2
F lip-flops. They’re wearing goddamn flip-flops.
I stare at the tourists, bright-eyed blonde sisters, giggling in a corner of Runaway Ranch’s lodge as they select a walking stick from an iron umbrella stand. A local carpenter whittled the rods of smooth wood, fashioning the heads of each stick into a furry woodland creature.
The girls giggle some more.
Christ. Their tiny shorts and thin tank tops aren’t even appropriate hiking attire. I note the absence of water bottles or canteens and cringe. They’ll die out there on the trails.
This is a working ranch, not a goddamn glamping experience.
I almost erupt when they dig into the bucket of ice-cold Pbrs we leave out for our guests. Great. They’re gonna get drunk and fall down the side of the fucking waterfall.
I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose.
What a fucking mess. It’s been a week since the ranch opened for the season and already we have guests going rogue.
I listen closely to their conversation, catching Crybaby Creek and hot cowboys .
The girls choose a walking stick and head for the back door.
I reach for the two-way radio on my hip. “Colton.”
“What’s up, boss? How can I help?”
I massage my brow. Colton’s a new hire fresh out of high school who dropped into the ranch at the beginning of summer looking for work. We hired him on the spot. Young and eager to please, he has the energy and enthusiasm for odd jobs around the ranch that no one else wants to do.
“Don’t call me boss.” If anyone deserves the title, it’s Davis, my oldest, bossiest brother. “Listen, we got two newbs headed down to Crybaby Creek in flip-flops.”
Colton cackles. “I’ll keep a watch on ‘em.”
“Thanks.” After a beat I say, “And intercept the goddamn beers.”
“You got it, Charlie.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Roger dodger.”
I turn my radio to channel four and holster it.
As I walk through the great room, I flip a wave to Tina, our Guest Services manager.
She’s at the front desk, her dark brown curls bobbing as she chatters away with a group of eight about their reservation.
I lift my chin to a small group of tourists snapping photos of the deer antler chandelier that hangs in the lodge’s entryway.
The lodge—or the Main House, as we call it—is 5,000 square feet of rustic style.
It’s the most striking part of the ranch, embodying the spirit of the Wild West with vintage rodeo artwork, high-beamed ceilings, and plush leather couches.
The great room is the centerpiece of the lodge, where guests relax or book activities.
On one side is Bar M with cowhide bar stools and the best local moonshine around.
On the opposite, the entrance to the chow hall, saloon, and gift shop.
But the lodge wouldn’t be complete without the gigantic windows that offer a 180-degree view of thick pine forests and stands of aspen.
I drag a hand over my beard, watching the guests pour in. Summer season means tourists. Not my favorite part of the ranch, but it’s a living. I prefer the quiet of fall.
Solitude.
Silas Craig, our chef, pops out of the kitchen as I approach the front doors. “Hey, Charlie.”
I nod. “What’s on the menu tonight, Chef?” We serve all meals buffet-style in the chow hall, except for our farewell campfire dinner.
“Beef stew. Cornbread. S’mores. People love that shit.” He smooths a tattooed hand over the front of his apron, a lopsided grin on his face. “Drop some off at the house for you tonight?”
“Appreciate that,” I tell him. Having our own on-site chef has its benefits. Three months a year, no cooking necessary.
Good people. All of them. No matter how big or small, every season, our team handles what the ranch throws at them. From guest services to wranglers to cattle foremen, after five years in business, the ranch employs ten percent of our small town.
Still pissed about the girls in flip-flops, I slam out the front door and pound down the steps, having a near miss with a kitten scrambling its way into a grove of bushes next to the lodge. Breathing deep, I stand there and take in the rugged backcountry of Montana.
Blue skies that break every boundary in nature. Jagged mountain peaks that dare the most adventurous to conquer them. The late afternoon June sun beats down on me, at that perfect angle that even my dusty cowboy hat can’t shield me from its furious rays. Summer in Montana is a piece of paradise.
Our property sits at the base of Meadow Mountain, framed on both sides by dense national forest. Off in the distance, the custom metal Runaway Ranch sign hangs over the entrance to the ranch. 17,000 acres of untamed wilderness.
Once upon a time I’d call Georgia my home, but not anymore.
Resurrection, Montana is where I hang my hat. And damn, I love it.
Boots crunching gravel, I head out across the grounds, mentally logging some things that need fixing. Broken fence post. Overgrown weeds. I pluck a pair of pliers from the ground and toss it into a flower bed to retrieve later.
To me, this life is church. Making sure our employees and guests feel like family. Inspecting the ranch. Working from sun up to sun down. Driving cattle. Breaking horses.
Ranching, horses, and rodeo are part of my blood. I was born and raised on it; my parents ran one of the most successful horse breeding farms and training facilities in the United States. Ten years ago, I competed on the rodeo circuit with my younger brother Wyatt.
At twenty-four, I had everything.
The woman I loved, my titles, prize money, a future mapped out.
Until suddenly, I didn’t.
My fiancée’s death unraveled my whole life and exploded everything inside of me.
I did whatever I could to run from Maggie’s memory.
I drank too much. Cursed God. Tried to sell every damn horse I owned until my father talked me down.
It was around six months after her death that I knew I couldn’t stay in Wildheart.
At every corner, memories burned of me and her.
The creek where we’d kiss until the sun came up.
Our family’s rodeo ring where she died. If I saw one more sad smile from her mama at the grocery store or found another one of her hair ties in my truck, I was going to throw myself off the Jackson Street Bridge.
I needed a new memory. I needed a new place.
I had to move my boots on this fucked up broken ground that was my life or else I’d fall apart.
So, I got lost.
I found Resurrection.
On a whim, I bought the ranch.
But I learned it didn’t help much. For the first five years, I stumbled through life without her.
I was a walking heartache with a bad Jim Beam habit.
I can’t describe how much I missed her. How desperate I was to hear her voice, to feel her skin, to catch that shock of red hair that was her calling card, and my salvation.
Eventually, my brothers, all scattered to the wind, followed me.
Wyatt was the first. Two weeks in and he was busting down my door.
“You ain’t doin’ this alone,” he said, and he stayed.
A year later, Ford joined us, and a year after that, our brother Davis.
It was Davis’s idea to turn this overgrown plot of land into a working ranch.
“Listen,” he said in that hard-ass, no-nonsense military way of his. “You can mope the rest of your goddamn life, but the rest of us, we gotta make a fucking living.”
So, it’s what we did.
Runaway Ranch, my brothers, and Resurrection saved me.
Sometimes I’m still pissed off about it.
The deep buzz of the two-way radio cuts through the silence of the outdoors, and I reach for it.
“Charlie?” Davis’s deep voice crackles through the speakers. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ here,” I say with an edge.
“What’s up your ass?”
I watch a cowboy hat-clad family of five squeal and point at the emerald-green horse pasture. The sound grates at my skin and I grit my teeth, feeling the irritation building in my bones.
“There’s too many people here.”
“We need people,” Davis barks back. “They pay our bills, remember? You’re the one who had to buy a fucking ranch.”
I rub my brow, disgruntled at the reminder.
“Besides we might not have people here much longer.”
I frown. “What’re you talking about?”
“Get your ass over to the Bullshit Box and I’ll tell you.”
Christ. Now what?
“Wyatt. Ford,” Davis says before there’s another crackle on the radio channel me and my brother’s all share. “Get your asses up here, too.”
Redirecting my course, I veer right, heading for the Bullshit Box, a tiny corrugated metal home that we use as our business headquarters. Since it’s situated in the center of the ranch next to the lodge, it allows us to do our office work while monitoring comings and goings.
When I step through the large garage-style door, Davis’s Belgian Malinois rescue, Keena, tearing up a box in the room’s corner, spazzes, then barks at my appearance.
After roughing her fur, I clock Davis at the computer, wearing his standard attire of a tight navy USMC T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots.
He has a video paused mid-action. The stiff hunch of his broad shoulders tells me he’s in alert-mode.
At thirty-five, Davis is as opposite as he can get from his twin Ford. In looks and personality. Tall and muscular, Davis, a veteran marine, is quiet and intense—no-nonsense and take-charge—with a determined set in his dark brown eyes.
As co-owner of Runaway Ranch and head of security, as well as heading the Montana Search and Rescue operation in Cascade County, Davis handles the safety of the ranch. Anyone who tries to make it past my older brother better have a death wish or a prayer.
Davis, not taking his stare off the computer screen, says, “You hear our sister’s ready to pop?”
“You got me up here for that? Emmy Lou?” Our baby sister is pregnant with twins and expecting any day now.