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“We found you, Cassie,” I murmur, cupping her head as she wails. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Baby girl, breathe,” I whisper into her clammy golden curls.
Sniffling, she lifts her head and gives me a toothy little smile. My heart wrenches. Unable to stand it, I pass her to Richter, who passes her to her mother.
“We didn’t have to go far,” I tell him, gazing at the trailer.
“Fucking backyard,” Richter says, sounding amazed.
Backyards. Most crimes happen in your own backyard. Right under your nose.
I’d call it a goddamn great day that we found Cassie this easy. Most missing persons are hikers who, depending on the time ofyear, succumb to the elements. Being a local doesn’t mean you’re immune to the Montana wilderness.
“I’ll wrap up here,” Richter says, reaching for the radio on his hip. His voice drops an octave. “Make sure the parents didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Take your girl and give her a big treat.”
“Plan on it. Thanks, Sheriff.”
My sharp whistle draws Keena back to my side. I tap my chest, and she gently leaps up to plant her two front paws on my chest. Chuckling, I pet her head. “Those ears work better when food is involved, don’t they?”
After a healthy dose of praise, I head for my truck while Keena keeps pace beside me. My skin feels too tight from nerves, and my fists ache for a good session in the gym with the punching bag. Then at least a five-mile walk for Keena.
Inside my truck, Keena rides passenger. I turn on the heat, letting it blast, and crank down a window for my dog. Icy air hits her in the face, her tongue lolling. As my truck winds its way around the sharp switchbacks of Resurrection, miles of snowy wilderness stretch out before me. The crackle of my police scanner spits today’s radio chatter.
We pass over Dead Fred’s Curve, a narrow stretch of road with blind corners around every bend. Instead of guardrails, there is a multi-thousand-foot drop to the valley below. Posts designating grave markers dot the side of the road. Though harrowing, I prefer to take this route. It’s a shortcut back to Runaway Ranch and my time alone to breathe and think.
By the time I get back to the ranch, rays of bright sunlight are streaming through the clouds, chasing away the morning chill in the air.
I exit the truck. With a woof, Keena bounds for the Warrior Heart Home, the kennels and housing facility for my dogs. I chuckle and watch her run. Dog’s so goddamn free it kills me.
I scan the ranch and its perimeter. Construction in varying stages is going on all over the grounds to get it ready for opening season. My job, as head of security, is to keep a pulse on the ranch. Keep it safe.
Something I fucked up once.
I won’t do it again.
Runaway Ranch has always been Charlie’s. Ever since he first set foot on this land to escape the memories of his fiancée’s death. His breakdown brought us all out here to keep him together and so far, no one’s shown an interest in leaving. Resurrection—just like Runaway Ranch—has become a part of our souls.
And it’s become my purpose. Serve my town, protect my brothers, train my dogs. A simple, peaceful life. Although peace doesn’t have much of a chance as long as one of my brothers is around.
“Hoo-wee. I can feel your temper boiling from over here.” My twin, Ford, comes loping around the side of the lodge. Shaggy dark blond hair flops in his face. Though all of us Montgomery’s are well over six feet, he’s got the lean physique of a baseball player while I’m Marine through and through.
One thing we share: we both have damn great aim. I knew stellar sharpshooters overseas, but Ford’s fastballs are legendary.
I glance at my brother’s Merrill sawtooth hiking boots, then jerk my chin to his pack. “You hit the dome today?”
“Not as early as you.” He tosses a bag of powder into his rucksack. “But yeah. I was out and about on the mountain.”
Ranch life only works for Ford if he can stay busy. Since he left baseball, he’s been spinning his wheels, searching outany small job he can. Ranch hand, bartender, car mechanic, adrenaline junkie. That’s Ford. Any adventure, he’s game. It’s why we call him the wildcard of Runaway Ranch. No one knows what Ford gets up to. Not even him.
His eyebrows lift. “Bad mornin’ already?”
“Tough mornin’.”
“You find the kid?”
“Yeah. She climbed into an empty fridge on the edge of the property. Keena sniffed her out.” I exhale the anger simmering in my gut. The reminder makes me want to punch something. “People and their fucking junk.”
