Page 70 of Thunder's Reckoning

The yard stretched quiet, moonlight layin’ silver across the grass, and there—under the big oak that’d been standin’ since before the club bought this land—sat Momma. The swing tied to the lowest branch creaked as she moved, the ropes old butsturdy, her body swayin’ slow like she had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look up when I walked across the yard. Just kept her eyes on the dark, her hands folded in her lap. The kind of peace she carried had teeth in it—you knew she’d fought for it.

I stopped beside the swing. “Mind if I sit?”

She patted the empty spot next to her. “Never.”

I eased down, the wood cool under me, the faint sway pullin’ me back to a hundred memories I didn’t even know I’d kept. Nights sittin’ on the porch as a boy, watchin’ the stars, Momma singin’ songs I couldn’t remember the words to now.

“You alright?” I asked finally.

“You tell me.” Her voice was quiet, steady. “That girl’s got fire behind her eyes and a crack right down the middle of her soul. Sound familiar?”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, fingers laced. “She’s been through hell.”

“She’s not the only one.”

My jaw tightened. I turned my head toward her, and said, “Don’t.”

Her brows lifted gently. “Don’t what, Zeke?”

“You know what,” I muttered. “I haven’t told her.”

Momma’s hands folded together, her thumbs brushing slow. She didn’t press. She let the silence stretch, like she always had, until it near split me open.

“I never told her my family was part of a cult,” I said, the words heavy. “Hell, I don’t even know the name of it. I was just a kid. All I remember is runnin’—dark night, your hand squeezin’ mine, you tellin’ me not to look back.”

Her eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “You were six years old. I made sure you forgot as much as you could.”

“And you did,” I said. “You gave me a shot at a normal life, even if I ended up ridin’ with outlaws.”

Her lips curved into the smallest smile. “Normal’s a story folks like to tell themselves, son. You lived honest. That’s what matters. You don’t apologize for survivin’, and you sure as the sun don’t apologize for who you are now.” She laid her hand lightly on my arm, warm and grounding. “You turned out good. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

The knot in my throat made it hard to answer.

She let me sit with it a moment before she asked, “You plan on tellin’ her eventually?”

“Yeah,” I said after a beat. “When it matters. When she trusts me enough to know it ain’t somethin’ I hid outta shame. Just somethin’ I can’t remember clear enough to explain.”

“She’s strong,” Momma said, her gaze still fixed on the night. “But she’s not unshakable. That man who had her—this Gabrial—he twisted things in her head, the same way they tried with me. She’s walkin’ through fire, Zeke. And right now you’re the only one she lets close.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t let her down.”

I turned, meetin’ her eyes, unwavering as I could. “I won’t.”

The swing creaked softly, ropes groanin’ with the night breeze. Crickets hummed in the grass, and somewhere out front, a bike rumbled down the road before fading into distance.

After a long moment, Momma rose from the swing. She paused, her hand resting on my shoulder, gentle but firm enough to make me feel it in my chest.

“You’re doin’ better than you think,” she said. “But don’t wait too long. Some ghosts don’t stay buried.”

She gave my arm a squeeze, then turned back toward the clubhouse, leavin’ me alone under the oak.

I sat there long after she’d gone, starin’ into the dark, tryin’ to piece together memories that slipped like water through myfingers, wonderin’ what the hell I’d do when those ghosts finally clawed their way back.

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