Leave them.Qutter roared into the dark. Get up the hill. No way, man. It's my sled. A voice screamed back barely audible over the roar of the water.
Leave the damn bikes, Wyatt. The water's going to take you with them. Cutter bellowed, taking a step out of the barn. One of the bikes tipped. The current caught the broadside of the machine, ripping it out of the mud.
It flipped, pinning one of the men against the submerged trunk of an old apple tree. Martha didn't think. She grabbed a thick coil of heavy nylon tow rope hanging from a beam near the door. She shoved one end into Cutter's chest. "Hold this.
Anchor yourself to the tractor. She barked, pointing to the rusted Massie Ferguson in the corner. Before Cutter could argue, Martha tied the other end around her waist in a quick bowline knot. She grabbed her magite and charged out of the barn, sliding down the slick mud of the hill toward the churning water. "Lady, what the hell are you doing?
Cutter yelled, but he wrapped the rope around his massive forearm and braced his boots against the concrete lip of the barn door. Martha hit the water. It was freezing. The cold punched the breath out of her lungs. The current was terrifying, yanking at her legs with impossible strength.
She waded in, the mud sucking at her boots, aiming her flashlight at the trapped man. It was the one called Wyatt. The bike was pinning his leg against the tree, and the water was rising to his chin. The other men were frantically trying to lift the bike, but the current was pinning the steel against the wood. Martha waded up to them, the water cresting her waist.
You can't lift it. She screamed over the noise. The water pressure is too heavy. She shoved her way past a heavily tattooed biker who looked at her like she was a ghost. She reached under the muddy water, her bare hands feeling along the frame of the trapped motorcycle.
She found the front forks. Don't lift. Pivot. Martha yelled. Spin the front tire downstream.
Let the current push it off him. The men stared at her. "Do it!" she screamed. Two of the bikers grabbed the front wheel and the handlebars. They stopped pulling up and yanked hard downstream.
The current caught the wheel, violently pivoting the front of the bike. The rear tire slid off Wyatt's leg. "Pull him up! Martha yelled. They yanked Wyatt out of the water.
He was choking, his face pale, clutching his thigh. The rope around Martha's waist went to Cutter was pulling. "Go!" she shouted, shoving the men up the hill. They scrambled, slipping and clawing their way up the mudbank. Martha followed, Cutter hauling on the rope, dragging her the last 10 ft up the incline.
She collapsed onto the concrete floor of the barn, coughing up muddy water, her yellow raincoat plastered to her body. The heavy barn doors slammed shut behind them, dulling the roar of the storm outside. The barn was dead silent, save for the hiss of the Coleman lantern and the heavy breathing of 43 men. Every single one of them was staring at the 61-year-old woman sitting in a puddle on the floor. Martha slowly got to her feet.
She untied the rope from her waist and tossed it to the floor. She rung the muddy water out of her gray hair, looked at Cutter, and pointed a finger at a corner of the barn. "Don't smoke near the hay," she said. "It's dry, and I'm not burning to death tonight. The adrenaline crash hit the barn like a physical weight.
43 men, most of them carrying heavy iron, histories of violence, and the cold realization that they had nearly drowned, began to strip off their soaked cuts, and heavy leather jackets. The hissing Coleman lantern cast, long, jagged shadows against the wooden slats of the barn. Outside, the storm raged. The wind howled against the structure, shaking the heavy timbers, a constant reminder of the violence just beyond the walls. Martha walked past a row of muddy, dripping motorcycles, her boots squeaking on the concrete.
She felt the eyes on her, heavy, suspicious, evaluating eyes. She ignored them. She moved to the back of the barn where an old workbench sat under a tarp. Cutter stood near the center of the room, watching her. He had taken off his leather jacket.
Beneath it. His flannel shirt was plastered to a massive, heavily tattooed torso. He was ringing water from his beard, his dark eyes tracking her every movement. "Wyatt! Cutterbarked, his voice carrying easily over the wind leg.
The young biker Martha had helped pull from the floodwater, was sitting on an overturned feed bucket. He was shivering violently, his teeth chattering in a rhythm. His jeans were torn from the knee up, revealing an ugly, jagged laceration across his thigh. It was bleeding sluggishly, mixing with the mud on his skin. It's It's just banged up, boss.
Wyatt stammered, wincing as he prodded the edges of the cut. Cutter walked over, crouched down, and inspected the wound. He didn't say a word, just grunted. He stood up and looked around the barn. Who's got the kit?
A lean man with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo on his neck started digging through a soaked saddle bag. Martha watched them from the workbench. She reached under the tarp and pulled out a heavy plastic storage bin. She popped the lid. Inside were emergency supplies she kept in the barn for winter storms, thick wool blankets, a first aid kit, a propane camp stove, and a sealed tin of coffee.
She pulled out a stack of blankets and carried them toward the center of the room. She dropped them on the hood of the old Massie Ferguson tractor. "Dry off," she said, not looking at anyone in particular. "Hypothermia will kill you quieter than the river. A few of the men hesitated, looking to cutter for permission.
Cutter nodded. The men descended on the blankets, wrapping the scratchy gray wool around their shivering shoulders. Martha walked over to Wyatt. The lean man with the neck tattoo was holding a roll of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, looking at the gash with a grimace. Move, Martha said.
The lean man blinked, looking down at her. He was easily a foot taller. I got it, lady. You're going to pour alcohol into a wound filled with river mud. You'll seal the bacteria in.
Martha said flatly. Move. The man looked at Cutter.Qutter gave a slight wave of his hand. The man stepped back. Martha knelt in the muck next to Wyatt.
She opened her own first aid kit, pulling out a bottle of sterile saline, a pair of tweezers, and heavy trauma pads. This is going to suck, son, she said. Wyatt gripped the edge of the feed bucket. I've had worse. Doubt it.
Martha muttered. She flushed the wound with the saline, ignoring Wyatt's sharp hiss of pain. She worked methodically, using the tweezers to pull tiny fragments of bark and gravel from the torn flesh. Cutter stood over them, arms crossed. You got a steady hand, Martha.
I patch up draft horses and wire fencing. She replied, not looking up. Flesh is flesh. She wrapped Wyatt's thigh tight with clean gauze and secured it with medical tape. She stood up, her knees popping loudly in the quiet barn.
Keep weight off it. If it swells or if you get a fever, you tell me. She said to Wyatt. Wyatt nodded, his face pale. Yes, ma'am.
Thank you. Martha turned and walked back to the workbench. She hooked a small propane canister to the camp stove, twisted the valve, and hit the igniter. A ring of blue flame hissed to life. She set a heavy enamel percolator filled with bottled water over the fire.
The smell of the burning propane, and soon the sharp aroma of cheap coffee began to cut through the stench of the wet barn. Cutter walked over to the workbench. He didn't crowd her, but he took up a lot of space. He leaned his back against the wooden support beam, watching the water boil. "You didn't have to pull him out," Qa said quietly so the rest of the men couldn't hear.
"He was drowning on my property," Martha said, measuring scoops of coffee grounds into the percolator. "I don't like dealing with the coroner. Too much paperwork. Cutter let out a short, rough bark of laughter. It was a surprising sound, deep and genuine.
Most people see the patch, Cutter said, tapping the spot on his chest where his wet cut hung on a nail. They lock the doors. They don't run into a flash flood with a piece of nylon rope. Martha turned to look at him. She looked at the scars on his knuckles, the coldness that still lingered in his eyes despite the quiet moment.
She knew these men weren't boy scouts. They were dangerous. Tomorrow they would go back to being exactly what they were. I didn't open my door for the patch cutter," Martha said, her voice hard, devoid of any sentimentality. "I opened it because the water was rising out there.
You're whatever you are in here. You're just men who were about to die. Cutter held her gaze. For a long moment, the biker leader and the widow stared at each other. A silent negotiation of boundaries and respect.
ThenQatar nodded slowly. "Fair enough. The percolator began to bubble, sputtering hot brown water against the glass dome. "Coffee's done," Martha said. "Grab a cup.
We got a long wait until dawn. The coffee tasted like battery acid and burnt aluminum. To the 43 men shivering in the drafty barn, it was the greatest thing they had ever consumed. Martha handed out the last of her mismatched ceramic mugs, then switched to heavy plastic thermoses, and finally empty soup cans she kept for mixing paint. The men took them with stiff freezing fingers.
There were no thank yous. The gratitude was in the silence that settled over the barn, broken only by the aggressive slurping of hot liquid and the relentless hammering of the rain against the roof. She walked a slow lap around the perimeter. Dutch, her aging shepherd mix shadowed her every step. His hackles were raised, a stiff ridge of gray fur running down his spine.
He didn't bark. He just watched the intruders with a low continuous rumble vibrating in his chest. "Call off the dog, lady. A voice muttered from the shadows. Martha stopped.
She aimed her magite toward the sound. The beam caught a massive, heavily bearded man leaning against a support beam. He had a spiderweb tattooed on his elbow and a fresh, ugly bruise forming on his jaw. His name is Dutch," Martha said. She didn't raise her voice.
"And he lives here. You're the guest. The biker scoffed, shifting his weight. "He bites me. I'll snap his neck.
The sound of a heavy boot scraping on concrete echoed from the center of the room. Cutter stood up from the crate he'd been sitting on. "He didn't shout. He didn't have to. Shut your mouth, Miller.