Chapter 3
Hope scared me more than poverty ever had.
Poverty was honest.
It told me exactly what it could take.
Heat.
Food.
Medicine.
Sleep.
Hope whispered that maybe things could change, then left you bleeding when they didn’t.
So when Stag came back the next morning with only two riders, I met him at the door with my stick planted firm.
“I said one day.”
He smiled.
“You did.”
“Then why are you here?”
He lifted a small paper bag.
“Biscuits.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Biscuits don’t need motorcycles.”
“They do when Rhino cooks them. You need escape transportation.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
It surprised me.
Stag looked pleased but did not mention it.
That mattered.
People always wanted credit for making old women smile.
He handed me the bag.
I took it.
“Thank you.”
“You sleep warm?”
“Warmer.”
“Roof hold?”
“No dripping.”
“Good.”
He glanced past me into the shed, but not in a nosy way.
Still, I felt exposed.
The bed.
The cracked stove.
The bucket where I washed clothes.
The framed photo of my husband, Walter, on a shelf.
My pride rose again.
“I know it isn’t much.”
Stag’s eyes moved to the photo.
“Neither was my first place.”
“You live better now?”
“Some days.”
There was something in his voice.
Old pain.
I knew old pain when I heard it.
I stepped back.
“You want coffee?”
His brows lifted.
“I do.”
“You drink it weak?”
“Never.”
“Good. I don’t serve apology water.”
He laughed and came in carefully, like the shed was a church.
The two riders stayed outside.
Stag sat at my small table, knees nearly touching it.
I poured coffee into mismatched cups.
For a while, we listened to the morning.
Then he said, “County blocked the bridge.”
“I saw the signs.”
“They’re inspecting today.”
“About time.”
He nodded.
Then his face turned serious.
“Miss Evie, can I ask why you’re out here alone?”
I stared at him.
“You can ask.”
“Doesn’t mean you’ll answer?”
“Now you’re learning.”
He smiled slightly.
I looked at Walter’s picture.
“My husband died nine years ago. Cancer. Slow kind. Mean kind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was a good man. Not perfect. Good.”
Stag waited.
“We had a daughter.”
His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Had?”
“Lena. She left at nineteen with a boy I didn’t like and pride I recognized too well.”
My throat tightened.
“We argued. I said things. She said worse. Then she went to Florida.”
“You hear from her?”
“Not in twenty-eight years.”
Stag’s face softened.
“Did you try?”
I snapped my eyes to him.
“Every birthday for ten years. Every Christmas for fifteen. Letters came back. Number changed. People move on.”
He nodded, but I saw the thought working behind his eyes.
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking.”
“That illegal?”
“When it concerns my daughter, yes.”
He leaned back.
“Fair enough.”
But the silence changed.
Lena’s name had filled the shed like smoke.
I hated that I had said it.
I hated that I wanted him to ask more.
Before either of us spoke, shouting came from outside.
I grabbed my stick.
Stag was already on his feet.
We stepped into the yard and saw a white pickup near the road.
A man in a county vest stood beside it arguing with Rhino.
Another man took pictures of my shed.
“What’s going on?” I called.
The man with the camera turned.
“Evelyn Harley?”
“Yes.”
He walked toward me with a folded notice.
“I’m with county code enforcement. We’ve received complaints about unsafe habitation.”
I stared at the paper.
“Complaints?”
He held it out.
“This structure is not permitted for residential use. You have thirty days to vacate.”
The yard went silent.
My hand shook before I could stop it.
Stag’s voice went low.
“Who filed the complaint?”
The man looked at him.
“That information isn’t—”
“Who?”
The man swallowed.
“It came through the property office.”
My stomach dropped.
“Property office?”
“Yes, ma’am. Records show this land is under review for acquisition connected to the Mason Creek expansion project.”
I felt the world tilt.
“This is my land.”
The man avoided my eyes.
“There appears to be a title dispute.”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“No, Walter paid this land off. I have the deed.”
“Then you’ll need to bring documentation to the hearing.”
“What hearing?”
He pointed at the notice.
“Monday morning.”
It was Friday.
My knees weakened.
Stag caught my elbow.
I pulled away because needing help still stung.
The code man looked almost ashamed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“No, you’re not,” Rhino growled.
The man backed up.
After they left, I stood in the yard staring at the notice.
Thirty days.
Unsafe habitation.
Title dispute.
Acquisition.
Words built to steal with clean hands.
Stag took the paper from me gently.
“Do you have the deed?”
“In a tin box.”
“Good.”
“But I can’t fight county. I can’t afford lawyers.”
He looked toward the road where the pickup had disappeared.
Then back at me.
“You saved fifteen bikers from a broken bridge.”
“That doesn’t make me rich.”
“No,” he said. “It makes you family.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
By evening, the Iron Saints had returned.
Not with hammers this time.
With laptops.
Folders.
A retired paralegal.
A notary.
A preacher.
And one woman in a navy suit who stepped out of a black car like she owned the road.
Stag introduced her.
“Miss Evie, this is Marla Jennings. Best property attorney in Alabama.”
The woman shook my hand.
“I hear somebody’s trying to steal your home.”
I looked at the notice.
Then at my shed.
Then at the people filling my yard.
May you like
For the first time in years, my voice did not tremble.
“Yes,” I said. “And I want to stop them.”
