Wild Like the Wind (Page 47)

His face got sweet.

Sweet and tender.

My baby boy.

“You don’t have to let them go, Ma.”

“Yes, I do,” I replied quickly, before I decided something that was very wrong, that he was right. “Your father would want you to have them. So you’re going to have them.”

Jag nodded, not taking his gaze from me.

“Who would he give which?”

If he’d lived, he’d give Dutch his cut, Jag his bike.

If he’d known he would die when he did, he’d give Dutch his bike, because Dutch got more of him, and he’d give Jag is cut, because he did not.

But he wasn’t there.

So they were going to make that decision.

“I’m not saying. You boys are deciding. And that’s all I’m gonna say about it. Now sit down, I gotta get to work so I need to feed you.”

“’Kay, Ma,” he said gently, letting it go immediately because he knew I needed that, but still watching me.

I turned back to the stove.

What was Hound doing right then without Jean to take care of?

I felt the tears well in my eyes at the same time I felt like getting in my car and going to Hound’s and kicking the shit out of him, even if I had to do it verbally.

Two months, he kept her from me.

I got a weekend.

And now she was gone.

That was an entirely selfish thought.

But to get through breakfast with my son on the second day that had dawned without Jean Gruenberg existing on this earth and with the second man I’d loved in my life lost to me, I was clinging to it.

With everything I had.

I got the news from Bev.

She’d gotten it from Tyra, who had no idea it had happened and who Bev had told me had her work cut out getting Tack to rip it out of Hound.

But Tack got it.

So the next morning, I walked up to the gravesite wearing a simple black dress, my black wool overcoat, as modest as I could get black boots (mine had spike heels and were crazy-sexy, but I didn’t have time to shop), my hair pulled back in a ponytail at my nape, minimal makeup, no jewelry.

I’d looked up how Jean would want to be laid to rest on a website and dressed accordingly.

And that was how I approached the semi-sparse mourners surrounding an unfinished wood casket that might have alarmed me if I hadn’t read that website.

Hound had done her right.

Hound was giving her the Jewish burial she would have wanted.

I wondered if they talked about it but I doubted they did.

He wouldn’t be able to think of the end of her.

Until he had no choice.

I also wondered what would become of her mezuzah that she cherished so much.

And I hoped Hound asked her rabbi if it was okay to move it to Hound’s lintel.

Because that’s where she’d want it.

It wasn’t shocking to me that the few sitting in the scant seats did not seem to have much reaction to what made the congregation for Jean Gruenberg the “semi” part of semi-sparse.

This being the wall of bikers wearing Chaos cuts that were standing at Hound’s (who was standing at the head of the casket) back.

Those others knew Hound was hers.

The only people standing close to him, right at his back, were my boys.

They both looked to me as I approached. Jag gave me a small sad smile. Dutch watched me closely.

I gave them both my own small sad smile then turned my attention to Hound.

He only glanced at me when I arrived.

I drank him in.

“If it wasn’t you, it’d be him,” I’d teased Black long ago after the first time I’d seen Hound, then a recruit.

“Shut your mouth,” Black had said back, amusement laced in his rich voice, not having a problem with what came out of my mouth, knowing he had me.

“He’s a looker,” I’d said.

“He’s a dawg,” Black had said.

“So were you,” I reminded him.

He’d clamped a hand on my ass, open to him to do that since I was lying on him on a couch in the Compound. “Until you.”

This was very true.

I tried not to be smug but it was hard.

Black had grinned up at me.

“He’s still something,” I’d muttered, turning my head again, looking over Hound’s tall, brawny length, disheveled dark-blond hair and his intense stare with those unusual lapis blue eyes that were aimed at the pool table.

“Woman,” Black called, and I looked down at him. “He’s a good guy. Before we voted him in, coulda stuck a knife in his vein and seen his blood ran Chaos.” His hand at my ass squeezed and it was his gorgeous face that had turned smug. “He’s also smart like his brother. So don’t worry. He’ll get himself a hella good old lady.”

Black had been wrong.

But I’d tried.

I tore my gaze from the haggard but hard face Hound wore and moved to stand with Chaos. I came to a stop next to one of the brothers, who came after Black, who was standing at the end of the line whose name I wasn’t sure about, but I thought it was Roscoe.

Boz reached across him and pulled me in until I was standing between him and High, who I was happy to see had his arm around Millie’s shoulders.

Back in the day, she and I had been tight.

Then I, like everyone else, had felt the betrayal when she’d got shot of High.

Now, through Bev, my Chaos grapevine, I knew why she’d done that, and it was the right reason even if it was unbelievably heartbreaking.

I gave her a trembling smile.

For a second, she looked relieved.

Then she returned it.

Boz took my hand.

I tried really hard not to start crying.

Fortunately, I succeeded.

I saw Dog, Brick and Arlo there, and that surprised me. Bev had told me they’d moved to the western slope to expand business operations.

But it shouldn’t surprise me.

Hound had lost family.

And they were Hound’s family.

They probably rode all night to get here for this.

Bev was there too, far away from Boz. Arlo’s arm was slung around her shoulders.

She gave me a look.

I pressed my lips together, sucking them in.

Hers were trembling before she did the same but they curled up a bit, a grimace of a smile.

Bev and I both looked at the casket as someone started talking.

We stood as family for Hound.

But I stood also for Jean.

And I kept standing as they laid her to rest.

After it was over, everyone moved to Hound.

Except me.

I knew some would question it, but those ties were cut.

I definitely came there for him.

But that was the last he was getting from me.

It took a lot to do it.

But Jean would have wanted it that way.

Now it was over.

So after I went to my boys (as close as I was going to get to Hound) and kissed both their cheeks, I walked away.

I felt eyes following me, and when I got in my car, I looked back and knew which ones.

They were not Hound’s.

They were Dutch’s, which didn’t surprise me. He always had an eye on his momma.

They were also Tack’s.

And they were his beautiful, redheaded wife’s. Tyra.

I lifted my chin to them standing there, Tack’s arm around his old lady, her body twisted, front to his side, both her arms around his middle.

Tack’s first wife had been a cunt. I’d hated her.

But Tack got his name because he was sharp as a tack. He’d not make the same mistake twice.

From the look of them, I knew that still ran true.

Then I looked to the space where Jean’s casket was before they put it in the ground.