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The Rusty Spur Saloon is the biggest bar in Tempest. It pulls city slickers, rodeo cowboys, and locals, creating the perfect storm of chaos. With its swinging doors and the original hand-carved bar from 1908, it’s an ode, a testament to an old frontier saloon. The walls talk, littered with letters, photos, autographed horseshoes, dollar bills, lipstick kisses.

It’s housed in a renovated historic two-story brick building that takes up an entire city block on Main Street. A building my brother, Warren, owns. A building that gives us the upper hand when we need it. The Rusty Spur pulls double duty: stocking our whiskey and collecting Tempest’s secrets.

A slow wave of whispers travels through the bar, following me as I shove inside, my boots crunching peanut shells. I lift a hand to a group of ranchers huddled at a high-top. Devlin Millsap, our wheat supplier, gives me a nod. On instinct, my eyes sweep across the room, clocking the small camera in a mounted bull head over a Coors sign.

With help from Frank Langford, a former Tempest deputy, Warren had the bar wired with a professional setup. Audio, video, it’s ours. We make it our business to know what goes on in our town. Because knowing means we keep people safe.

Especially our brothers.

“Special fuckin’ delivery,” I mutter as I slam the crate of whiskey onto the bar top.

“Doing a drop for Hassie?” From behind the bar, Warren makes quick work of surveying me.

“Yeah.” I glance at the bartender headed across the room with a tray full of drinks and arch a brow. “Don’t suppose you can spare a bartender?”

“Don’t even think about it.” He laughs, reaches for a rag to wipe down the bar top. “We’re running short here too, brother.” Dodging a barback, he pulls a bottle of Weston Whiskey off the top shelf. “Drink?”

I nod, but he’s already pouring out two fingers and sliding the crystal glass toward me. In addition to owning the Rusty Spur, Warren also makes the cocktail menu for our distillery.

I slip onto a stool, bring the glass to my lips, and take a sip. That little drop of liquid gold expands and blooms on my tongue until I taste caramel and vanilla notes. Weston Whiskey. It’s like drinking heaven.

“Busy tonight.” I scan the room. A local string band, the Moonshiners, jams in the corner. A few locals are hunkered down at a table, playing cards. A group of six slams through the double-saloon door, laughing and carrying shopping bags.

Tourists.

“And so it begins.” Warren lifts a glass of whiskey in a toast, and I do the same. Summer season in Montana brings tourists in by the truckload. With proximity to Glacier, tourist season means more guests at the distillery, more money in our pockets.

I take a deep breath and watch the happy group, envying their oblivion.

If they’re looking for a good time, cowboys and whiskey, the outdoors and rugged beauty, they’re in the right place. But if they’re looking for ghosts, we’ve got those too.

Every small town has its secrets, but our small town has more than most.

Over the years, Tempest has seen a disturbing number of instances of fucked-up shit happen. People go missing in the woods. There’s been whispers of trafficking. We’ve had serial killers, cults, meth labs.

And all of it has touched my family in some shape or form.

The curse of Tempest. How it destroys your world, then locks you in your grave. Leaving would be the simple solution, but we stay because it’s our town. Our ranch. Leaving means our enemies win. Foolishly, like the animals we rescue, we hope one day we can save it.

Because even when we try to leave Tempest, it always pulls us back.

Warren slams a hand on the 1914 cash register. He peels a handful of change from the till and passes it to a server wearing a pearl-snap chambray and a large Weston Whiskey belt buckle. “Where are they?” Face creased in frustration, he scans the bar for our brothers.

I shift on my seat and sip my drink. “They’ll be here.”

Meeting at the saloon every Sunday is our end of the workweek ritual. Shoot the shit. Drink some whiskey. Play poker. Debrief the business.

The door to the vault behind the bar moves, opens, and then a husky, feminine voice is saying, “Boo, assholes.”

“Jesus.” Warren’s blue eyes narrow as he twists to look behind him at the secret back room. “I told you to stop using the tunnels.”

I shake my head at the whirlwind of a woman who’s snuck up on us.

Hassie’s lips form a stubborn smirk. “Well, guess what, War? You’re boring, and I’ve never listened to you anyway, so why start now?”

Warren shakes his head as a smile cracks my face. She’s sassier than usual.

Crossing his arms, Warren leans back against the bar. Always on edge, on guard when it comes to Hassie Holland. Another responsibility Warren never wanted when he became her guardian at twenty-six—after his best friend, and Hassie’s brother, Rio died. She lived at our ranch for two years until she turned eighteen. She’s like a sister to us.