Scout whimpers against my chest, wincing in more pain when he’s being jostled about.

She pulls the curtain, flicks on the overhead light, and gestures to the table.

“Set him down gently,” she tells me. “Let me take a look.”

Her eyes flick to mine—not afraid, not nervous—but assessing. Like she knows how to handle panicked fathers and bloodied kids, and maybe even bikers who look like they eat glass for breakfast.

I lower Scout to the padded table, keeping my grip on his good hand.

“Are you one of the doctors?” I ask.

She ignores my question and snaps on a pair of gloves and leans in, lifting Scout’s arm with practiced care.

“I’m going to touch around the joint, okay, sweetheart? I promise you I won’t touch where it hurts,” she says, her eyes on Scout. “You tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.”

He nods through the tears.

She palpates gently, methodically, watching his face the entire time. I watch her. Her hands are firm, careful and confident. Her voice stays steady, low, reassuring as she says soothing, reassuring things to him. Scout calms under her touch.

She grabs a tongue depressor and an ace wrap from the counter. She immobilizes the arm in less than a minute. Improvised, but damn solid work.

“Are you one of the doctors?” I ask again, more gruffly than I mean to.

“I’ve done this before.”

Before I can press, the door squeaks open.

A deputy strolls in, holding an envelope. Patch’s name is scrawled across the front.

“Got some drug screen swabs for the doc,” the cop says, looking around. “He in?”

The second she sees the badge, her posture shifts and her body language stiffens.

It’s subtle, but I notice it. Her shoulders draw in and her chin dips slightly.

I watch her eyes flick downward. Her expression doesn’t register fear.

It’s more like some kind of avoidance. Maybe she doesn’t like men or just cops. Who knows?

Something cold settles low in my chest.

The deputy leaves without further fuss, probably going to check one of the other rooms for Patch. The moment the door clicks shut, she mutters, “He’ll want to x-ray that. But it’s stable for now.” She peels off her gloves and tosses them.

Before I can reply or thank her, she’s gone.

Scout seems more settled now, so we wait in the exam room. I’m guessing the other doctor or nurse, or whoever she is has gone to get Patch. Finally, ten minutes later Patch barges in, saying, “I came as soon as I got back from lunch. How’s Scout holding up?”

“He’s been better, Doc. I meant to thank your colleague for patching him up. Where did she go?”

Patch looks confused. “It’s just me here.”

Forgetting the woman for a moment I let Patch do his thing.

He examined his arm, gave him something for pain and took an x-ray.

Scout was a good sport, considering his age, and Patch did a good job of resetting the arm.

Luckily, it was what he called a greenstick fracture, meaning the bone hadn’t broken in half. But he still needed a cast.

When we go back out to the waiting room, Evan and Chase are sitting together, flipping through an old magazine.

Chase keeps glancing around and the minute he sees us, he jumps out of his seat to race to our side.

Scout’s perked up, I’m guessing the shock’s worn off and his arm is more comfortable now it’s immobilized.

The woman’s nowhere to be seen. “We wanted to say thank you to the lady that helped us when we first got here.”

“I don’t have any assistants. I’m rushed off my feet as it is. What did she look like?” he asks.

“Around five six, long dark hair. She was wearing a pantsuit.”

He glances over at his receptionist, who’s looking equally frazzled. “Did Miss Jackson turn up?”

“Yes—” the receptionist starts, then stops. “She was waiting over there.”

She gestures to an empty chair. I start to get a strange feeling. “Who’s Miss Jackson?” I ask.

“Sharon Jackson, she answered the ad I ran in the local paper looking for office help. Paperwork’s stacked. Patient load’s been heavier than usual. She came in looking for work, offered to clean floors if that’s what it took to get a job. I was gonna interview her today.”

“You sure she’s not a nurse or a doctor?” I ask. “She sure seemed to know her shit.”

“I didn’t get as far as finding out her prior work experience. But if she was a nurse she could make far more working casual shifts. She sounded desperate.”

“While ya were gone, one of the local sheriffs walked in and she got spooked. Don’t ya find that suspicious?”

Patch finally looks at me. “That’s not my business to ask.”

“It is when she’s treating my son.”

He doesn’t argue. Just sighs and walks over to grab the chart from the counter. “You’re not gonna make a complaint are you? Whoever strapped his arm up knew what they were doing. No harm no foul.”

“Of course I’m not gonna make a complaint, brother. But maybe you need to get security if people are gonna wander in off the streets into the exam rooms,” I say.

He gives a shrug and glances towards the waiting area that’s rapidly filling up with patients. Feeling sorry for my overworked club brother I tell him, “Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ve got thirty minutes before my next patient.”

I can’t stop thinking about the way the woman moved, damn much in her element.

The calm in her voice when Scout was upset and in pain.

The way her hands didn’t shake when she examined him.

That kind of control doesn’t come easy. That’s trauma-trained behavior.

I’ve seen it in combat medics. People who’ve learned to lock their emotions in a box and keep movin’.

And then that switch flipped the moment she saw that cop. She tensed the second the cop walked in. There has to be a reason for that kind of about-face. No badge should scare a person that fast unless they’ve got a damn good reason.

“What did you say the woman’s name was?” I ask before Patch leaves.

“Sharon Jackson,” Patch says.

***

Back at the truck, Scout’s dozing beside me in the back along with Chase and Evan is driving. I decide to see if Evan noticed anything useful. “Did you see which way that woman who helped Scout went when she left the building?”

Evan glances at me in the rear-view mirror. “I was trying to stop Chase from making paper airplanes from the leaflets. But I think she took off in a Subaru Outback. I don’t know if any of that helps.”

“It does, Evan. Thanks.”

Evan gives me a boyish smile in his rear view. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from you.”

I don’t like mysteries this close to my boys. And I sure as hell don’t like owing favors to women on the run. I’m the type of man to pay back what I owe.

I pull out my phone and call the one person who can get me some answers.

“Zen.”

“Yeah, what do ya need, Crow?”

“I need a soft trace. Woman’s name is Sharon Jackson.

Sorry I don’t have anything else to go on.

She owns a Subaru Outback. Check if the name is on any police list or if she’s filed any restraining orders.

See what ya can find out on the sly. If someone’s chasing her, I don’t wanna draw them to Las Salinas. ”

“Got it, brother,” Zen tells me. “I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

I hang up, so he can get on with the job I asked him to do. If she’s clean, fine. If she’s in some kind of trouble, I wanna be the one who figures out why. Until then, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Because one thing I know for damn sure and that’s ya don’t vanish like that unless you’re scared.