“This is the man I want my son to become,” Jessica said. “Not despite being a biker. Because of it. Because Dale taught me that real strength is using whatever you have left—even if it’s just six hours in a chair while poison drips into your arm—to help someone who needs you.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the church. Forty-three bikers who’d seen combat and bar fights and highway crashes wept openly for their brother.
Snake, who was standing nearby, knelt down to Emmett’s level. “Yeah, little man. Dale’s heart is all better now. Thanks to you.”
After the service, Jessica did something unexpected. She approached Repo, Dale’s oldest friend.
“Dale told me his bike was going to be sold,” she said. “To help with funeral costs. I want to buy it.”
Repo looked stunned. “Ma’am, you don’t ride—”
“Not for me,” Jessica explained. “For Emmett. When he’s old enough, I want him to learn to ride on Dale’s bike. I want him to know where he comes from. Not just from me and Marcus. From Dale. From that moment when a dying biker showed us what real love looks like.”
Repo couldn’t speak. He just nodded and pulled Jessica into a hug while Emmett patted both of their legs, saying “Okay. All okay.”
The Iron Wolves MC paid for Dale’s funeral. They refused to let Jessica buy the bike. Instead, they did something else.
They restored Dale’s 1987 Harley-Davidson completely. New engine, new paint, chrome shining. Then they put it in storage with a title in Emmett’s name. When Emmett turns sixteen, it’s his. Along with a letter from Dale that he’d written during one of his last lucid days.
