“We need shelter, please.”
CEO Biker and Her 20 Women Saved Bankrupt Marine Single Dad
The wind howled across the the Colorado ridgeline, flinging snow sideways against the weathered sign of the Northstar Lodge. The wooden plaque swung on rusted hinges, its carved star barely visible beneath layers of fresh powder. Inside, Jack Sullivan stood alone behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the chill.
A single lamp cast long shadows across the empty room.
Jack pulled a small cash box from beneath the bar and tipped its contents onto the scarred oak surface. Bills fluttered like exhausted birds.
Two twenties, a ten, three crumpled ones, and a scatter of coins. He counted twice, though the result wouldn’t change.
Sixty-three dollars.
The meager sum seemed to mock him in the dim light. Next to the cash sat a white number envelope bearing the bank’s insignia in cold blue print. Jack unfolded the notice again, though he’d memorized every word.
Final notice of foreclosure.
Amount due: $18,000. Deadline: ten days.
Ten days until a stranger with a clipboard would come to lock the doors of Northstar Lodge, the business he’d built from his Marine savings and sweat. From the back hallway came soft, even breathing.
Eight-year-old Lily slept curled under the quilt Jack’s late wife had sewn, the one patterned with tiny stars that had faded with each washing.
He pictured her tumble of chestnut curls against the pillow, and for a moment the tightness in his chest loosened. She couldn’t know. Not tonight.
Maybe not ever, if he could find a miracle.
Jack set the envelope aside and reached for a rag to polish the bar top, though it was already clean. The motion calmed him—slow circles over scarred oak, the smell of lemon oil mingling with woodsmoke.
The Northstar had been his gamble after coming home from his second tour, a place for travelers and hunters, built on the promise that even in these mountains, people needed somewhere to gather. For a while, summer tourists and autumn hunting parties had kept it alive.
But winters were merciless, and last October’s freak storm had scared off the final wave of guests, damaging the roof and draining his repair budget.
The blizzard outside growled louder, rattling windows in their frames. Jack checked his watch. 11:47 p.m.
Too late for customers, too early for surrender.
His phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Madison Developers’ development manager.
The company had been circling his property for months, eager to acquire the strategic mountainside location for their luxury resort plans. Just checking in on your decision, Jack.
Our offer stands until your deadline.
Let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be. Jack’s jaw tightened. He’d sooner burn the Northstar to the ground than sell to those vultures.
The lodge wasn’t just timber and nails.
It was his promise to Emily that he’d build something permanent after years of deployment, a legacy for Lily. When cancer took her mother three years ago—
His phone buzzed again.
Remember, foreclosure records are public. Your reputation in town matters.
Jack powered off the phone, his throat tight with frustration.
Beyond being his livelihood, the Northstar supplemented its income by providing meals to road crews and powerline workers through winter contracts. Those steady arrangements had helped keep them afloat until the medical bills from Emily’s treatment created a hole too deep to climb out of. Now the vultures were circling, waiting for him to fail.
As long as I’m breathing, the Northstar will never belong to them, Jack thought, his resolve hardening like the ice outside.
He stepped to the front window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. Nothing but white chaos met his gaze.
The mountain road beyond had vanished under snowdrifts. No one would drive up here tonight.
The sudden sound froze him in place.
At first, he thought it was the wind shifting ice off the roof, but the rhythm was wrong. A deep mechanical rumble cut through the storm’s howl. Jack strained to listen, his military instincts cataloging possibilities.
Snowplow.
Logging truck. But the sound grew clearer—engines in perfect unison.
Motorcycles. In a blizzard.
At midnight.
Beyond the swirling snow, faint amber glows pulsed low and steady. His mind raced. Nobody rode in conditions like this unless they had a death wish or no choice.
The glow sharpened into beams of light cutting through the whiteout.
At least twenty headlamps formed a constellation of moving stars, each haloed by snow. Jack’s pulse quickened.
His first instinct was pure Marine training: assess, secure. He checked the shotgun under the bar—not to use, just to know it was there.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
