2
T he apex of Crybaby Falls offers a high-rise view that no city can beat.
I check my stopwatch when I get to the top, grinning when I see I’ve beaten my best time. It’s not the biggest or most dangerous spot to climb in Montana, but it’s close to the ranch and gives me the daily dose of adrenaline I crave. Nothing beats the rush of dangling into space with only a thin fucking thread to catch you.
I’m three hundred feet in the air, and I hang there in the stillness. No people. No responsibilities. Only me and the wild blue yonder.
The ranch stretches out below me in stunning, pristine views. Woods to the right, glimpses of bright green pasture interspersed by cabins and chalets.
Home . Even if sometimes it feels the furthest thing from it.
My fingers search for a crack in the limestone rock, the mid-morning sun hot against my bare arms. With a grunt, muscles stretching, I hook myself into the side of the mountain. I follow the route laid before me, unhooking from a bolt and lowering myself down a notch.
I move with agility and speed, breathing easily in the crisp mountain air. I could do this route blindfolded. Without a rope. That cocky confidence—that fuck-it attitude—got me far in baseball, but the start of the season makes me take precautions. Dying on my brothers isn’t an option. Even in the grave, they’d never let me hear the end of it.
I hook into an anchor, and right as my feet find good footing to descend, the tinny buzz of my phone sounds through my pack.
I snort. I can’t believe I have a signal up here.
I pull it out and check the ID.
UNAVAILABLE. It could be spam, but I think of Grady last night and answer it.
“Hello?”
“Ford? Ford ‘Flamethrower’ Montgomery?”
I wince at my old nickname. Fucking A. This is why I hate answering the phone. It’s always bad news.
Like Jim Donovan. Nearly ten years later, and I can place that perfunctory bleat like it was yesterday.
I lower my brow to the rockface. “The one and only.”
“Have you ever been told you’re a hard man to track down?”
“What can I do for you, Jim?” I’m not in the mood for small talk. Especially not with Jim Donovan, owner of the Phoenix Renegades, and my ex’s father.
“Listen, son, I’ll admit it. It’s no secret we’ve had our…issues.” I snort. Issues is putting it lightly. “Trust me, this phone call is purely business. We’re looking for someone to take over as the Renegades’ new television play-by-play broadcaster. Big leagues. Big time.”
“And you thought of me,” I say dryly.
“We did.” I hear the flick of a lighter. Jim inhales—most likely a Cuban cigar. “You’re the type of voice we need, Ford. Hell, you’re the voice of the team. One of the greatest pitchers of all time. A former star player with a massive ego, but that’s what America wants. America wants to watch you strut your stuff from the broadcast booth. Our team always loved your straightforwardness and Southern drawl.”
I laugh roughly. He’s determined, I’ll give him that. “Compliments, Jim? Don’t seem to remember getting much of those back in the day.”
A long silence. I’ve pissed him off. Perfect.
“It’s a new day, son.”
I close my eyes and clench a fist. I wish he’d stop calling me that.
“A new chance. That’s why we want you. It’d be a two-year contract. You’d work out of New York. A nice salary. Not as much as when you were in the major leagues, but you can’t go back, can you?”
I grit my teeth and stare down at the dizzying drop.
No, you sure fucking can’t.
“No one wants me.” Frowning, I attach a hook to the side of the rock. “Not after that video.”
A smug smile in his voice. “Which video?”
Which video is fucking right.
Jim’s voice shifts from carefree to alert. “We buried the one of you and Savannah. It wasn’t good optics for either of you.” He clears his throat. “And no one remembers that other video anymore, Ford.”
I swallow. Maybe he’s right. But I fucking remember it.
“It was an accident. In baseball, collateral damage comes with the territory. Hell, yesterday, Nico Dolan’s bat struck the catcher. You can’t escape accidents.”
Except what I did wasn’t a fucking accident.
An image of that day pops into my mind. The whip of my arm, the roar of the crowd, the chaos that followed.
“What do you say?” Jim asks, pulling me from my memories. “Come back to your brothers.”
“Can’t commit,” I say, watching a red tail hawk soar through the sky. “Not yet.”
“You’re on a ranch, son.” Disdain stains his voice. “In Montana.”
Annoyance prickles my spine. That’s the bastard he’s always been. A smug, rich asshole who thinks the entire world is a cement city.
“I’ll take the ranch any day of the week.”
“That’s your brother’s place,” he argues. “ You gotta make a place for yourself. You did it once. You can do it again.”
Restlessness rattles beneath my skin. A grudging admittance that he’s right. “You think pissin’ me off is really the way to my heart, Jim?”
He chuckles. “You saying no?”
I grit my teeth. As much as I dislike the guy, the offer’s tempting.
But I don’t know. Leaving my brothers doesn’t sit right.
“Give me the summer,” I say. “You’re not gonna put anyone new in a booth, especially with it bein’ mid-season.”
He blows out a rush of air. “I’ll wait. Just make it worth my while.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“Ford.”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s going to win the World Series?”
I grin. “White Sox,” I tell him. “They’ll come back after being shut out for five innings. Then, Colm Meeney will get a solo homer in the tenth and end it.”
“See?” Jim laughs. “Gotta get you in the booth.”
I hang up and pocket my phone.
Instead of continuing my descent, I remain suspended.
I swore I’d never get back into baseball after what happened. What I did.
But Jim Donovan’s out-of-the-blue offer has struck a nerve. Thrown me a curveball I never saw coming. Or maybe I never wanted to see it.
The one thing I knew since I was eight years old was I wanted to play baseball and I wanted a family. Clear natural law.
And do I have either of those? I sure fucking don’t.
He’s right. What am I doing with my life? Bumming around while everyone gets married and has babies? Living my life like tomorrow’s ten years away? I’m thirty-seven years old. Except for a little infamy, a few titles, and some money in the bank, what do I have to show for the last ten years? Everything on this ranch is Charlie’s. Davis has the Warrior Heart Home. Hell, even Wyatt’s entertaining offers to open his own rodeo school.
And me?
What do I have? I’m not sure I want to answer that.
It’s something I talked about in therapy.
I pretend like I don’t care when I do.
I act like I don’t want what my brothers have when I do.
Hell, I had it for a time.
I swung and missed at love.
And I’m not trying again.
My emotions ramp up as I stare down at the three-hundred-foot drop.
I take a breath to relieve the pressure building in my chest. Shake my head to clear it before I start my descent. It’s dangerous climbing when your mind is long gone.
In the past.
Bad memories.
Savannah.
A lawyer, blonde, bright, beautiful. We were opposites. She was a good girl who had her shit together. I was a southern boy bumming around on a baseball field. But I loved her. I loved taking her out and showing her off. Our song was George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today” and on late nights she’d lean over to me in bed and whisper, “It can’t get better than this, Ford.”
We dated for three years before I popped the question. Planned it out to a fucking tee. Even asked Jim for his permission. During our warm-up, I brought her onto the field, because Savannah loved spectacle. Drama. Anything she wanted, I wanted to give it to her. I got down on one knee. With my heart hammering in my chest, I pulled out a ring.
Only…
She said no.
She left me kneeling on the mound, feeling like a used-up fool. As a chorus of boos filled the stadium, I put the ring back in my pocket. I rallied and pitched the best game I ever had in my life.
All the while, it felt like she had walked off and left me to die on that field.
Later, she found me in the locker room.
“I can’t, Ford.”
“You need time, I get it.”
I tried to touch her, but she stopped me. “I don’t need time.” Her pretty face screwed up. “I need someone else. Someone better. You’re—you’re white trash, Ford. You’re not here.” She held her hand to a spot below her heart. “It was supposed to be fun. Not forever.”
Fuck. That hurt.
It all fucking hurt.
It hit at once like a lightning strike. Everything clicked, though it was about three years too late. She wasn’t the one. Never once did she go home with me to Georgia. The way she’d micromanage every little thing I wore, especially when we went to one of her fucking parties. How she hated when I wasn’t with her but wasn’t happy when I was. The way we never had good days. They were either amazing or awful—so high or so fucking low. It was never good enough.
I was never good enough.
It was all a waste of time. A waste of my heart.
Love can’t be trusted because it’s never real. It’s all a bomb waiting to blow up.
After Savannah ended things, I was in a new stage of grief. The woman I loved left me. I felt everything closing in on me. The life I had worked so hard for—gone. I said cheers to all my troubles. Too much alcohol. Too many pills. All I wanted was a warm body and a cold beer.
It was the end of the season, and we were in the World Series. I showed up to practice drunk and stoned but I was still pitching strikeouts.
But in the last game, I was off. In the second inning, I wound up, stumbled ten feet from the mound, and let that ball fly. In the wrong direction. Horrified, I watched it soar into the stands and—
“Fuck,” I yell.
Groaning, I scrape a hand down my face. My heart won’t quit slamming against my ribcage. I shake my head, clearing the memory. There’s no use going back.
I can’t change a damn thing.
That’s the fucking truth.
With that, I unhook my line and drop into oblivion.
Un-fucking-believable.
Gritting my teeth, I stare at the flat tire on my glittering blue ’67 Chevy pickup.
I pull out my phone and pace while I try to get a signal. Fucking figures, I get goddamn reception on the mountain, but in town, I’m shit out of luck.
When I see the time, I groan.
It was meant to be a quick two-hour climb, but without a doubt, I’ll be late.
Davis and Charlie are going to have my ass. Opening week is stressful as hell and we’re already short-staffed as it is. Which means I fucked up.
I take my job seriously. I let down the ranch, I let down the guests, I let down my brothers.
My phone chirps.
NO SIGNAL.
“Shit.”
I gotta get back. Now. If it means hitching a ride—so fucking be it.
I blow out a breath and search the road.
A black Mustang is coming toward me. Fast.
A tan arm hangs out the window.
I stick out my thumb, step into the road.
But the Mustang doesn’t slow down. It accelerates at an alarming rate, and blows right past, leaving me in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
“Slow down, asshole,” I mutter, catching a glimpse of the out-of-town license plate. Great. Just what the Resurrection locals need. Some dickhead out-of-towner plowing them down.
And then, the hand lifts and flips me off with expert precision.
An armful of gold bangles dangle from a slender wrist as the driver careens down the freeway like they’re an outlaw on the run for their life.