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That ties them to their dirty summer deeds.
Ford passes the phone to Wyatt.
“Damn,” Wyatt says. “Ruby went hard as fuck for real.”
I grin.
That’s my girl.
She flops back against the couch, curling her legs beneath her. “I don’t want this to cause trouble.”
“Nah.” Davis tosses Ruby a smile. “It won’t. You helped us out. A hell of a lot.”
Wyatt grins, tilting his whiskey toward me. “We got ammunition now.”
Ruby looks uneasy.
“Valiante say anything else when he was here?” Ford asks, his eyes on me.
“Typical bullshit,” I grouse. “Said we were playing with fire. That he knows some folks in Chicago who could make our lives hell.”
Wyatt scoffs.
My free hand balls into a fist. I rove a cool gaze around Ruby, my brothers. “They’re not turning Resurrection into some cement city. This is our town and we protect it.”
A blanket of seriousness falls over the room.
“They used social media to fuck with us. We use it when we need it,” Davis’s loud voice booms. A gavel of finality.
Ford shoots back his whiskey. “Campaign season.”
“Damn straight,” I agree.
Releasing the photo will blow up Valiante’s entire world. It’ll ruin his wife’s business, his son’s chances at college, destroy his career as a politician. With one hell of a fight on his hands, he’ll have more important shit to deal with than targeting the ranches in Resurrection.
“Stede has that contact in Missoula at the paper,” Wyatt reminds us. “We could give the photo to him. Let him put it on all that social media shit Ruby loves.”
Ruby’s teeth sink into her lower lip. “Is that smart? Should we do that?” She looks around the room, worried, then up at me.
I blow out a deep breath and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, pulling her closer, needing the proximity to her.
She still seems concerned.
Davis, locking his eyes to mine, laughs and sighs at the same time. “They declared war first. We’re just gonna end it.”
Wyatt lifts his whiskey glass in a toast. “Cheers to social media.”
Ford rubs at his temples. “Let’s hope we get out of it in one fucking piece.”
Dropped tailgates, beer on ice, the end of summer. The shuttering of Runaway Ranch for the season.
Everything about the farewell campfire dinner is chaotic and magical and it’s never been more perfect.
As Davis lifts a cooler, I duck under his arms and spin around to snap a photo of him in his element. I giggle when I examine it. He’s scowling, his dog tags glinting in the descending sunlight. I don’t think these Montgomery men could smile if their lives depended on it.
Lowering the phone, I study the rugged landscape and the ranch.
The Montgomery Brothers—they do Montana proud.
