The baby had been left on a wooden bench beneath an old sycamore tree. She was wrapped in a thin hospital blanket already stiff with frost. A folded piece of paper had been pinned to the fabric with shaking hands.
“No one’s child.”
That was all it said.
Across the empty park, the thunder of a motorcycle shattered the stillness. The engine growled low and dangerous, echoing against frozen pavement. The rider slowed as he approached the traffic light bordering the park entrance. His name was Rhett Callahan—thirty-eight years old, former Marine, patched member of the Iron Legion Motorcycle Club. His arms were a canvas of ink: skulls, dates, faded flags, names of brothers lost overseas and on the road. Most people crossed the street when they saw him.
He preferred it that way.
Rhett wasn’t supposed to be in that part of town. He had just left the club garage after a tense meeting about a land dispute with a local developer. His mind was elsewhere when he heard it—a thin, fragile sound swallowed by wind.
A cry.
He almost missed it. The engine roared again as he shifted gears, and for a split second, he considered riding on. Cedar Falls was full of stray cats, drunk college kids, and trouble that wasn’t his. He didn’t rescue anything anymore.
