Montana Memory

Chapter 1

Jada Banks

Pain woke me.

It wasn’t the sharp, sudden kind that yanked you out of sleep like a slap, but a deep, aching sensation that throbbed in waves and settled into my bones. My head pulsed, my ribs throbbed, and when I took a breath, something in my side burned. A groan slipped from my lips before I could stop it, the sound small in the heavy silence around me.

For a long moment, I didn’t move, just listened. My pulse pounded in my ears, but beyond that, nothing. No voices, no hum of a TV, no familiar sounds at all. I opened my eyes but didn’t recognize anything.

Where was I?

I swallowed hard and shifted, my cheek scraping against rough wood. The floor. I was lying on the floor. I flexed my fingers against it, trying to ground myself, but even that felt wrong.

Slowly, I pushed up onto my elbows. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through me, radiating from my ribs, my shoulders, my head. Every inch of me felt battered, like I’d gone ten rounds with someone twice my size.

I tried to think, tried to remember what had happened, but nothing came.

Not just about where I was, but— everything . My mind was a blank slate, wiped clean of anything that should have been there.

Panic slithered in, cold and savage. I forced myself to stop and think, moving back to the very basics: What is my name?

My breath caught, chest squeezing. It should have been easy, but when I reached for it— nothing . I couldn’t remember anything, even my own name. Everything was a void.

Stay calm. Maybe I was drunk. Maybe I’d hit my head. Maybe I just needed a minute to clear the fog.

I took a slow breath, fighting the tightness in my throat, and tried to focus on my surroundings. The air smelled musty, like old wood and dust, with something sharper beneath it—metallic, like blood.

I touched my face, fingers coming away sticky. Even in the dim light, I could see the dark smear across my fingertips. My nose was bleeding. Had it been broken? I gingerly pressed along the bridge, wincing. Tender, but not shattered.

I pushed myself upright, biting back a groan, and took in the space around me. A large rustic-style room. A cabin, maybe? Wooden walls, an older couch, a dining table with two chairs—both overturned, like there’d been a struggle.

Had I been in a fight?

I swallowed again and tried to push to my feet. My legs wobbled, and I had to grip the side of the table to steady myself. A shiver ran through me, but it wasn’t from the cold.

Something had happened here. Something violent.

I turned toward the only window, but it was dark outside, the glass smudged with a layer of dust too heavy to see much beyond my own faint reflection.

I looked like hell.

Wild brown hair tangled around my face. A cut along my cheekbone, drying blood on my nose. Shirt wrinkled and clinging to my skin like I’d been sweating, sleeves streaked with what looked like dirt from the floor. My jeans were also dirty.

Panic surged again, threatening to choke me.

Who the hell am I?

I tried again, squeezing my eyes shut and forcing my mind to give me something. A name. An age. An address or recollection of a friend. A single goddamn memory. But the void stayed dark and empty.

I sucked in a breath, pushing back the panic. Right now, I needed to get out of here. Figure out where I was and get help.

I barely took a shaky step toward the door before it slammed open, the force rattling the walls.

A man barreled inside, his breathing ragged, chest heaving beneath a bulky coat. The gun in his hand gleamed under the weak light, his knuckles white around the grip. His eyes—wild and unfocused—jumped from window to window.

He muttered under his breath, voice rough, frantic. “I’m not going to die like the others. No fucking way.”

My body locked up, a primal instinct telling me not to move. Not to breathe. But it didn’t matter. His gaze snapped to me.

In an instant, he closed the distance, fisting my arm and yanking me forward. Pain flared where his fingers dug in.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was sharp, edged with panic. “Call Alan. Now.”

I barely got my lips to part. “I?—”

“Don’t even try it.” His grip tightened, bruising, like he could crush the truth out of me. “Tell him to call it off. Tell him to end this.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “I don’t know who Alan is.”

The gun was suddenly there, pressing hard against my ribs.

His nostrils flared. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” My voice cracked, my throat raw. “I don’t know who Alan is! I don’t know what is going on at all!”

His head jerked back, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. His grip loosened—just slightly.

Then his lip curled. “Bullshit.”

My pulse roared in my ears.

“I swear,” I rasped. “I don’t know. I don’t—” My breath hitched. “I don’t even know my own name.”

He stared at me, eyes narrowing, jaw working.

Then, with a low, violent curse, he shoved me backward, the gun still aimed right at my chest. His nostrils flared. “How do I get out of here?”

My lips trembled. “I—I don’t know.”

His eyes burned into mine, his breath coming in sharp, erratic bursts. “What’s Alan’s plan?”

“I don’t know.” I couldn’t figure out anything else to say.

“Who else is coming?”

I could barely swallow past the lump in my throat. “I don’t?—”

His face twisted into a flash of pure rage, and then his hand lashed out.

A white-hot sting exploded across my cheek as my head snapped to the side. The force knocked me off-balance, and I hit the floor hard, my palms scraping against the hard wood.

“Get Alan on the radio,” he ordered. “End this.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I don’t?—”

“Bitch, do not say I don’t know one more time.” He took a step closer, pressing the muzzle against my forehead. “Or I’ll kill you.”

A sob tore from my throat. I was going to die. Right here. Right now. Without even knowing my own damn name.

The gun pressed harder against my forehead. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. My body froze; the only thing louder than the hammering of my heart was the voice in my head screaming that this was it.

Then the door exploded open once again.

A blur of movement, a thunderous crash, and suddenly, the man with the gun was gone—yanked away and thrown to the floor with bone-jarring force.

I scrambled back, hands bracing against the wood floor as the room filled with grunts, scuffling boots, and the sickening sound of fists meeting flesh. A chair shattered. The table legs scraped violently across the floor. The gun skidded away, spinning across the floorboards.

The two men grappled, rolling, each struggling for control.

A crack rang out as the newcomer wrenched the gunman’s head back and slammed him against the floor.

The fight was over.

Everything went still except the sound of my own gasping breaths as the new man pushed off the unconscious body and slowly turned to me. My stomach twisted into knots.

He was big. Broad shoulders, solid muscle, dark clothes clinging to a frame built for damage. Black hair. Intense green eyes that locked on me with something unreadable. Dangerous. Capable. A man who knew exactly what he was doing.

I curled into myself instinctively, trying to disappear.

Then he spoke. Low. Steady. Not quite gentle, but not terrifying.

“I’m Hunter Everett.” He kept his hands loose at his sides, as if he knew sudden movements would send me into a full-blown panic. “I’m here with Lucas and the Resting Warrior Ranch team.”

The words meant nothing. Lucas? Resting Warrior Ranch? Blank.

But I forced myself to nod anyway, to act like I knew what the hell he was talking about.

He didn’t move, just studied me with quiet intensity, his expression shifting like he was putting pieces together in his head.

I swallowed hard, heart still slamming against my ribs. I should feel relief, but I didn’t. He watched me too closely.

His sharp green eyes tracked the way my breath hitched and my fingers curled into the floor as if I could anchor myself there. He saw it—the confusion, the panic I was trying to swallow down.

I forced myself to hold his gaze, to fake some kind of control, but my skin felt too tight, my thoughts a swirling mess of nothing.

“I don’t know what’s happening.” My voice came out uneven, barely above a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t remember anything.”

Something flickered across his face. Not shock. Not even surprise. Just a small shift, the slightest tightening of his jaw, like he was mentally filing the information away.

“What do you mean?”

I swallowed and touched my head. “Everything is gone. I don’t know where I am or who—” My throat squeezed. “I don’t even know my own name.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Jada Banks.”

Jada Banks.

The name sat between us, empty and unfamiliar. I tried to grab on to it, hoping it would feel like mine, but there was nothing. No recognition. No sense of self. Just a void where my past should be.

I wet my lips. “Do we know each other?”

“No.”

The answer was immediate, certain. I didn’t know why that unsettled me.

“Then why are you here?”

His eyes flicked to the unconscious man on the floor before sliding back to me. “I’m helping my cousin. Lucas Everett.”

I waited for him to explain. To tell me why, provide details as to what was going on, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked around the cabin before going still.

Not the normal kind of still— predator still. The kind that sent a warning skittering down my spine.

His gaze flicked to the window, shoulders tightening.

“What?” My voice barely broke the silence.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched, his movements careful, deliberate. He closed his fingers around something near the overturned table, and when he straightened, I saw it—a syringe.

A fresh pulse of dread kicked through me. “What is that?”

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t answer.

Panic clawed its way up my throat. “Hunter?—”

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard, not rough, but firm. A deliberate grip meant to lead, not to hurt. “We have to go.”

I planted my feet. “Wait?—”

“There’s no time.” His eyes—so damn sharp, so damn green—locked on mine. “If you want to live, you need to come with me. Now.”

He held out what looked like a woman’s coat to me. Mine? He must have picked it up with the syringe.

I wavered. Every logical part of me screamed that he was a stranger, that following him was reckless, that for all I knew, he was just as bad as the guy lying unconscious on the floor.

But he hadn’t hurt me, and he’d had every opportunity.

Footsteps crunched outside, and Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Jada. If you’re coming with me, we have to go now. Otherwise, I have to leave you to fend for yourself. It’s up to you.”

I made my choice. I grabbed the coat from his hand and let him lead me out the door and into the dark, praying I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

Outside, Hunter moved like a shadow, silent and precise, pulling me with him as we slipped around the side of the cabin. The night was thick, the air damp, the scent of pine and earth mixing with something darker—sweat, blood, fear.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a wild, unsteady rhythm that didn’t match his calm, deliberate movements. We crept low, sticking close to the building. Every step felt too loud, every breath a risk.

A minute or two later, a noise—grunting, the scuffle of boots on dirt—froze me in place. I turned my head just enough to see through the trees.

Two men fought, their silhouettes locked in a brutal struggle. One lunged, the other swung something—a knife? A gun? I couldn’t tell. My pulse spiked.

I parted my lips to whisper, but before I could make a sound, Hunter’s gloved hand was on my mouth.

The warmth of his palm, the roughness of the glove’s leather, the sheer power in the way he held me still should have sent a fresh wave of panic through me. But it didn’t.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His body was close, heat radiating from him despite the cold, but his eyes stayed on the fight, his focus unwavering.

Hunter’s hand fell away as he turned toward a rustle to our left, his shoulders going rigid. My gaze followed his, and my stomach dropped.

Another man. Half hidden behind the trees. A gun glinted in his grip. He hadn’t seen us, but if I had spoken, he definitely would’ve heard us.

We remained silent and still until the man passed by. Even then, Hunter didn’t speak for a long minute.

When he did, his voice was low, steady, but absolute. “Anyone out here is bad news. We have to go.”

He didn’t wait for me to answer. He grabbed my hand and pulled me deeper into the dark.

I ran with him, my adrenaline surging. Branches lashed against my arms, sharp and unyielding. Eventually, my breath came in ragged gasps, every step jarring pain through my body, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Hunter’s grip on my wrist was firm, pulling me forward, deeper into the night.

I focused on whispering my name under my breath.

Jada Banks.

I said it again and again. As if repetition would shake something loose in my mind. As if saying it enough times would make it mean something.

It didn’t. The name was as empty as the dark woods closing in around us.

Hunter barely made a sound, moving with a lethal kind of efficiency, his focus razor-sharp. He wasn’t talking, wasn’t offering reassurances. Just keeping me alive.

I stumbled. My foot caught on a root, and suddenly, I was falling—except I wasn’t.

Hunter yanked me upright as if I weighed nothing. His arm, solid and warm, locked around my waist for a split second before he set me back on my feet.

“Keep moving,” he murmured.

I pushed forward, breathless. My legs burned, my body begging for rest, but my mind wouldn’t let me stop. Not when danger was still too close. Not when I didn’t even know what—or who—I was running from.

I swallowed hard. “Do you know anything about me?”

Hunter didn’t slow. Didn’t even glance at me.

“Not much.” His voice was rough, unreadable. “I’m just trying to keep you breathing.”

I wanted to push for more, but now wasn’t the time.

Ahead, the trees thinned, opening up to a narrow stretch of road. My steps faltered as I caught sight of a diner in the distance, its neon sign blinking in the dark.

I turned to Hunter. “Are we going in?”

He shook his head and strode to a parked older sedan, getting in the driver’s side. He reached down, and a few seconds later, the engine roared to life.

I stared at him.

He reached over and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

I hesitated.

He sighed, low and impatient. “I’m not going to hurt you, Jada. If I were going to, I would’ve done it already. But we can’t sit out here exposed like this.”

I didn’t know if that was true. But I knew one thing—he felt like my only chance at surviving. I slid into the seat, and he pulled out of the diner parking lot and into the night.

I had no idea how long we drove. Each second felt like an eternity. Finally, we started passing signs for Denver, Colorado.

We pulled up at a motel. The fluorescent vacancy sign buzzed in the dark, flickering like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to stay lit. The motel itself was run-down—cracked pavement, faded paint, a vending machine that looked like it hadn’t worked since the nineties. But right now, it might as well have been a five-star resort.

Hunter killed the engine and shoved open his door. I hesitated, my fingers curling around the seat belt like it was some kind of lifeline.

“It’s safe,” he said, reading me too easily. “For now.”

Safe . I didn’t even know what that meant anymore.

I forced myself to follow him inside. The lobby smelled like stale coffee and cheap air freshener. A glass partition separated us from the night clerk—a bored-looking guy who barely glanced up as Hunter slid some cash across the counter. The clerk handed over two keys without asking for any sort of identification, obviously something that happened all the time.

Two keys .

Something in my chest loosened. At least I wasn’t going to have to spend the night with a complete stranger, even one who hadn’t done me any harm thus far.

We walked back outside, and Hunter stopped in front of a door, pressing one of the keys into my palm.

“Get inside. Take a shower, clean up. Try to get some rest.” His voice was calm but edged with something unreadable. “I’ll be back.”

I stared at him. “Where are you going?”

“There are things I need to handle.”

That wasn’t an answer, but I didn’t have the energy to push.

Once I shut and locked the door behind me, the silence pressed in.

The room was small—stained carpet, an old TV bolted to the dresser. But it had a lock. A barrier. It was the best I’d had all night.

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I removed my coat and laid it on the bed.

I stepped into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink as I finally let myself breathe. My pulse slowed, just slightly, but the moment I lifted my head?—

I froze.

The mirror reflected a young woman. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Slender face, full lips. She was…attractive.

And she was a stranger. I reached out, fingertips grazing the glass.

Who was Jada Banks?

Because I sure as hell didn’t know.