Jax Masters has never met a man’s mother.

She’s thirty-nine years old, she’s been shot twice, and she has walked into a house with four armed men in it feeling calmer than she feels on a county highway in Alabama with a dress hanging behind her head.

There are sixty-one people in that yard by four o’clock. One of them has been keeping a secret about a mortgage. One of them is about to tell Jax that Dodge Sager made his own biscuits at eleven years old.

I wrote this one for you.

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