Not the desperate pounding of someone in danger. Not the impatient knocking of a neighbor. Just a tiny, stubborn tapping that refused to stop.
Ridge groaned softly and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment. In his years riding with the Silver Iron Brotherhood, he had learned that late-night knocks rarely brought good news. Still, the sound continued, steady and patient, as if whoever stood outside had all the time in the world.
He finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, grabbing the heavy flashlight he kept by the door. His boots thudded softly against the wooden floor as he crossed the living room. The house smelled faintly of motor oil and cold metal from the half-disassembled motorcycle engine sitting on his workbench.
When Ridge opened the door, the freezing air hit him like a slap.
But the sight waiting on the porch made the cold irrelevant.
