Chapter 1 Calder
Calder
ONE YEAR LATER
The Montana sky stretches 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—”
“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 with some of 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 look permanent. “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 gives him 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.
Fuck, that’s definitely not something I want to deal with today. I draw my gun—a plain black Glock, nothing fancy like Wayne’s showpiece —and take aim.
“Martin. There’s nowhere to go. Turn around, and let’s end this the easy way.”
Surprisingly, he does, his movements sluggish now, his chest heaving. There’s blood on his hand. He must have cut himself in his mad dash.
“Please,” he whispers, and his voice seems to shrink as it echoes. “I’ll get the rest of the money. I’ll do anything. I swear on it.”
I level the gun at his chest, finger steady on the trigger.
The metal feels cold but familiar against my skin. “My father doesn’t accept partial payments.”
“I’ll work it off! I can work at the ranch—” His voice breaks, desperate hope flickering across his face like the last embers of a dying fire.
“We don’t need more hands.” The lie comes easily.
We always need more hands after all. Five thousand acres doesn’t tend itself, and good help is hard to find this far from town. But a man’s word has to mean something, and now I know Martin’s word doesn’t mean shit.
In the distance, I hear Wayne catching up. Always a step behind.
That’s why my father sends me. I don’t make mistakes.
“Please,” Martin begs. Sweat drips down his temple despite the cold. “Let me live, and I’ll pay double. Triple.”
A laugh catches in my throat.”With what money? You couldn’t even pay what you already owe. Don’t be writing checks you can’t cash, Martin.”
I should have anticipated it. A desperate man will make desperate moves, but that’s the thing.
I don’t anticipate. I’m completely caught off guard when he lunges at me.
The movement is telegraphed, clumsy with fear and desperation.
I could sidestep it easily—years of wrestling steers and breaking broncs have given me reflexes most men can’t match—but I don’t.
Instead, I squeeze the trigger. The gunshot cracks through the forest, and Martin stumbles back, clutching his shoulder, shock etched into the creases of his face. Blood seeps between his fingers, black in the moonlight.
I didn’t shoot to kill. Not yet.
“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I tell him as he sinks to his knees, the pine needles cushioning his fall.
His breath comes in short, pained gasps, forming small clouds in the cold air. He looks down at his hand, even more slick now with fresh blood, and something shifts in his eyes. The resignation is gone, replaced with wild desperation—the look of a cornered animal.
At that moment, Wayne joins us, and I risk a glance toward him.
That’s all the time it takes for Martin to gain his feet again, his movements quick for someone bleeding out since he’s already inside the tree line when I turn back.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, holstering my gun and taking off after him.
How the hell is this bastard so fast? What the hell is wrong with me?
Blood’s easy to track, even in the dark.
It leaves a trail a blind man could follow, dark droplets catching in the moonlight where they fall on leaves and pine needles.
Wayne shouts from somewhere behind me, his voice echoing between the trees. By the time he catches up, Martin will be dead. I guarantee it. Martin’s wounded, terrified, and running blindly through unfamiliar territory. He won’t get far.
The forest thickens as the land slopes upward, and the ground becomes rockier.
The scent of pine intensifies, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.
Damn you, Martin.
I should’ve just killed him when I had the chance. Now I have to hunt him down. Stupid. There’s no more room for error, no more talking. I’m sure he thinks he’s escaped, but he hasn’t. If Martin gets away, I might as well shoot myself.
I won’t go home until the job is done.