Nine Years of Sundays

Twelve years ago I got in my car and left Bitterroot in the rearview, and I told myself the man in the doorway was a mistake I'd already made. I'm a nurse. I know a bad prognosis when I see one. Now my brother has a parole hearing in ten days and a lawyer who says the board will want a statement from family, and the only family he's got is me and the president of the Sons of Sunday. Bull McCafferty is fifty-two years old. He runs a club with a fence problem and a federal problem and a guest room my brother is sleeping in. He's kept his mouth shut about me for twelve years. He's kept my brother alive for three. I came back for a week. I brought a suitcase that says so. Nine years of Sundays and one drive home — an age gap motorcycle club romance about the second half of a life and the woman still deciding whether to spend it in Montana.