AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“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 metalRunaway Ranchsign 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.
