CHAPTER ONE
Crew
The mountains rose before me like jagged teeth, snow-capped and unforgiving. Beautiful in a harsh, brutal way that reminded me of my military deployments—all sharp edges and hidden dangers. My hands tightened on the steering wheel of my truck as I passed the weathered wooden sign that welcomed me to Lone Mountain, Montana.
Great. A small town full of people who’d want to know my business, ask questions I had no intention of answering, and probably invite me to some community potluck.
What had I gotten myself into?
You owe Race, the voice in my head reminded me. You owe him everything.
The memory hit me like it always did—sharp, visceral, and impossible to ignore. Sand in my mouth, blood on my hands, the deafening crack of gunfire. My leg shattered, bone showing through torn fatigues, and Race’s face above me, grim and determined as he dragged my ass back through hell.
Not leaving you, brother. Not today. Not ever.
He’d carried me two klicks with a bullet in his own shoulder, through enemy fire, refusing to let me go. When the medics finally got to us, I’d been minutes from bleeding out.
So yeah. I owed Race Gentry my life. Which was why, when he’d called a few days ago and said he needed me in LoneMountain, I’d packed my shit and driven straight through from Colorado.
“I’ve got a friend who needs help,” Race had said, his voice carrying that quiet authority that made you listen. “Their sawmill’s short-handed, and you’re good with your hands, and I trust you. Consider it a favor to me.”
Race hadn’t told me anything else. Then again, Race was a manipulative bastard when he wanted to be. And something in his tone had suggested this wasn’t just about the sawmill.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat, and Race’s name flashed on the screen.
I ignored it.
The town materialized around me like something out of a Christmas catalog—the kind that showed up in my mailbox every December and went straight into the trash. Main Street was lined with old-fashioned storefronts, each one dripping with holiday cheer. Garland wrapped around lamp posts. Wreaths on every door. Twinkling white lights strung across the street, connecting buildings like a web of forced joy.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
Christmas. Everywhere.
I’d spent the last five years making damn sure I was nowhere near civilization when December rolled around. I worked remote jobs, stayed isolated, did whatever it took to avoid the carols and the cookies and the relentless, suffocating cheer.
The last Christmas I’d celebrated, I’d gotten a call in the pre-dawn hours that my best friend—my brother in every way that mattered—had died on a mission I should have been on. That I should have led. Ryan had three kids and a wife who baked the best damn cookies I’d ever tasted.
He’d died three days before Christmas while I was stateside, recovering from the injury that had ended my career.
Merry fucking Christmas.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel and followed the GPS directions to the sawmill. At least there, surrounded by machinery and lumber and work, I could avoid the holiday bullshit.
The sawmill sat at the edge of town, backing up to dense forest. It was bigger than I’d expected—a sprawling complex of buildings, with stacks of lumber arranged in neat rows and the main structure a massive pole barn that had clearly been expanded over the years. Practical. Efficient.
No Christmas decorations.
Thank fuck.
I parked near what looked like the main entrance and killed the engine. For a moment, I just sat there, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant whine of machinery.
Get in, do the job, get out. Simple. Race had said a couple of weeks, maybe a month. I could handle a month. Then I’d head back to Colorado, back to my cabin in the woods where no one bothered me and I didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than what I was.
Broken.
The bitter December wind hit me the second I opened the truck door, carrying the sharp scent of pine and sawdust. I’d dressed for it—thermal under my flannel, heavy lined work jacket, boots that had seen me through three deployments and a dozen job sites. At six-four and two-forty, I’d learned early that I intimidated people just by existing. The beard I’d grown over the past two years—thick, dark, and shot through with premature gray at forty—didn’t help.
Which was just fine with me. It made it easier to keep people at a distance.
