Beyond the Horizon (Sons of Templar MC #4)(22)

I watched in amazement as Lucky’s eyes took her in with hunger in his gaze. Well, not amazement really, she was hot, and he was a renowned ladies’ man.

She was having none of that.

She pushed off the doorway, glaring at him. Taking my hand, she gave me a worried glance before directing her anger at Lucky, stepping in front of me and right in his grill. That girl had no fear. It would be the death of her one day.

“You keep your biker mitts off her. I don’t know what you f*ckers have done to her already, but if it’s anything bad, I’ll be coming back here with Molotov cocktails. Capice?” she hissed, not intimidated by his hard stare, his size, his muscles, or the general air of danger around him.

She didn’t wait for his response before she dragged me out the door as gently as she could. Before we reached the gravel forecourt, she turned to me, thrusting flip flops I hadn’t noticed she was holding. She took my wedges.

“Put these on, babe,” she said softly, her eyes darting around as if she was expecting a surprise attack.

I did as instructed. “How did you know I’d need these?” I asked in amazement.

She raised an eyebrow. “This is far from my first rodeo, girlfriend. Though, I know it’s yours.” Her brows furrowed and she resumed dragging me to the beat up hatchback we shared. Funds didn’t allow for us to both have a car.

“Fucking bikers,” she muttered under her breath.

Once we were safely in the car and had the compound in her rear view, worried eyes darted to me.

“Want to talk about it?”

I looked out the window. “Not really.”

I saw her nod in my peripheral. “Just need to know, did the f*cker hurt you?” Her voice was ice.

I didn’t move my gaze. “No,” I whispered, “that’s the problem.”





Two Days Later



“Cancer?” I repeated in a tortured voice.

My mom smiled a sad smile, squeezing my hand. “Yeah, baby. Not the best news I’ve had.”

I gaped at her, tears welling in my eyes, refusing to believe this. “No, no. They’ve made some kind of mistake. Doctors do that all the time, take out the wrong organ, mix up babies. This is wrong,” I declared firmly.

My mom was calm. “As much as I admire your distrust of the public system, they are right this time,” she said, her voice light.

I shook my head, a thousand thoughts dancing around in it. I’d only just arrived home, Mom had called me and asked me to come home for dinner. I had sent her a text two days before, explaining I was going straight back to Tasman Springs, lying about an assignment I needed to get done.

I’d assumed she wanted to grill me about my night with Asher, as I had been dodging any contact for two days, wallowing in pity, unable to handle having to provide the details I knew Mom would demand. I was bracing, rehearsing it, reopening wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal.

Instead, she told me this.

One little word tore through every inch of me.

I stared in her eyes, the vibrant ice blue ones with little to no wrinkles around them. The only lines that were there were a result of eleven years of happiness, of laughter. The horror that she endured for years before that was nowhere to be seen on her face, those scars lay down somewhere, I knew. Her beautiful blonde hair was yet to be streaked with gray, and she had it bound in a braid to the side of her head. She was wearing her usual array of colors and textures. She didn’t look sick. She looked as she always did.

“When d-did you f-find this out?” I stuttered, grasping at what this meant.

She squeezed my hand. “Yesterday,” she told me quietly.

Yesterday. Razorblades chewed at my stomach. I had been worrying about my own inconsequential self, my mom was facing this news alone. I’d been avoiding contact with her because I couldn’t cope with voicing something that was dwarfed by the news she’d been dealing with.

I blinked away tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. “I would have come, I would have—”

“Peanut, I didn’t want you to have to be dragged along to some depressing hospital.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Those places are full of germs anyway. I wouldn’t want you catching something for my sake,” she continued, thinking of anyone but herself, like always.

“Mom, I would’ve come. I would’ve been there for you,” I declared shakily. “It’s fixable, right? They can fix you?” I continued. My frantic mind clung to the fact that she didn’t look sick, so she couldn’t be that sick. They found it early. They’d fix her.

She squeezed my hand. “We give this positive thought, and I’m sure the universe will heal me. It wouldn’t be so cruel to take me away without seeing my baby girl set the world on fire,” she replied with a small smile.

She was wrong.

The universe was that cruel.

Cruel enough to plague my mother, the woman who ate only organic, vegetarian, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, with a disease that took everything from her.

That also took everything from me.





I opened the door to the persistent pounding that had penetrated the sound of the loud music playing in the house. Mom was in the studio out back, switched off to the world. She was feeling inspired again, I didn’t want to interrupt her if painting got her through right now, I’d give it to her. I’d been lying on my old bed staring at the ceiling, feeling too numb to cry, or to do anything. I’d been Googling Pancreatic cancer for a while, but the low survival rates and the description had me first running to the bathroom to throw up, then bursting into a fit of tears.