“And do not give Lucy my patch.”
Mara looked toward Hammer.
There it was.
“Wear it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You hate that.”
“Wear it until she sees the blue stitches.”
Lucy looked down.
“She made those.”
“She was four.”
“Worst sewing job in Arizona.”
Lucy laughed and cried simultaneously.
“And I loved every ugly stitch.”
The girl pressed the patch against her chest.
“If she recognizes it one day, let her take it.”
“Don’t offer.”
“Don’t explain first.”
“Let her decide that something belongs to her.”
Hammer’s eyes were wet now.
“That’s why I wrote on your leather.”
A weak breath.
“Let her choose the road.”
Lucy touched the words on Hammer’s vest.
The recording continued.
“Not my road.”
“Not yours.”
“Not Mara’s.”
“Hers.”
“If she hates motorcycles, good.”
“If she loves them, make her wear a helmet.”
Several riders laughed through tears.
“If she wants to be a teacher, let her teach.”
“If she wants to raise goats, let her raise goats.”
“If she wants to live in New York and never smell gasoline again…”
Another cough.
“That one might hurt.”
“But let her.”
Lucy looked toward her mother.
Mara kissed the top of her head.
Then Owen’s tone changed.
“Lucy…”
The workshop seemed to disappear around us.
“I’m scared.”
The girl stopped breathing.
The words she had asked Hammer at the diner.
Was Daddy scared?
Here was the answer from the man himself.
“I’m scared I won’t make it home.”
“I’m scared you’ll forget my voice.”
“I’m scared the photos won’t be enough.”
“I’m scared you’ll grow up thinking I left because I wanted a motorcycle more than I wanted you.”
Lucy shook her head as if he could see.
“No.”
Owen continued.
“That’s not true.”
“I want every day I can get.”
“I just don’t get to decide how many.”
There was a long stretch of wind.
Then:
“Your mother gave me the best years of my life.”
“You gave me the best four.”
Lucy began sobbing.
Mara pulled her into both arms.
“I’m sorry there aren’t more.”
Nobody in that workshop pretended not to cry anymore.
Not the deputy.
Not Colt.
Not me.
Not Hammer.
Owen continued.
“Locker Seventeen has birthday letters.”
“Open them when you want.”
“Not because a grown-up says it’s time.”
“If you’re hearing this at eight, open four.”
“If you’re hearing it at twelve, open all of them.”
“If you’re thirty…”
A weak chuckle.
“Hammer, seriously?”
The big man laughed through his beard.