“All or nothing. That’s what we agreed on.” I cut him off.
“Come on, Calder.” His voice cracks, desperation leaking into the open space. “My wife’s sick, and the medical bills keep stacking up.”
I might feel bad for him if I didn’t know he really gambled his money away at the casino one town over. Like most who have no issues borrowing our money, there is always a problem when it’s time to pay it back. Everyone in Black Hollow Creek knows what it means to cross my family. Our ranch is our business, but our influence stretches much further.
“Not my problem.” It’s a harsh response, but I can’t afford to offer him sympathy, not when he owes a debt to my family. I flex my hands at my sides. My palms calloused and my knuckles scarred—hands that have broken horses and men with equal efficiency. “My father gave you a deadline, and you agreed to the terms. Now you show up here withsomeof the money and expect me to let you walk away? Be smart. We both know I can’t do that.”
Wayne shifts to my right, positioning himself with the instinct of a man who’s backed me up more times than I can count. His hand slides toward the gun at his hip—all but saying he’s ready whenever I am.
“I can get the rest,” Martin begs, desperation leaking into his voice. “Just need two more weeks. I swear on my life.”
In my family, there are no second chances. Not for me, not for my brothers, and sure as hell not for the likes of Martin Everett. Extensions lead to exceptions, exceptions lead to weakness, and weakness gets you killed. Or worse, disrespected.
“Funny enough, that’s exactly what you’re doing,” I tell him, not bothering to soften the blow.
Fumbling with his jacket pocket, he pulls out an envelope that’s been folded and refolded so many times the creases lookpermanent. “Here’s seven thousand. If you give me a little time, I’ll get you the rest.”
It’s always the same song and dance. Begging and pleading and promising things they can never deliver. If I let Martin walk away, then my father’s and my words mean nothing. I take the envelope and count it methodically while Martin shifts from one foot to the other.
The bills are worn, some of them taped where they’ve torn. Seven thousand out of the fifteen he owes. It doesn’t matter how much he has. It’s not enough.
“My father’s instructions were clear,” I say, tucking the envelope into my jacket. The leather creaks as I move, well-worn and shaped to my frame from years of wear. “It’s all or nothing. If you don’t have all of it, then there’s only one other form of payment.”
Martin’s face crumples. “Please. I have kids.”
“Everyone has obligations. Guess you should’ve thought about that before you borrowed money from the Bishops.”
The night air carries my words away, dissolving them into the darkness surrounding us. Out here, screams disappear the same way.
Wayne steps forward, and I give him a slight nod that tells him to end it now, the movement barely perceptible.
I watch the reality of his situation wash over Martin’s face, his eyes widening just enough to show the whites all around. This is the part I hate—not the violence, but when they realize there’s no talking their way out. When they understand that in the Bishop family, there are no extensions.
At that exact moment, Martin bolts.
Everything happens all at once. When Wayne goes to pull his gun, it gets stuck in the holster, giving Martin an easy head start. He crashes through the underbrush at the edge of the clearing, running for his life into the dark woods. His desperation giveshim speed I wouldn’t have credited him with, his thin frame disappearing between the thick trunks of ponderosa pines.
“Fuck,” Wayne spits, finally yanking his gun free.
The silver glints in the moonlight as he fires a shot that goes wide, the crack echoing through the trees, the smell of gunpowder and pine filling the air.
“Don’t shoot blind, you idiot,” I snarl, already moving.
My body responds without thought, muscles conditioned by years of riding and ranch work, propelling me forward. “He gets away, and I’m blaming you.”
“Blaming me? What the hell did I do?” he grumbles, but I don’t respond.
The woods are pitch black beneath the canopy. Others might be scared, but I know these mountains like I know my reflection. I was born and raised here. I’ve hunted these forests since I could walk. If anyone can find him here, it’s me. The smell of damp earth and decomposing leaves rises with each footfall as I navigate between trees and over fallen logs.
The forest floor is a mess of pine needles, broken branches, and exposed roots that could snap an ankle if you don’t know how to move in this terrain.
Wayne crashes through the underbrush like a wounded bull, all power and no finesse, from somewhere behind me.
Scanning the area, I glimpse movement to my right and change direction, cutting through the trees. The snap of branches ahead guides me straight toward him. My breathing remains steady, controlled. Before I understood what it meant to be a Bishop, my father would take me hunting. I didn’t realize then that the time he spent with me was all about training, lessons to be taught. “Control your breath, control your shot,” he would always say.
In times like now, I still hear his voice in my ear.
The forest opens into a small clearing bathed in silver moonlight. Martin’s there, struggling to climb over a fallen log, his movements clumsy with panic. Each breath he takes is a ragged gasp that hangs cloudy in the cold air. At least we got him, and I don’t have to report back to my father that he escaped.
