29. Evan
TWENTY-NINE
EVAN
I wanted to smoke. To beat the shit out of someone for no reason other than that was my job.
Simple.
Nothing about the way I felt about Val was simple.
The way I’d spoken to her made me feel like a piece of shit.
Deep down, I knew Val thought she was doing the right thing.
She was built to protect the people she cared about, so making arrangements to stay on the ranch made sense to her.
I’d always known that Val was too good for me, and the fact that I could have no ties to my former life cemented the reality that what we had could only ever be temporary.
Trouble was, it had started to feel awfully permanent.
I had convinced myself that I could actually have a new life.
Evan Marino was dead, and Evan Walker had eagerly stepped into his place.
Only the old me, the real me that I’d shoved down so deep and buried beneath swagger and charm and warm smiles, came clawing to the surface frighteningly fast. I hated myself for how easily I slipped back into the man I’d tried so hard to leave behind.
Val had seen it too. I saw it in her eyes—the shock gave way to the realization that I was not a good man.
My leg buzzed with energy as I sped down the highway toward town.
In a place like Tipp, Montana, a swaggering city boy like Parker Marino would be hard to miss.
Once I raised the flag, it would be only a matter of time until I found whatever rock he’d been hiding under.
It had been weeks since Johnny had reported a stranger in town, asking questions, but that didn’t mean he was gone.
Gemma heard him. He’s still here.
I pushed through the heavy wooden door of the Rasa, and low country music poured out of the building.
Al was standing sentry behind the bar, and his head whipped up as I stalked toward him.
Families were scattered, laughing and enjoying their lunches.
I scanned every face, looking for my brother.
A few unfamiliar patrons sat, idly chatting or eating and enjoying their beers.
My boots pounded on the wood floor toward the bar.
“What’s got a hair up your ass?” Al’s deep, raspy voice showed signs of daily smoking and a lifetime of interesting choices.
“Looking for someone.” I continued to scan the patrons of the bar. “Tall, muscular build. Johnny Porter told Gemma and Val a few weeks ago that he was sniffing around.”
“Yeah, I seen ’im. Though not for ... maybe two, three weeks now. He was asking questions. Looked a little too slick to be from around here. I guess my warm-welcome stare scared him off.”
Fuck .
I did not have a good feeling about this.
I dug through my pocket and unfolded the small picture. I had to be sure. “This him? ”
Al grabbed the photograph and dragged his skinny, wrinkled hand down the wiry length of his beard.
“I’ve seen him around. What’s he to ya?”
Unease rose from my gut, and my heartbeat pounded like a drum between my ears. “My brother.”
“You say the word, and we’ll rally the troops if someone’s giving you trouble, Evan.”
I couldn’t help a sad chuckle. Tipp, Montana, was nothing if not loyal to one of its own. It was yet another reason I needed to protect my place in this town. I raised my hand to him, and he gripped it in a firm handshake. “Not yet. I just need to have a conversation first.”
“Look on your face doesn’t seem like he’s gonna get a warm family welcome.”
A noncommittal grunt passed through me, and I saddled up onto a stool, tossing the faded photograph on the bar.
Al poked one finger down onto it. “I recognize him, your brother. Though he wasn’t the guy asking questions. That’d be the one to have a talking to.” I looked down to see Al’s bony, weathered finger held right between Michael’s eyes.
An hour later I was no closer to finding Parker.
Or Michael.
I had walked up and down Main Street, stopping in every shop, office, barber, and grocery store to ask if anyone had seen either man. Most people recognized Parker’s dark hair and light eyes.
Mrs. Sanford remembered he did some light grocery shopping on Tuesdays, but only ever enough food for two shopping bags. Mostly organic.
Mr. Vega owned the Mexican restaurant and recalled Parker had sat in the back corner and shot the shit with the bussers in Spanish.
Mabel at the diner claimed he was a great tipper and smelled nice.
Fucking great.
Parker was one charming smile away from fooling this entire town, and Michael was a ghost. Other than giving Johnny the creeps and Al serving him a whiskey neat, no one else recognized him or recalled seeing him around Tipp.
I pulled the pistol from the small of my back and laid it on the truck seat next to me.
Dragging both hands through my hair, I emptied my lungs.
In an afternoon, things had gone completely sideways. The glass castle I had built around myself had come crashing down around me. The only way to get out of this mess was to find Parker—talk to him and see why he’d come to Montana—and find out what he knew about Michael.
Defeated, I drove back to the ranch. No doubt Ma would be pissed I’d gone rogue, and there’d be hell to pay.
I’d find her and explain myself. If my reckless behavior had gotten me booted from the ranch, I could beg her to allow Gemma to stay.
Then I had to find Val. I owed her some sort of an apology.
I swallowed the rocks in the back of my throat.
Getting close to me was a mistake, but I never meant to hurt her.
I pushed through the back door of the lodge. The kitchen light over the island illuminated the small space in a soft glow. One agent eyed me warily and tipped his head in the direction of Ma’s office. When I came to her door, my heart stopped in my chest.
Sitting in the chair in front of her was Parker.
When I caught their attention, both stood. Parker took a step toward me. “Little brother. It’s been a long time.”