“Ma’am,” he said, voice rough with cold and cigarettes. “We’ve been riding twelve hours. The highway’s shut down. We need shelter. We’ll pay for food and coffee. We won’t cause trouble.”
Sarah’s instincts screamed lock the door. But then she saw the limp in his step, the fatigue in their faces. These weren’t threats tonight. They were travelers caught in the storm. Robert’s words echoed in her memory: Be a light for the lost. A home away from home.
The Angels entered quietly, careful not to crowd the space. They stomped snow from their boots, wiped them clean, held doors for one another. Intimidating, yes—but respectful. Sarah brewed coffee, warmed soup, and tried not to think about how little was left in her pantry.
As the night wore on, some played cards, others dozed in booths. One young rider, Dany, fell asleep at the counter—more college kid than outlaw. When he shivered, another biker draped a jacket over him. The armor cracked. Beneath it were fathers, brothers, veterans—men more worn than wicked.
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