**CHAPTER 16** **HOME**
*One year, three months, and a fistful of days later…*
The Rusty Spur no longer squatted like a toad at the edge of nowhere. It *stood*—paint fresh, neon whole, windows widened so the desert light could pour in and warm the scarred pine floor Sadie had sanded herself during the remodel. The corrugated roof still carried its memories, but the tin had been polished until it reflected sky like a dusty mirror, catching sunrise and sunset and every shade of hope between.
Sadie wiped down the bar at half-past two, humming off-key to Chris Stapleton drifting from new speakers Luna had conned out of a touring band in exchange for peach cobbler and free oil changes. The sound system didn’t hum anymore; it *sang*. Just like her life. Just like her heart.
She paused, palm flat to the wood, and let herself *feel* it—this place that had once been a last-ditch hiding hole now pulsed like a heartbeat in her chest. Hers. Theirs. *Home*.
The lunch stragglers had cleared out—truckers headed north, prospectors chasing lithium claims, a trio of tourists who’d taken wrong turn and found cold beer instead of regret. Even the jukebox had settled into afternoon slumber, content to nap until the evening rush roared in.
Sadie’s reflection glimmered in the pristine mirror behind the bar—not the fractured shards she’d stared at a lifetime ago, but solid glass, whole and bright. The woman staring back wore faded denim, sleeves rolled to show the fresh ink on her right forearm: a tiny compass, needle pointing to a stylized crown threaded through iron pistons. *Property of Jace* still rode her back, but the skin underneath had become hers in ways no one could brand or break.
Footsteps scuffed the porch. She didn’t flinch. Hadn’t in months. She knew the cadence of those boots like she knew her own pulse—steady, sure, *home*. The door swung open on oiled hinges, bell chiming soft, and he filled the frame—sun at his back, kutte worn soft, beard longer than last week, eyes the same storm-grey that still stopped her breath.
“Tiny,” Jace greeted, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “Thought I’d find you counting bottles.”
“Thought I’d find you *riding*,” she countered, grinning as he crossed to her. “Didn’t expect you ‘til dusk.”
He leaned across the bar, stealing a kiss that tasted of wind and engine oil and promises kept. “Ride finished early when Ryder’s primary belt grenaded outside Farmington. We towed, we drank, we promised to return tomorrow. Figured I’d come see my best girl before happy hour hit.”
She let him tug her around the bar, slotting her against him like puzzle pieces forged in fire. His hands spanned her hips, thumbs tracing belt loops she’d sewn herself—leather tooled with tiny marigolds. Luna’s teaching. *Growth* stitched into every petal.
“How’s Bear?” she asked against his neck.
“Walking without crutches, bitching without pause. Doc says full strength by fall. Kid’s talking about running Needles relay again.”
“Means you’ll lose money betting against him.”
“Worth every dime to watch him try.”
They swayed to the low music, no choreography needed—just two bodies learning the same rhythm the desert had taught them: survive, adapt, *thrive*. The Spur smelled of cedar and lime, of fresh coffee and old stories rewritten with every new sunrise.
Sadie let herself drift—flashback reel flickering behind closed lids: Victor’s perp-walk on every screen; headlines screaming *CARTEL KING DEMOTES SELF TO INMATE*; the slow, sweet realization that the world had *seen* her stand, had *watched* her choose, and had blinked in recognition of her sovereignty. The federal trial had taken nine months—nine months of testimony, of defense attorneys painting her as temptress and thief, of Victor’s cold stare across courtrooms. She’d worn the cut every day—*armor*, *uniform*, *declaration*. The jury had taken four hours to convict him on seventeen counts. Four hours to validate what had cost her years to claim.
Now Victor lived in super-max ADX—thirty-six square feet of concrete, sunlight piped through a slit four inches wide. She’d driven to Colorado once, stood outside the fence, felt nothing but wind. The ghost had no power over her anymore. The kingdom she’d built—banana bread and ballistic eyewear, truck-schedule logistics and trauma-response drills—had roots deeper than fear.
Jace pressed lips to her temple. “Spit it out, tiny. I hear gears grinding.”
She chuckled, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. “Just thinking how far we’ve dragged this bar outta the gutter. From broke-down hideout to *destination*. Tourists detour thirty miles for Luna’s tamales and our live music Saturdays.”
“Your doing,” he said simply. “You gave the Spur backbone. Folks feel safe here now. That’s currency round these parts.”
Safe. The word still shimmered inside her like Christmas lights—fragile but brilliant. She knew what safe *felt*—locks that engaged without trembling, sleep that descended without one eye cracked, mornings that broke with possibility instead of dread. She knew what safe *tasted*—Jace’s coffee at dawn, peach cobbler straight from oven, reposado on special occasions that used to be every-drink-forgotting. Safe sounded like engines returning, like Chris Stapleton on new speakers, like the *clink* of wedding rings against beer bottles when they toasted victories measured in breaths, not bullets.
Tonight would be another milestone—Spur’s first *anniversary* of her claiming. She’d planned open-mic storytelling: brothers sharing road tales, Maria reading poems in Spanish, Crystal’s little girl singing *Jolene* off-key. Community. *Home*. Words she’d whispered but never owned until the cut settled across her shoulders and refused to budge.
Jace nuzzled her hair. “Ryder wants to name the stage after you—*Queen’s Corner*. Says foot-traffic doubled since karaoke started.”
She snorted. “He just wants free beer for branding genius.”
“Still. You earned a throne.”
“Already got one,” she countered, tapping bar stool she’d claimed as command post. “Right here. Served justice and jalapeños from same seat.”
He laughed, the sound rumbling through her bones, grounding her to *now*. They broke apart reluctantly—she had prep, he had calls: supplier negotiations, border-run logistics, the endless chess of keeping an empire humming.
“Need me to pick up anything in town?” he asked, heading for the door.
She thought of list scrawled in office—printer paper, limes, those tiny battery-tea-lights for centerpieces. “Grab marigolds if Mrs. Ortega has any left. Table décor.”
He saluted two-fingered, swaggering into sunlight that painted his outline gold. She watched until Harley rumble faded, then turned back to her kingdom—small, scarred, *spectacular*.
– – –
**FLASH – SIX MONTHS EARLIER**
Court-house steps, Denver. Snow fell like quiet accusations. Cameras jostled, microphones bristled. She stood at podium wrapped in club-cut over wool coat, Jace at her shoulder, Bear flanking on crutches.
“Ms. Holbrook—any comment on defense calling you vindictive ex-lover?”
She leaned in, breath fogging frigid air. “Call me vindictive. Call me ex. But call me *truthful*. Victor Valdez built an empire on poison and fear. Today that empire *crumbles* under evidence, not vengeance. I’m simply the voice he couldn’t silence.”
Reporters shouted follow-ups. She stepped back, let federal prosecutor take heat. Jace squeezed her elbow—pride and possession in one gesture. Later, in restroom mirror, she’d stared at reflection: same green eyes, same crooked nose, but shoulders back, spine steel. *Survivor*, not *victim*. Word made flesh.
Verdict had taken four hours. Guilty on all seventeen counts. Victor’s mask slipped—raw fury, disbelief. She’d met his stare, felt *nothing*—no flutter, no freeze. He was behind glass now, and she was *free*.
Media labeled her *cartel-slayer*, *biker-queen*, *justice-journalist*. She preferred *Sadie*—bartender, sketch-artist, wife, *free woman*.
– – –
**PRESENT – SUNSET**
Tables filled slow then all-at-once—prospects bussing empties, toddlers dancing between chairs, locals squeezing onto benches like long-lost kin. Sadie moved through it effortless—refill here, joke there, pat on back that said *seen*. She caught snippets:
– “…heard Kings hauling freight legit now—state contract…” – “…pie competition at county fair—Luna entering peach, Sadie doing pecan bourbon…” – “…kid got scholarship—club fund, can you believe it? Outlaws paying tuition…”
Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Heart *full*.
Stage—really just pallets painted black—hosted first storyteller: Old miner recounting uranium claims gone bust, voice whiskey-rough, crowd hushed. Sadie leaned bar-side, arms crossed, soaking cadence that felt like desert itself—harsh, enduring, *real*.
Jace found her during intermission, sliding arm around waist. “Crowd likes your corner,” he murmured. “Heard three podcasts want interviews. You becoming celebrity.”
“Celebrity sells beer,” she shrugged, secretly pleased. Visibility was armor—every camera another witness that cartel couldn’t erase.
Later, Crystal’s girl—seven, gap-toothed—climbed stage, clutched toy guitar, proceeded to murder *Jolene* in most adorable fashion. Audience clapped off-beat; Sadie teared up behind tray of shot-glasses. *This*—this was victory unmeasured by body-counts, charted in community and courage and crappy off-key anthems.
When moon hung high and lanterns glowed gold, Jace tapped mic. Crowd hushed—instinctive deference bred by respect, not fear.
“Brothers, sisters, neighbors—thank you for sharing night with us. One year ago this woman—” he tugged Sadie forward, “—stood knee-deep in cartel blood and chose *us*. Chose *desert*. Chose *fight*. Tonight we celebrate *that choice*—and all roads it opens.”
He lifted glass. “To Sadie—who taught iron to *bend* and taught us *home* is verb, not noun.”
Glasses rose—thunder of voices: “To Sadie!”
She swallowed tears, raised own glass. “To choosing—again and again—until breath runs out.”
Mariachi struck triumphant chord; audience cheered. Fireworks—club tradition—lit behind stage: fountains of gold, silver sparks blooming like desert stars. Children squealed; couples kissed; elders wiped eyes.
Sadie felt Jace’s hand slide into hers—callused, warm, *constant*. She squeezed back, heart full-to-bursting.
– – –
**LATER – AFTERGLOW**
Courtyard emptied slow—prospects sweeping streamers, couples folding chairs. Sadie sat porch step, boots dust-coated, head on Jace’s shoulder. Torches hissed low; crickets sang. Scent of gunpowmer gave way to night-blooming jasmine she’d had planted along fence.
He traced idle pattern on her thigh—absent, content. “Think we pulled it off? Community, business, family—whole package?”
She smiled against denim. “We’re *pulling*. Present tense. Package gets bigger every sunrise we choose to stay.”
He hummed agreement. “Bear wants charter vote—petition to name you official *First Lady* patch, not property tag. Means seat at table, vote on biz, full constitutional power.”
“Property tag got me here,” she said softly. “But seat sounds nice too. I’ll earn it—same way earned this bar, that stage, *you*.”
He kissed hair. “You earned the *world*, tiny. We’re just wrapping it slow so you notice.”
They sat in silence—moonlight bathing dust silver, hearts syncing engine-idle rhythm. Far off, coyotes howled—lonely answered by belonging.
Finally she stood, stretched, offered hand. “Take me inside, husband. I want to show my king how queens *celebrate* anniversaries.”
His grin flashed white—promise and heat and forever. He took her hand, let her lead him toward lights glowing warm through windows.
Behind them porch-light stayed on—beacon for brothers still rolling in, for kids chasing fireflies, for anyone lost enough to need direction *home*.
Desert kept its secrets—but tonight it whispered one loud enough for her heart to hear:
*You are no longer passenger.* *You are no longer prey.* *You are driver, defender, *dweller*. *You are—finally, ferociously—*home**.*
She closed door on wind, on stars, on past. Inside waited arms that never pushed, only anchored; laughter that never mocked, only lifted; future written in boot-scuffs and banana-bread crumbs and sketches taped to fridge.
She chose it. She *stayed*.
And the kingdom of iron and scarred hearts beat on—protector, protected, *profound*.
**END**