“That’s Dad’s bell.”
The bald biker laughed.
Not cruelly.
Dismissively.
“Kid, thousands of motorcycles have bells like that.”
Noah shook his head.
“No.”
“They do.”
“No.”
The bald man reached toward the bell.
“See? Guardian bell. Half the riders in America have one.”
Noah stepped closer.
Sarah caught his wrist.
“Noah, enough.”
His eyes filled.
“My dad showed me his.”
Sarah felt something tighten inside her chest.
Michael had owned a motorcycle before they married.
A black Indian that Sarah hated because he rode it too fast.
After Noah was born, Michael sold it.
At least, that was what she had always believed.
She remembered one photograph.
Michael kneeling beside the bike while two-year-old Noah sat on the seat in an oversized helmet.
There had been a bell.
Sarah remembered teasing him.
“You seriously believe a tiny bell keeps accidents away?”
Michael had smiled.
“It doesn’t have to work if I like believing it works.”
She had forgotten that conversation.
Noah had not.
A chair scraped against concrete from the far end of the garage.
A huge gray-bearded biker slowly stood from beside a workbench.
He was the kind of man people noticed without wanting to be noticed by him.
Tall.
Heavy shoulders.
Tattooed forearms.
Long salt-and-pepper hair tied behind his neck.
Thick beard reaching almost to his chest.
His black leather vest was faded at the seams from years of sun and weather.
The patch on the back belonged to a motorcycle club Sarah did not recognize.
IRON WOLVES.
He had been watching quietly from across the garage.
Now his eyes were fixed on Noah.
“What did you say?”
Sarah moved slightly in front of her son.
The gray-bearded biker stepped closer.
No aggression.
No hurry.
Just attention.
Noah pointed toward the bell.
“That was my dad’s.”
The biker stopped three feet away.
His eyes shifted to the brass bell.
Then to Noah.
“What was your dad’s name?”
Sarah’s entire body went tense.
“That’s really none of your business.”
The biker looked at her.
“Ma’am, that bell has been hanging on my motorcycle for six years.”
Sarah froze.
The garage seemed to become quieter.
Even the bald man’s expression changed.
The gray-bearded biker continued.
“And I didn’t buy it.”
Noah swallowed.
“My dad’s name was Michael.”
The biker’s face tightened.
“Michael what?”
Sarah grabbed Noah’s hand.
“We need to go.”
But Noah answered.
“Michael Bennett.”
The biker stopped breathing.
Not metaphorically.
Sarah watched his chest freeze.