A murmur rippled through the crowd. Caleb buried his face into Rachel’s side.
“The man she helped,” Ryder continued, “his name is Marcus. Around here, we call him Titan.”
Rachel’s breath caught. Titan. So he had a name beyond the patch.
“He’s alive because she didn’t walk away,” Ryder said. “Because she spent what little she had.”
Mrs. Peterson scoffed nervously. “So what? You’re here to scare us into silence?”
Ryder’s jaw tightened slightly. He lifted one hand, and two bikers stepped forward carrying something large between them, still partially hidden from view. “We don’t scare people who save our own,” Ryder said evenly. “We pay our debts.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.
The two men stepped fully into view, revealing a large rectangular board. Gasps erupted across the courtyard. It was a check—oversized, official, unmistakable. Rachel Morgan’s name was printed clearly across the front. The amount was so large her mind struggled to process it. Seventy-five thousand dollars.
The crowd went dead silent.
Ryder spoke again, his tone firm but not aggressive. “Every rider you see here contributed. Some gave a few hundred. Some gave thousands. Titan said she had eight dollars left to her name. Eight dollars she used on him.”
Rachel’s knees nearly buckled. Caleb looked up at her, confused by the tears streaming down her face.
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