The Orphaned Little Girl In The Bakery And Her Biker Father
CHAPTER 2: THE SCENT OF VANILLA AND LEATHER
The morning sun illuminated the dust motes dancing in the bakery air as Travis Thorne knelt on the oak floorboards, his face buried in his seven-year-old daughter’s soft hair.
Around them, the bakery had come to an absolute, reverent standstill. Martha, the white-haired baker whose family had run the shop for forty years, pressed an apron to her mouth to stifle a weeping gasp. Two elderly patrons sitting by the front window wiped their eyes in silent, profound disbelief, their coffee mugs forgotten on the marble table.
For seven agonizing years, Travis had carried a dark, hollow grave inside his chest.
Seven years ago, when Lauren Vance was eight months pregnant with their child, she had been involved in a devastating rollover car crash along the rocky cliffs of Devil’s Backbone outside Wimberley. Local authorities had informed Travis that Lauren’s vehicle had caught fire and plunged into the river ravine, leaving no identifiable remains. Broken with grief, Travis had nearly destroyed himself, finding solace only in the strict brotherhood of the Iron Reapers and endless miles on the Texas highways.
Now, holding the living, breathing flesh and blood of the woman he had loved more than life itself, Travis felt the foundations of his reality shatter and reform in a single heartbeat.
‘Hannah…’ Travis wept softly, his massive, scarred hands cradling the back of her head with infinite gentleness. ‘My sweet baby girl… I’m here. Daddy’s right here. You’re never going to be alone again.’
Hannah buried her face into the thick leather of his vest, her small fingers clutching the lapels with the desperate strength of a drowning child. The warm, masculine scent of cedar, road wind, and leather enveloped her, completely chasing away the cold terror that had haunted her since her mother’s burial.
Gently, Travis pulled back, his tear-filled hazel eyes searching every contour of his daughter’s face. He saw Lauren’s high cheekbones, Lauren’s delicate nose, and the unmistakable, deep hazel eyes that matched his own.
‘Look at you…’ Travis whispered, wiping a tear from her soft cheek with his calloused thumb. ‘You have her smile. You have your mama’s beautiful eyes.’
Hannah sniffled, resting her forehead against his chest. ‘Mom talked about you every night, Daddy. She told me you were strong like an iron mountain, and that if I ever found you, nobody in the whole world could ever hurt me.’
Travis looked down at the yellowed letter still gripped in his right hand. He unfolded the lined paper completely, his eyes racing across the desperate, elegant words Lauren had penned in her final days:
Travis, my love. If you are reading this, our little girl made it to your arms, and my battle with cancer is finally over. I am so sorry for the seven years of silence. When the car crashed on Devil’s Backbone, it wasn’t an accident. My uncle Victor Vance staged the wreck. He threatened to kill you and our unborn child if I ever contacted you, because he knew my grandfather’s will left the three-hundred-acre river ranch directly to my heirs. Victor hid me in a remote rental cabin in Blanco, forging my death certificate to seize the trust assets.
Travis’s jaw clenched so hard the tendons bulged like thick cables along his neck. His teeth ground together in a fury so black, so volcanic, that the air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
Victor kept me isolated, controlling my medication and threatening Hannah’s life if I stepped out of line, the letter continued. When the oncologist told me I had only weeks left, I hid three thousand dollars from my grocery allowance inside this envelope. I told Hannah that when I went to sleep, she had to run to Kerrville and find the man wearing the roaring reaper patch at Sunrise Hearth. Victor will try to take her to keep the ranch title, Travis. Protect our baby. She is your daughter. She is your blood.
Travis lowered the letter, his vision burning with cold, lethal clarity.
Victor Vance. The prominent, wealthy probate attorney who sat on the Kerrville city council and owned half the commercial strip centers along the river. The monster who had stolen seven years of his daughter’s life, tormented Lauren to her grave, and was now hunting this innocent child for real estate greed.
Martha stepped around the wooden counter, her eyes bright with tears as she carried a porcelain mug of warm hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and a freshly baked cinnamon roll.
‘Travis…’ Martha whispered gently, kneeling beside him on the floor. ‘Take her into the back office. Let her eat something warm.’
Travis nodded, lifting Hannah effortlessly into his arms as if she were made of air. Hannah rested her head against his shoulder, clutching her pink sweater as Travis carried her into the private back office.
As Martha clicked the office door shut, the heavy rumble of four customized motorcycles shook the front glass of the bakery.
Colt Sterling, the president of the Iron Reapers, had arrived with three club enforcers for their Tuesday morning breakfast. But as Colt pushed the front door open, the sight of Martha’s tearful face and the empty aisle stopped the veteran president in his tracks.
‘Martha?’ Colt asked, his gravelly voice dropping into sharp alertness. ‘Where’s Rebel?’
Martha pointed a trembling finger toward the office door. ‘Colt… you need to go in there right now. Rebel’s whole life just walked through that front door.’
