Her Name on the Clubhouse Wall

Eleven years I ran the Willamette Hounds with Ryann Sokolov at my back. She was my Sergeant at Arms. She was my wife in everything but paperwork. She was the only person I ever answered to. Then I slept with a clubhouse bartender eight months and got caught at the Christmas party, and she walked out of the clubhouse in front of sixty people who all knew I did it. Eighteen months later the routes are blown, the Mongols won't take my calls, and the only person on the West Coast they'll still sit down with is Ryann. I show up at her tow yard and she looks at me like I'm a customer. She'll help. For a price. Her name on the clubhouse wall. A vote at the table. And my gavel. I should have offered it eighteen months ago. I'm offering it now. I just don't know if it's enough to get her to sit down beside me again.