Protected by my Hogg Daddy

Bjorn Bjorn Davidson had seen enough bad days to recognize one before it fully showed its teeth. Most people waited until everything went to hell before they admitted trouble was coming. Bjorn had never had that luxury. A man did not become president of a motorcycle club by ignoring the shift in the air, the wrong kind of silence, or the uneasy feeling that settled between his shoulder blades when something wasn't right. Trouble usually announced itself quietly first. A look held too long. A truck parked where it didn't belong. A man smiling with no warmth behind his eyes. That afternoon, trouble looked like a lonely stretch of Oklahoma highway and something dark lying in the grass near the ditch. The Hoggs Motorcycle Club rode behind him in formation, twenty-three bikes strong, their engines rumbling across the blacktop like a storm rolling over the plains. The sun was still high enough to turn the road silver in places, and the wind carried the smell of dry grass, cattle, and red dirt. It was the kind of day most men would call peaceful. Bjorn didn't trust peaceful. He rode at the front on his black Harley, his leather cut stretched across shoulders wide enough to make most men think twice before stepping too close. His blond hair whipped around his face, and the beard he kept trimmed to his collarbone shifted with the wind. At forty years old, he knew exactly what people saw when they looked at him. A giant. A biker. A threat. He didn't bother correcting them anymore. The truth was a hell of a lot more complicated. Before becoming president of The Hoggs, before opening his motorcycle garage outside town, before settling into civilian life, Bjorn had spent nearly a decade serving as an Army Green Beret. The military had taught him discipline, leadership, and how to survive under pressure. More importantly, it had taught him how quickly an ordinary day could become a tragedy. Behind him, Tank rode close enough to be seen in Bjorn's mirror. The man was built like somebody had stacked concrete blocks into the shape of a human being and taught it to cuss. Diesel rode on the other side, long-legged and loose, always acting like the world was one joke away from owing him money. Bones trailed a little farther back with Rook beside him, probably giving the kid advice he had no business giving. They were loud, rough, stubborn as hell, and loyal down to the marrow. They were also his. The ride back to the clubhouse should have been simple. They had spent the morning at a charity event outside Tulsa, handing out food, letting kids sit on their bikes, and raising money for a family whose little girl needed surgery. Nobody outside their circle ever seemed to care about that part of The Hoggs. People liked their stories cleaner than real life. Bikers were criminals. Men in suits were respectable. Women who stayed with monsters should have known better. Bjorn had learned early that most people believed whatever made them feel safest. The road curved slightly ahead, cutting between pastureland and a line of scrubby trees. A rusted fence ran along the right shoulder, leaning in places where cattle had pushed against it. Beyond that, the land opened wide and flat, broken only by oil pumps moving slow and steady in the distance. That was when Bjorn saw the shape. At first, he thought it was a trash bag. Oklahoma wind could scatter anything. Then the shape moved, just a little, and the hair on the back of his neck lifted. Bjorn eased off the throttle. The bikes behind him slowed at once. Tank pulled closer, his voice carrying over the fading engines. "Prez, what are we looking at?" Bjorn didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the ditch as the shape became clearer. Not trash. Not an animal. A woman. She lay half in the grass and half in the dirt, curled on her side like she had tried to make herself smaller even after there was no one left to hide from. Brown hair covered part of her face, tangled and darkened with blood. One arm was tucked beneath her body. Her clothes were torn and filthy, and her skin looked too pale against the red dirt beneath her. "Son of a b***h," Bjorn muttered. He swung his bike onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The rest of The Hoggs followed, gravel snapping beneath tires as they pulled off behind him. By the time his boots hit the ground, Bjorn was already moving. "Tank," he barked. "Get back to the clubhouse and bring the truck. Now." Tank didn't hesitate. "You got it, Prez." "Diesel, go with him." Diesel was already turning his bike around. "On it." The two men roared back toward town while Bjorn crossed the ditch. He forced himself to slow as he approached the woman. Rushing injured people usually made things worse. If she woke up to find a six-foot-five biker charging toward her, she would likely panic before she ever understood he was trying to help. Bjorn lowered himself to one knee beside her. Up close, she looked younger than he expected, though not young. Early thirties, maybe. Small. Five-three at most. Slim in a healthy way, though blood loss and shock had drained the color from her face. Years of Green Beret training took over before conscious thought had a chance to catch up. His eyes automatically assessed her condition. Her breathing was shallow but steady. No obvious chest trauma. Blood matted her hair near her temple, suggesting a head injury. One arm was pinned awkwardly beneath her body. Bruising darkened one side of her face. Shock worried him more than anything else. She had been out here too long. The realization settled heavily in his chest. Whatever had happened to her hadn't been an accident. Bones came up behind him but stopped several feet away. "How bad?" "Bad enough," Bjorn answered. Rook swallowed hard. "Should we call an ambulance?" Bjorn glanced toward the empty highway before returning his attention to the woman. The nearest emergency crew would take too long. His military training had taught him that severe injuries weren't always what killed people. Sometimes it was shock. Sometimes it was exposure. Sometimes it was simply waiting too long for help. Every minute mattered. "We're taking her ourselves," he said. "Truck will be faster." Bones nodded. Bjorn looked over his shoulder. "Spread out. Watch the road. Nobody pulls up on us without me knowing." The men moved immediately. That was the difference between a club and a group of boys playing dress-up. His men complained about plenty of things. Beer being warm. Women being complicated. Rook buying cheap boots that squeaked. But when Bjorn gave an order, they listened. The woman stirred. Bjorn turned back as her fingers dragged weakly through the dirt. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharp with fear when they landed on him. She tried to move away, but pain stopped her almost immediately. Bjorn lifted both hands. "Easy. I'm not touching you." Her breath hitched. "My name is Bjorn Davidson," he said carefully. "My club found you on the side of the road. You're hurt, but you're alive. My boys are getting a truck so we can take you to the hospital." Her eyes shifted behind him, catching on the motorcycles and the men standing watch nearby. Panic flashed across her face. Bjorn lowered his voice. "Nobody here is going to hurt you." She stared at him as though trying to decide whether those words were a promise or another lie. He hated that look. His mother had worn it for years. The woman licked dry lips. "Who..." Bjorn leaned slightly closer. "Who am I?" She gave the smallest nod. "Bjorn," he repeated. "President of The Hoggs." Her eyes closed. "No," he said firmly. "Stay with me." She opened them again. There it was. Stubbornness. A fighter's instinct. "Name?" he asked. She swallowed hard. "Samantha." Bjorn let the name settle between them. "Samantha. Good. You keep looking at me." Behind him, Rook shifted nervously. "Prez, there's blood in her hair." "I can see that." Bjorn growled out. Rook wisely shut up. Bones stepped closer. "Truck's about fifteen minutes out if Tank rides like Tank." Bjorn nodded. "Then we keep her awake for fifteen minutes." Samantha's gaze drifted toward the road. Her expression changed. Fear. Real fear. "He left me." Every man within earshot went still. Bjorn's jaw tightened. "Who left you?" "Travis." The name came out as little more than a whisper. Bones cursed under his breath. Bjorn didn't. Not yet. "What did Travis do?" "Took my money." Her eyes fluttered. "My car." Another breath. "My phone." The pieces came together quickly. A woman abandoned on a deserted road. No transportation. No way to call for help. No way to leave. Travis hadn't left her. Travis had intended for her to die. Bjorn leaned closer. "Listen to me, Samantha. Travis isn't here. I am." Her eyes searched his face. "You don't know me." "No," Bjorn admitted. "I don't." "Then why..." "Because you're lying in a ditch covered in blood, and I'm not the kind of man who keeps riding." Something softened in her expression. Not trust. But maybe the beginning of hope. The distant roar of an engine reached them first, then another. Bones looked over his shoulder and announced, "Truck's here." Bjorn looked toward the road as Tank's bike appeared first, with Diesel driving the club's black pickup close behind. The truck was old, heavy, and ugly as sin, but it ran like a beast and had enough room in the back seat to lay Samantha across it if they moved carefully. Tank parked hard on the shoulder and jumped out before the dust settled. "Got blankets." Diesel climbed down from the driver's side. "And I cleared the back." Bjorn nodded. "Bring them here." Samantha's breathing quickened as the men approached. Bjorn noticed immediately. Years of military training had taught him to recognize fear before people spoke it aloud. "Stop." Tank froze with the blankets still clutched in his hands. Bjorn turned back to Samantha. "They're only bringing blankets. I won't let anybody grab you." Her eyes stayed fixed on Tank. To his credit, Tank softened his voice. "Ma'am, I'm ugly, not mean." Samantha blinked. Bones snorted. "That's debatable." Tank shot him a look. "Shut up, Bones." The smallest sound escaped Samantha. Not quite a laugh, but close enough that Bjorn felt something unclench inside his chest. "That's Tank," he told her. "Big mouth. Bigger heart." Tank laid the blankets beside him and backed away. Bjorn unfolded one carefully. "Samantha, I need to get this under you so we can move you. I know it's going to hurt. I hate that. But we have to get you to a doctor." Fear returned to her eyes. "Don't let me fall." Bjorn met her gaze. "I won't." It took four men to move her safely, and Bjorn talked her through every second of it. He told her when Bones was going to support her shoulders. He told her when Tank was going to lift the blanket. He told her when he was sliding an arm beneath her knees. Even so, pain tore a broken cry from her when they lifted. Bjorn swallowed hard. "I know. I know, sweetheart. Almost there." Samantha clung weakly to the front of his cut, her fingers twisting into the leather. She weighed almost nothing in his arms, and that realization made him angrier than it should have. "I've got you," he said quietly. "You're not going back in that ditch." Diesel opened the back door of the truck. Bones spread another blanket across the seat while Tank hovered nearby looking ready to kill someone. Bjorn eased Samantha inside, careful with her head and injured arm. When she grabbed his wrist before he could step back, he stopped immediately. Her eyes opened halfway. "You're leaving?" The question was small. Too small. Like she'd already learned the answer from too many people before him. Bjorn looked at her blood-streaked face, at the fear she was trying and failing to hide, and at the empty road where Travis had driven away from what he had done. "No," he said quietly. "I'm riding with you." Then he looked at Bones. "Take my bike." Bones nodded once. "Got it, Prez." Tank shut the door once Bjorn climbed into the back seat beside Samantha. Diesel slid behind the wheel while the rest of The Hoggs mounted their motorcycles and formed around the truck like a moving wall. Samantha's eyes drifted closed again, but this time her fingers remained wrapped around Bjorn's wrist. He let her hold on. The truck pulled onto the highway and sped toward the hospital, red dirt rising behind them while the motorcycles followed close behind. Bjorn stared out the window, his reflection hard in the glass. He had known trouble was coming. He just hadn't known her name would be Samantha.