My cheeks warmed even alone. I knew what I wanted in a technical sense—what skin against skin could do to a careful mind, how the right kind of man could make control feel like a suggestion. Not nice, not gentle. He wouldn’t ask for a spreadsheet. He’d ask for me. With his mouth. With his hands. With a look that said obedience and undoing could be the same thing, if I let them.
I closed my eyes and pressed my knuckles to my sternum like I could calm the flutter there. Ridiculous. This was not Chicago with its crowded bars and soft lighting designed to makeeveryone look more interested. This was an island. The only men nearby were fishermen and golfers.
The thought should have cured me of the ache. It didn’t. It only made it sound louder in the quiet.
“Enough,” I told myself. “Enough.”
2
GIDEON
The wind cut through the Bitterroot Valley like a blade I'd sharpened myself, whistling low and insistent as it tugged at the edges of my jacket.
Montana in autumn was a thing of brutal beauty—golden aspens shivering against granite peaks, the sky a vast, indifferent blue that stretched forever, broken only by the jagged spine of the Rockies. Rivers carved through the landscape like veins, cold and clear, carrying secrets from the high country down to the plains. Elk bugled in the distance, their calls echoing off the cliffs, a reminder that life went on here whether you were part of it or not.
I'd been out here for three weeks now, just me and the horse I'd rented from old man Harlan at the trailhead. He called her Daisy, which struck me as ridiculous for a beast like her—a sturdy Appaloosa with a coat speckled like fresh snow on slate. She didn't complain, plodding along the narrow paths with the kind of quiet endurance I respected.
We moved slow, deliberate, skirting the higher elevations where the snow had already dusted the passes. I wasn't hereto conquer anything; that was for tourists with their selfies and energy bars. I was here to disappear into it, let the land swallow me whole until the only rhythm was my breath and her hooves on the dirt.
In the military, they called me the wolf. I was the one they sent ahead, alone, to sniff out the enemy before the team even laced up their boots. I'd crawl through mud or sand or whatever godforsaken terrain they dropped me in, silent as the wind I'd grown up with. Sometimes it ended with a knife—quick, intimate, the poetry of it sinking in as life ebbed out under my hands.
I didn't love the blood; it was sticky, warm, a mess that lingered on your skin no matter how many times you washed. But there was a righteousness to it, a clean line drawn between good and evil. Life taking life, the way nature intended. A predator culling the herd. It kept the world spinning, or at least that's what I told myself on nights when sleep wouldn't come.
Montana was supposed to be my reset, the infrequent breaks where I shed the uniform and remembered who I was before the orders and the ops. But who was that, really? A boy from a ranch that no longer felt like home.
The Dane spread lay just over the next ridge, a place I'd avoided like a live wire since I was old enough to saddle up and ride away. Too many memories there, buried deep in the soil like roots I couldn't dig out without tearing myself apart. My father—always, my father. He'd been the anchor, the one who taught us how to track a deer without snapping a twig, how to read the weather in the shift of the clouds. Boisterous, larger than life, with a laugh that could fill the valley. And then he was gone, vanished into whatever void swallows good men too soon.
I felt it keenest, they said. My brothers grieved in their ways—anger, denial, turning inward. But me? I'd been the loud one once, the kid who chased fireflies and hollered at the moon.After Dad, the words dried up. The laughter, too. I took to the trails, learning the art of solitude from the land itself. It suited me, or so I thought. Now, it was just habit, a cage I'd built bar by bar without ever looking for the key.
Daisy snorted as we crested a hill, her ears flicking at the scent of pine and damp earth. I reined her in, dismounting like I’d done a thousand times.
The view opened up below us: rolling meadows dotted with wildflowers fading to brown, the river glinting like a silver thread in the afternoon sun. It was postcard perfect, the kind of scene that made city folk weep and buy overpriced real estate.
But it did nothing for my soul.
Beauty like this was a mirror, reflecting back the emptiness I'd carried since I was a kid. The mountains loomed, ancient and unmoved, mocking my restlessness. They didn't care about ghosts or regrets; they just endured.
I envied that, in a way. My own endurance felt like a grind, day after day of presentness that kept the future at bay. No plans, no dreams—just now, this breath, this step. It was my shield, but damn if it didn't feel like iron bars sometimes.
I unpacked the binoculars from my saddlebag, a habit as ingrained as breathing. The Dane ranch wasn't far, maybe five miles as the crow flies. I skirted its edges every time I came back, drawn like a magnet but never crossing the line. Proximity woke the ghosts, and I'd had enough hauntings for one lifetime. From this vantage, I could just make out the main house, a sturdy log structure with no smoke curling from the chimney. No more cattle in the lower pastures, black dots against the gold. Wind rippled through the fields, bending the grass in waves that looked like an ocean I'd never swim.
I watched for a long time, the glass steady in my hands, imagining the sounds: the low of cows, the creak of barn doors,maybe one of my brothers calling out an order. But I didn't go closer. The ghosts knew their boundaries; so did I.
Dad would have hated this—me lurking like a stranger on my own land. He'd taught us politeness above all, even in the wild. "A good morning and a smile, son," he'd say, clapping me on the back. "Costs nothing, gains everything."
I still lived by it. On the trail, if I crossed paths with a hiker or a fellow rider, I'd tip my hat, offer a gruff "Morning" with the ghost of a smile. It was mechanical now, a Dane-ism etched into my bones.
But out here, alone, there were no words. Just the wind, the horse's breath, and the endless loop of memories.
Night fell slow that evening, the sun dipping behind the peaks in a blaze of orange and purple. I made camp in a sheltered hollow, erecting a simple lean-to from branches and my tarp. Rain was coming; I could smell it on the air, sharp and metallic. Daisy grazed nearby, tethered loosely. I built a small fire, more for light than warmth, and heated water for coffee. The flames danced, casting shadows that twisted like old regrets. I sipped from my tin mug, staring into the embers. Three weeks in, and the ache hadn't eased. If anything, it sharpened out here, away from the distractions of military life. No missions to plan, no enemies to track—just me and the vastness.
I thought of Dad again, as I always did when the dark settled. He'd take us boys out on nights like this, pointing out constellations, telling stories of the old cowboys who'd roamed these hills. "Life's a trail, Gideon," he'd say, his voice rough from years of wind and work. "You ride it straight, but you enjoy the views."
I hadn't enjoyed much since he never came back. The military filled the void, gave me purpose in the hunt, the kill. Righteous over evil—it was a mantra that kept the blood from staining too deep. But out here, with the stars wheelingoverhead, I wondered if that was enough. The poetry of violence was fine in the moment, the surge of adrenaline as steel met flesh, but it faded. Left me hollow, like the valleys after a storm.
Rain started around midnight, a soft patter that built to a steady drum on the tarp. I lay under it, listening, Daisy's silhouette a dark bulk nearby. Sleep came in fits, dreams of tracking through endless forests, always one step behind a shadow that looked like my father.
By dawn, the ground was sodden, mist clinging to the trees like smoke. I broke camp efficiently, saddling Daisy and heading north along a game trail. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of wet pine and earth. Birds called from the branches, a symphony that should have lifted something in me. It didn't. Montana's beauty was a veil, pretty but thin, doing little to settle the storm inside.
