She Kept the Club Running

Eleven years I've run the Flint Hills Vipers' clubhouse. The kitchen, the bar, the books, the garage. I made the club solvent. I made it comfortable. I made it a home. For six of those years, I made Deacon a home too. Then he started bringing a woman from Hays around the clubhouse, one brother at a time, until there was no pretending she wasn't his. I fired her from the kitchen. I gave him back his key. And then I stopped doing the one thing nobody in that club ever thanked me for: I stopped doing the books. Four months later, the club is underwater, the inspector's been called, and Deacon is standing at my front door on a Sunday morning with a ledger in his hand. He wants me to name my price. I have three. And I'm not moving on a single one.