There’s something in his voice in those last words. Something that sounds almost like desperation beneath the cruelty. Yet his face shows nothing but cold dismissal.
I scramble out of the truck, nearly tripping in my haste and close the truck door behind me. I stand there in the cold, watching him through the window.
He grips the steering wheel with both hands now, head bowed, shoulders rigid with tension. For a moment, I think he might look at me. Might take it back. He doesn’t. He throws the truck into Reverse and tears out of there, gravel spraying.
The taillights disappear around the corner fast, leaving me alone in the dark. Maybe this is how it needs to be. Perhaps thisis my sign to stay away from Calder. It doesn’t matter what I think or want. I know that after the way things ended tonight, nothing will ever be the same between us.
Calder
ONE YEAR LATER
The Montana skystretches endlessly above us, stars sharp as broken glass against the black. Early October brings a bite to the night air seeping through my leather jacket, but I’ve spent enough winters working on this very land to know. After a while, you get used to the cold. Wayne shifts beside me, his breath clouding as he hunches deeper into his sheepskin coat, stomping his boots against the cold-hardened earth.
“He’s late,” he mutters, checking his watch for the third time in five minutes.
The silver face catches the moonlight as it peeks from beneath the cuff of his jacket, worn smooth from years of ranch work.
I don’t bother responding, just lean against the hood of my black F-350, arms crossed over my chest. Wayne knows as well as I do that men who owe the Bishop family money are usually late, especially when they can’t pay. They spend those extra minutes praying for miracles or trying to gather courage they could never have.
The clearing we’ve chosen sits at the edge of Bishop property, backed by a dense pine forest that climbs toward the mountains looming like dark sentinels in the distance.
On nights like this, when the moon hangs full and heavy, you can see the snowcaps gleaming on the highest peaks, a reminder that in Montana, winter is never far away. The same could be said about death when you cross my father.
Wayne pulls a tin of dip from his pocket and tucks a pinch behind his lower lip. Unlike me, he’s never been able to relax. Or hell, pretend. Six years working beside him, and I still want to tell him to calm the hell down. But that’s Wayne—all nervous energy and quick triggers.
Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s loyal, and in the family business, loyalty trumps everything else.
“Think he’ll show?” Wayne asks, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the frost-tipped grass.
“Yes, ‘cause he knows if he doesn’t, we’ll hunt him down.” My voice comes out rough, deep from a day of shouting orders across the north pasture. We’d spent the morning moving a stubborn herd of cattle to the lower fields before my father called us in for this special assignment. Didn’t matter that we’d been up since four o’clock or that my shoulders were still aching from wrestling a sick calf so we could administer antibiotics.
When Roman Bishop calls, you answer.
“Saw that pretty little blond thing in town today,” Wayne says, as if I want to listen to him gossip like the rest of the ranch hands.
I’m bored enough to be curious, so I give in to temptation and ask, “What blond thing?”
“That little preacher’s daughter. She’s sure grown up.”
I grit my teeth against the need to respond. She may be legal, and I may watch her from time to time when I see her in town,but I’m not talking about her with fucking Wayne. Ive been doing my best to keep my desires locked down tight.
Headlights cut through the darkness at the edge of the clearing. A rusted-out green Ford pickup comes into view, crawling toward us, the engine wheezing like it’s on its last legs. Fitting, considering its owner might be too.
“Showtime.” Wayne straightens beside me and rolls his broad shoulders. I push off the side of my truck and take a couple of steps forward. My boots crunch on the frost, and I brace for whatever shitstorm this asshole is bringing with him. I can feel something wrong in my gut.
The truck stops twenty feet away, and Martin Everett climbs out looking like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s thin for a man who used to work construction, his once-sturdy frame now whittled down by whatever troubles drove him to borrow from my father in the first place. I don’t get into the details of the agreement. My job is to collect the payment, and when there is no payment to collect, I send a message or find another source of payment.
The flannel shirt he’s wearing hangs loose around his torso, and the circles under his eyes are as dark as bruises in the moonlight. His gaze darts back and forth between us, then to the woods surrounding the clearing.
Asshole is already searching for an escape route.
Unfortunately, there isn’t one. There’s nowhere on this land I won’t find him.
“Evening, Martin,” I say, my voice flat. “I assume you’ve got your payment.”
A sharp and sour smell rolls off him. Fear. It mixes with the pine-scented air and the lingering scent of cattle clinging to my clothes from the long day.
Martin’s throat bobs as he swallows, and his hands tremble as he pushes back the brim of a worn baseball cap. “I got some of it. Not all, but?—”
