High Frequency (High Mountain Trackers HMT 2G #1)

Chapter 1

One

Dan

I take a last look at the sun going down over the mountains on the other side of the Fisher River; a view I’ll never tire of.

Time to wrap up this quiet celebration for one.

Picking up my hat from the pile of logs I set it down on, I slap the dust off, and fit it back on my head. Then I tuck the two empty beer cans in my saddlebag, take Blitz’s reins in my left hand, and swing myself in the saddle.

Blitz isn’t mine—he belongs to my boss—but I’m the only one he’ll tolerate on his back. Every so often I take him out for some exercise, giving my regular mount, Will, a well-deserved break.

Despite getting up there in age, the prized Arabian stud still dances restlessly, shaking his head when I settle my weight in the saddle. It’s mostly for show these days—a lot of his younger fire has dissipated—but I indulge him with a tug on his reins and a firm, “Whoa.”

Then I press my legs in his sides and steer Blitz back toward the ranch, leaving my newly cleared piece of land behind. Monday we’ll break ground.

Six years ago, Jonas Harvey—my boss and owner of the High Meadow Ranch and High Mountain Trackers—parceled off a wedge of his land bordering the Fisher River. His former Special Ops teammate and friend, Sully, bought six of the twelve-acre parcel—the widest section closest to the highway—and built a new house there.

That left the narrower stretch along the river farther away from the road. I was blown away when Jonas offered that to me at a steal.

Never in a million years could I have dreamed of owning an actual piece of these beautiful Montana mountains. Me, a high school dropout, forced to get a job when my mother was fighting a losing battle with colorectal cancer. The only one I was able to find was as stable help at High Meadow Ranch. Jonas gave me a chance, and even though I almost blew it several times, I’m still here now, after all these years.

I’m still part of the crew responsible for managing the daily running of the ranch and breeding facility, but for the past decade or so have also been a proud member of the High Mountain Trackers, Jonas Harvey’s mounted search and rescue team. A far cry from the teacher I once aspired to be, but I wouldn’t trade this life for the world.

And now, six years after I bought my own little slice of paradise, I’ve saved up enough to start building my dream home.

I plan to do a lot of the work myself, and some of the guys have offered to help as well, but for the foundation and framework I’ve hired contractors. A family-owned specialty log construction company in Heron, Montana—a little over an hour from here—is prepping the logs that will make up the walls of my house, and a truckload of lumber we cut from my land went to a mill outside of Libby to be cut into planks for flooring.

Ideally, we should’ve broken ground back in the spring, but getting the schedule for the different trades to line up had been a bit of a challenge. As a result, we got a late start, and the house likely won’t be move-in ready before winter hits as I’d hoped, but we should be able to get the roof on before the first snow flies.

So for now, I’ll stay living in one of the employee cabins at the ranch. I’m not really in a hurry, although I know someone who may disagree, even though it shouldn’t impact her either way.

Which reminds me, if I’m supposed to meet Shelby at eight at The Salt Lick, a local hangout in town. I’d better hustle or I’ll be late.

Forty-five minutes later, showered and cleaned up, I stop the truck at the end of the driveway to check traffic on the highway before heading toward Libby. To my left, I catch sight of an older, burgundy Jeep turning onto the dirt road that leads to Sully’s place and my property beyond that. I don’t recognize the vehicle, but the brief flash of blond hair behind the wheel seems familiar.

The image of a pair of stormy blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and the stubborn set of a shapely mouth immediately comes to mind. Followed closely by a confusing collection of emotions I have no interest or time to examine.

Whoever is driving that Jeep, it’s none of my business.

I shake my head to clear it before pulling onto the road to Libby.

I have an appointment to keep.

“Oh. But I thought…”

She lets the sentence trail off, a blush crawling up her face as realization sets in.

“I probably should’ve been clearer,” I volunteer, even though I’m not sure how I could’ve made, “I’m not in the market for anything long term,” any more straightforward.

To my horror, tears pool in her eyes and threaten to spill over. Oh no. I don’t like crying, at all. It makes me very uneasy.

“Look, I’m sorry if I misrepresented myself in any way,” I try.

“I guess I thought you were including me in your future when you asked my opinion on the house,” she explains with a sniffle.

I remember she was at my place a month or so ago and asked about the drawings for the house I had spread out on my kitchen table. At the time, I was deciding whether to go with a simple front porch or to wrap it around one side to where the door to the mud/laundry room is going to be. I mentioned my dilemma and she pointed out it might be handy to have a dry outdoor spot to drop muddy boots before tracking dirt into the house.

It was a valid point and I opted for the wrap porch as a result, but it seems like an awfully big leap to go from there to planning a joint future.

I do my best to curb my annoyance. It’s not like I want to hurt her feelings any more than I need to, Shelby is a nice girl.

Her parents own the feedstore in town and I remember seeing her around from time to time years ago. Apparently, she got married to a truck driver from Eureka and ended up moving there. Then suddenly this spring, she was manning the cash at her parents’ place again, and we got to talking and hit it off. She made it clear she’d just gone through a messy divorce and was looking for something very casual, which suited me just fine.

Then she called this morning to let me know we were expected for dinner at her parents’ place this weekend, and it became clear somewhere along the past few months her expectations changed.

Sadly, mine have not, which is why I asked her to meet me tonight to set the record straight.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, because what else is there to say?

She nods and takes a small sip of the wine I ordered for her, seeming to pull herself together. Then she plasters on a smile and blows me away when she asks, “So, your place or mine?”

Twenty minutes later, I close the door of her little blue car and step back, as a crying Shelby peels out of the parking lot.

Needless to say, she did not take my rejection well, and I’m actually pretty pissed myself. I’m not a player, I don’t lead women on, or make empty promises, and yet I’ve just been made to feel like a goddamn villain in the public drama she created back there.

From here on in I’m sticking close to the ranch. I do better with horses than I do women.

Sloane

“Ohmigawd! So cute!”

I manage a grin at Carmi’s excited outburst, as she pulls open the rear passenger door and pokes her head inside. I barely have the chance to put my Jeep in park.

Getting out of the vehicle, I catch sight of my uncle walking up, his eyes zoomed in on me. I recognize both the concern and the anger I was expecting.

He has cause.

My phone call last week must’ve come as a shock. Years and distance had made those a rare occurrence, Mom is the one who would serve as an information relay, of sorts, since I took a job with the Billings Police Department and left.

Last time I saw my uncle and his family was October last year at the goodbye party for my mother and stepfather at their place in Brigham City, Utah. Mom and Steve were embarking on their years-long dream of moving to a life on the beach.

They found it in Panama, where the temperature is the same year-round, and life moves at a slower pace. With the proceeds of the sale of their house in Utah they’d been able to purchase a sprawling beachfront property, which they’ve turned into a profitable bed-and-breakfast.

I haven’t been to visit yet, but I’ve seen pictures.

Anyway, there are a myriad of reasons why Mom and I haven’t been in touch a whole lot these past few months. There’s a couple of hours of time difference, and with my crazy busy schedule it’s been hard to find a good moment to connect, so we’ve mostly been emailing back and forth. At least, that’s the excuse I’ve been hanging on to.

Of course, that is not going to last. Not now.

“You look like shit,” are the first words I hear out of my uncle’s mouth before I’m wrapped up in his arms.

With my face pressed against his wide shoulder, it’s hard to hang on to the stiff upper lip I’ve been sporting for a while now.

“Sully, let go of her already,” Pippa firmly orders her husband.

I’d been so focused on my uncle; I hadn’t seen her walk up behind him. Next, I’m hugged to a much softer body but her grip is equally strong.

“Mom, look how cute!” my little cousin gushes.

“You’re gonna wake her up if you keep squawking like that,” Sully grumbles.

By the time I step out of Pippa’s hold, Sully already has the baby seat out of the Jeep.

“She’s precious,” she observes, shooting a warm and encouraging smile in my direction.

I’m grateful for it.

“Leave your things. I’ll grab them later,” Sully orders over his shoulder as he starts walking to the house, carrying the car seat.

Pippa shoves her arm through mine, as we follow along behind him, and gives me a squeeze.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

Not sure the same can be said for my uncle. I’ve been so worried coming here might turn out to be another in a series of mistakes I seem to be making.

That’s the problem when you start off with one lie, even if only by omission. It leads to others, until you’ve created a situation where anything you do or say simply compounds on your problems.

So yes, I’m grateful for Pippa’s show of support. I had a feeling she may understand better than most why I made the—arguably unwise—choices I made, which is why I’d dialed her phone number instead of my uncle’s last week when the shit hit the fan. Like a coward, I’d left it to her to inform him.

It’s no wonder he’s pissed. I’m surprised he even hugged me, given I just showed up with a daughter he didn’t hear about from me.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I almost laugh at his exasperated question. One I’ve asked myself countless times over the past ten or so months since seeing that second red line appear on the pregnancy test.

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. Or maybe I was thinking too much. Hell, why not blame it on hormones. The result is the same; the giant mess I find myself in now.

“Sully…” Pippa, who just walked in, puts a gentling hand on my uncle’s rigid shoulder. To me she directs, “Hope you don’t mind, Carmi is sitting on the floor next to the Pack ’n Play, watching Aspen sleep.”

“That’s fine. Once she’s out on a full stomach, there’s little that’ll wake her up.”

The full stomach was courtesy of the bottle Pippa volunteered to give her while I helped a brooding Sully empty out the Jeep before the dark of night set in.

I was able to nurse Aspen the first eight weeks after her birth, but I weaned her before I had to go back to work. Working as a detective with the very busy Billings PD doesn’t exactly lend itself to pumping breast milk. My heart still aches at that decision, but I didn’t really have a choice at the time.

Now, barely two months later, none of it matters anymore.

“I’m still waiting,” Sully grumbles.

This is the part I hate most; disappointing him. God knows I did plenty of that in my younger days. But I’d earned his respect in later years, which makes coming clean now a bitter pill to swallow.

“I thought I had a handle on things,” I offer meekly.

From the flare of his nostrils, I deduce that was not a satisfactory response.

“Aspen’s pregnancy was not planned,” I try again, starting at the beginning this time. “At first I kept it to myself because I needed time to figure out what I was going to do.”

“Of course,” Pippa agrees, earning her a sharp look from her husband.

“Fine, but clearly you figured it out at some point because she’s here. Except you failed to inform your family.”

I don’t know whether it’s his sharp tone, or his accusation that ends up pushing my buttons, but in an instant I’m twenty years old again, and all my defenses are up.

“And what?” I snap. “Have Mom give up on her and Steve’s dreams? Because you know she wouldn’t have left had she known, and this was my problem to solve, no one else’s.”

“What about the father?” Sully demands, not backing down.

It was inevitable the question would come up sooner or later. It doesn’t shock me, but his next comment does.

“If you even know who it is.”

“Sully!” Pippa scolds. “That’s out of line.”

She’s right, and I can see from the way he winces he knows it, but that doesn’t make the sting any less. The sad part is, I almost wish I didn’t know who her father was, since he turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life.

Sick to my stomach, I get to my feet.

“I need to go to bed.”

Before anyone can stop me, I rush upstairs where I find Carmi sitting on the edge of my bed. I’d forgotten about her.

Blinking a few times and forcing a smile on my face, I give my cousin a quick hug.

“Thanks for looking after her.”

“Are you waking her up?” she asks expectantly.

“Not until the morning. I was actually going to bed myself, but maybe you can give me a hand changing her diaper tomorrow morning when we get up?”

“Sure!”

I involuntarily chuckle at her enthusiasm. I’m sure it’ll wane when she’s first introduced to one of Aspen’s impressive diaper explosions.

As Carmi almost skips out of the room, I close the door behind her and—forfeiting my toothbrush and pajamas—crawl into bed fully dressed. I roll on my side so I can look at my daughter’s perfect little face in her travel bed, pulling the covers up to my ears.

It’s just you and me now.