The agreement was a distinct entity. The reality was a completely different matter.
When the adrenaline wore off, a different type of fear took over. I was 52 years old. The guys in the Iron Brotherhood were my brothers. We were all veterans, ex-cons, mechanics, and bartenders. We know how to put a ’68 Panhead back together from scratch. We knew how to get through a gunfight. We could clear a bar in less than thirty seconds.
We didn’t know anything about taking care of a baby.
The first week was a disaster. While they looked into the situation, social services put Hope in temporary foster care. However, they gave us, as her “rescuers,” the opportunity to visit her.
When
“Okay,” Doc said in a voice that was considerably too loud. “Who’s first?”
We all stared at each other. Tank, somebody who can press 400 pounds and has “NO REGRETS” tattooed on his neck, was obviously sweating. “Not me, man.” “I’ll break it.”
I let out a sigh and moved forward. I hadn’t held a baby since my daughter Sarah, who died in an accident with my wife. I was shaking my hands. I reached in and picked her up. She felt like nothing since she was so light. She had a fragrance like milk and powder.
That was all it took for her to open her eyes. End of the game.
In
I told my brothers, “Her name is Hope,” and my voice was thick. “And we’re not letting her go.”
The legal battle was the worst I had ever fought, and I had fought in two wars in the desert.
The state prosecutor was a well-dressed man with sleek hair who presumably had a suit that cost more than my bike. He called us “a dangerous, unstable, and violent group.” He discussed our past, including the DUIs and bar fights we had a long time ago. He said we were a “gang.”
He had remarked, “Your Honor, you can’t really think about giving a newborn baby to a group of these men.”
I sat there with my knuckles white on the railing, wearing a poor suit I had bought at a thrift store. I wanted to hurt him.
But our lawyer, a tough public defender who owed Doc a favor, got up. “Your Honor,” she responded, “these men aren’t a gang.” They are a 501(c)(3) charity that is registered. They are veterans. They spend their weekends gathering money for shelters for the homeless and collecting toys for youngsters.
Then she called her first witness. The nurse in the ER from St. Catherine’s.
The nurse responded, “I’ve never seen anything like it,” and looked right at me. “Ten men who looked like the toughest guys on the planet waited in that hallway for five hours. They were quiet. They just sat there and waited. And Mr. Dalton here cried when the doctor announced the baby was fine.
The judge turned to me. I looked back and refused to be ashamed of it.
Then Doc gave his testimony. Then Tank. Then Ghost. My brothers, these “violent” men, each told about how they felt that night. They talked about duty, honor, and a vow made to a woman who was dying in the snow.
The judge finally looked at me. “Mr. Dalton, why you? You are not married. You own a store that fixes motorcycles. What could you possibly give this child?
I got up. I didn’t have a speech ready. I just talked.
“Your Honor,” I murmured, my voice hoarse. “I’m not going to stand here and say that I’m perfect.” No, I’m not. We swear too much, are loud, and are rough. But I can say this… On a night when God himself must have looked away, the tiny child was born into a world that didn’t want her. “Her mother died to give her a chance.”
I took a long breath. “Your Honor, I lost my daughter. I lost my family. I believed that part of my life was over. I thought I was done. But then I held that baby. I promise you, and I promise God… She will never, ever, for even one second of her life, feel unwanted. She won’t ever be cold again. She will have more than one father. She will have ten. And we shall die before we allow anything to happen to her.
There was complete silence in the courtroom.
The judge looked at me for a long time. Then he turned to the prosecutor.
He hit his gavel and said, “Mr. Dalton.” “You and your brothers may not look perfect, but this court can see that this child already has a family.” “Permanent custody granted.”
I guess I lost consciousness for a moment. I didn’t know what was going on until Tank was hugging me and Doc was hitting my back. The whole courtroom was seeing ten tattooed bikers cry like kids.
We took her home to the clubhouse. My little apartment was on the second floor. It turned into her nursery.
The Iron Brotherhood learned about diapers. We learned about colicky babies. We found out that a baby wailing is more frightening than mortar fire coming in. We started a “Hope Watch” that changes every so often. A 250-pound biker dubbed “Ghost” would feed her at 2 a.m. and hum Metallica songs to her until she fell back asleep.
“Dada” wasn’t her first word. The answer was “Bear.”
The first steps she took weren’t on a soft carpet. As she walked near the chrome headlight of a Harley, they were on the floor of my garage, which was covered in grease.
We were a damaged, lovely, and strange family. While I was welding a frame, she would be 10 feet away in a playpen, talking to the sparks. My brothers became her uncles. Doc taught her how to read. Tank taught her how to speak up for herself. Ghost showed her how to be silent and simply listen.
I showed her how to ride. I gave her a tricycle, then a bicycle, and finally, on her sixteenth birthday, I presented her a vintage ’78 Sportster that I had restored particularly for her.
She was wonderful. She was smarter, funnier, and tougher than any of us. But she had my eyes and her mother’s.
Not everything was easy. A kid at school informed her she was a “freak” because she had “ten weird dads and no mom” when she was twelve.
She came home crying, and for the first time since the courtroom, I felt that white-hot wrath. My brothers had to stop me from going to that kid’s house.
I put her down instead. It was time.
“Hope,” I muttered, and my heart felt like it was going to break. “We need to tell you something. “About the night you were born.
We took her to a little, quiet graveyard on the outskirts of town. We buried Emily Carter a long time ago. We were the only ones there for her burial.
We stopped in front of a plain grave marker that said “EMILY.” A MOTHER. She gave all for hope.
I told her all of it. The snow. The restaurant. The lights are on the front of the car. The last thing her mother said. I informed her what her name meant.
She remained there, not saying anything, and traced the letters on the cold stone. The wind was blowing, just like it did that night.
Hope muttered, “She was brave,” as tears streamed down her face.
I said, “She was a warrior,” and pulled her into my arms. “Just like you.”
I held her while she cried. I told her, “You have her blood, kid.” “But you have our name.” You are a part of the Iron Brotherhood. Always remember that.
She never did.
This ultimately led to the celebration of her 18th birthday.
We had the celebration in the clubhouse. We took all the motorcycles out. There were balloons and streamers stuck to the engine hoists. There were many bikers from Colorado there.
We had created a small stage, and Hope was standing on it, gleaming. She was going to college in the fall with a full scholarship.
She hit the microphone. “Hey everyone.” “Can I… can I say something?”
The room got quiet.
“I know my story,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “I know I’m the ‘miracle baby’ who was born in the snow.”
She looked around the room and saw all of my brothers. Tank, Doc, Ghost, and everyone else. Then she looked at me.
“For a long time, people talked about how you all saved me,” she remarked, her voice breaking. “But I think we all know what’s true.”
She took a deep breath, and tears started to flow. “You didn’t only keep me warm. You saved me from a life of being alone. You saved me from becoming a number. You showed me what it is to be honorable. You showed me what it is to be faithful. You taught me that family isn’t just about people you share blood with. It’s about who comes. It’s about who rides into the storm for you when the world is chilly.
She stared right at me. “Before I even took my first breath, Dad, you saved me.”
I wasn’t the only one. The Iron Brotherhood was made up of people who were all broken. Tank was trying to cover his face with his beard. Doc was crying out loud.
“You saved me,” she repeated, “but I also believe that I saved you as well.”
She lifted her glass. “Hope is my name. And I am the proud daughter of Jack “Bear” Dalton and the Iron Brotherhood.” I am grateful for your presence in my life.
The clubhouse went crazy. I couldn’t even get up. I stood there, a 280-pound man, completely broken and remade by this little girl.
It was only me and her after everyone else had left that night. We stood outdoors in the dark. The air was fresh.
I muttered, “She would be so proud of you, kid,” thinking of Emily.
“I hope so,” Hope replied, resting her head on my shoulder. “But Dad… I’m only trying to be as brave as you.
I put my arm over her, and my leather jacket creaked. I looked up at the sky. The emptiness in my heart that had been there since my first family died was gone. This female had filled it up, piece by piece.
That night in Denver, eight bikers rode into the worst storm of their lives. We thought we were helping a baby.
But we were incorrect.
We were saving ourselves.
