Whiskey Charm (Foster House #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Prescott

Outside my car, there is nothing but sweeping pastures, rolling hills, and peaked mountains in the background. Not a dive bar in sight. “I think I’m lost, Papa.”

His raspy grunt echoes through my speakers, accompanied by the tink of glassware. He must be working at the bar already. “Where are you?”

“Montana,” I say wryly, but I don’t have much more information than that. My map app insists I’ve reached my destination, but my destination should have people and buildings instead of cattle.

“You in Huckleberry Springs?” he asks, oblivious that I wouldn’t be lost if I were in town already.

From what I recall, it’s too small for me to get lost in, even in the middle of the night under the new moon.

Right now, the sun is high in the afternoon sky, and all I see is a gorgeous Montana view.

“Maybe? I took the back roads from Gillette.” I split my trip from Chicago over two days, staying in Spearfish, South Dakota, last night.

The last several hours have been nothing but gorgeous, rugged land dotted with dark trees.

The only clue that I’m close to Huckleberry Springs is the Beartooth Mountains in the distance.

“I turned off the interstate after Billings, and now I’m surrounded by cows. ”

“Black? Brown?”

What does that matter? “Black.”

“Solid? Or baldies?”

I slow before I go off the road. The highway doesn’t have much for a shoulder, and I’m distracted. A couple of houses line the valley, but other than a sign for fishing access, I don’t have much else for landmarks. “They’re solid black cows. Lots of calves.”

“Black Angus,” Papa mutters. “Could be anywhere.”

I snort. Not even the cattle can help me. I pull over as much as I can and stop before I end up back in Wyoming or something. Instead of smacking my head against the wheel, I pull up my photos and gaze at Buford. Like Pavlov’s dog, I exhale my stress. Stern, lovable, fluffy, orange Buford.

Buford the boss cat, may he rest in peace.

A pang snaps against my heart. I could use his cuddles now, but he’s gone, and I’m in the middle of nowhere, Montana, getting almost as much help from my dad as I have my whole life. Why’d I expect this to be different?

Maybe because I’m lost on my way to go live with him. Definitely a new development in our father-daughter relationship.

“You see signs for the ski resort, Pressie?” he asks.

Once, my ex tried to call me by the same nickname.

I don’t have much from Papa that makes me feel special, so I put a stop to that.

Be more inventive. Give me my own special nickname .

But that was one of the many things Milo couldn’t put himself out for.

“I didn’t accidentally go to Red Lodge, Papa.” I did accidentally go to Red Lodge at my map app’s insistence.

“What else is around you? A lot of trees?”

I scan the valley full of trees along the Stillwater River. Then to the blanketed mountains. “Yes to trees.”

“The old Hennessy mine?”

I crane my head around. A mine? “What’s that look like?”

“It’s an old gold mine.”

“I’ve never seen an old gold mine.” Or a new one.

“Didn’t I take you to one?” He makes a clicking sound. “In Colorado, when I had that ride?—”

“Oh, I see a sign. I’ll call you back.” I hang up on him, squeeze my eyes shut, and blow out a breath. Did I make the right decision? I’m going to be living with Papa and hearing his beloved rodeo stories. Hearing him talk about memories he thinks we made together.

No, he never took me anywhere, but yes. Now I remember that I have been to a former gold mine.

If something didn’t include a rodeo or the animals in the rodeo, he wasn’t interested.

I toured a mine turned museum with Mom once in Colorado.

Papa had been on the rodeo circuit, we’d followed, and he’d had the time of his life while Mom and I had done our own thing.

While Mom quietly cried about how her husband seemed to spend time with everyone but her.

This dismal trip down memory lane is not going to get me to Huckleberry Springs, nor will it aid me in figuring out my next phase in life while living with Papa.

Sighing, I throw the car into gear. I’ve just started pulling back onto the highway when a kitten darts in front of me and disappears into the grass.

I gasp and flip the car into park. There are no homes close enough for such a small kitty to have roamed from. Grabbing my phone, I scramble out of the car. I’m alone on the road, and the wind flutters my hair. It’s not as windy as Chicago, but the breeze licks at the hem of my skirt.

I should’ve thrown on shorts, but the weather forecast this morning for Huckleberry Springs was a pleasant seventy-two degrees with light wind and full sunshine. I didn’t think I’d be heading into a ditch full of weeds in my skirt and hiking sandals.

I’m doing all sorts of things I didn’t think I’d be doing today, like moving to Montana to live with my absentee dad. But it’s only for a little while. Until I figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Again. And until I have the money to do so.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” I inspect the grass like I have x-ray vision. It was a cat, right? An orange kitten. Not many other wild animals are orange.

Nostalgia explodes in my chest. Once upon a time, an orange kitten changed my life. The warm little memory bursts. He changed it again when he was gone too.

A tiny mew reaches me. I spin around. “Kitty?”

Another sound reaches me. A meow?

“Kitty, kitty?” I start slowly. If it’s that far ahead, it’s a fast runner.

Should I lock my car? It’s full of my life’s belongings. I sold all my photography equipment except my camera before I moved.

A pang of regret hits me square in the chest.

I look around. Still no other vehicles. My car is fine .

I creep forward. “Kitty?”

A little mew sounds in the distance. I pull up the camera on my phone and switch to video before I realize what I’m doing. Really? Haven’t I learned that no one wants to see what I post without Buford? I switch my phone off and stuff it into my bra. This dress has no pockets.

I high-step through the grass and wildflowers.

The leaves scrape against my calves, tickling my skin as I try to keep from crushing the blossoms of the wildflowers.

Just as I’m about to put my foot down, a blur of orange springs up and disappears again.

I windmill my arms, struggling for balance. Once I’m stable, I bend down.

I look through the late spring growth. “Hello? Kitty?”

Little green eyes blink at me before dashing away into thicker weeds.

I lean over farther, my ass in the air. A gust of wind comes up, blowing my skirt high. I distractedly bat it down, but the material catches again, lifting higher until a cool breeze gusts across my butt cheeks.

An engine drones. Right behind me . I close my eyes, my cheeks—both sets—warming. Damn.

Whoever it is had better spare my dignity and keep driving. Please, no dashcam.

The wind blows stronger for a second as the truck continues past me.

Thank Go?—

The truck comes to a stop.

Fuck.