Sweet Home Montana

“Is he in?” I ask briskly, wishing my racing heart would calm to a more manageable thrum. The sheer inconvenience of a heart attack right now would be all I need.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wagner, he’s out of the office all morning.”

“Well do you know where he is? It is vital that I speak with him.” I stand, waving for Oliver through the glass wall to stop him on his way out. He notices my flailing hand and pauses, his brow furrowed as he waits.

“He’s meeting with Mr. Delaney for brunch at Illusions. I don’t know the address but I believe it is in SoHo.”

“It’s okay. I know where it is. Thank you so much,” I say, signaling to Oliver to forget about fetching me my coffee and to get me a car and a driver immediately before quickly ending the call.

My cell rings again as I collect my things, but I shove it and everything else into my purse. I hurry to the closet and pull out the blazer I keep in there for emergency situations such as this. After I shrug it on, it does little to conceal the coffee stain, but it’s all I have right now.

“Hawkins wants to see you in his office,” Oliver says as he opens the door for me, his hands held up in the air in surrender.

“Now?” I gape at him from the threshold.

He nods, and I can tell by the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip that this can’t be good. Mr. Hawkins knows. I just know it. I’ve just lost the biggest deal of my career. It’d be stupid to think it would be anything but bad. I release an almighty sigh and begin toward the glass stairs that connect the sales floor to the executive level.

“Quinn, I heard about the Prince Street deal …” someone says from deep within the bowels of the sales floor.

“It’s nothing,” I yell back over my shoulder, waving a nonchalant hand in the air, my quavering voice doing little to help dispel the obvious doubts of my colleagues. But I ignore everyone and everything, my jaw clenching hard as I proceed up the stairs and into the sleek lobby of the executive floor.

Mr. Hawkins’ glamorous executive assistant glances up from her computer, and I almost expect her to stop me, to ask me what I’m doing, but she doesn’t. In fact, all she offers is a look of condolence complemented by a pitiful smile as I continue past her. God, even she knows I’m about to have my ass handed to me. My clammy hands ball into trembling fists at my sides as I try to count to ten. I stop momentarily at the imposing double doors, knocking just once.

“Enter!” a booming voice from the other side demands, and I’m literally quaking in my pumps as I reluctantly step inside.

Edward Hawkins is an institution. A force to be reckoned with. At seventy-eight years old and standing at only five-feet-two-inches, with thick wire-frame glasses and sheet-white hair, he’s the most unexpectedly intimidating person I’ve ever come across in this cut-throat industry, and that’s saying a lot in a city like New York. He meets my eyes with a threatening glower, turning in his chair and reclining ever so slightly, his stubby fingers steepled beneath his white-bearded chin. But I remain defiant, my chin raised slightly higher in a show of confidence I sure as hell don’t feel on the inside.

“Sit.”

Now, let me get one thing straight. I’m definitely not a “yes, sir; no, sir” kind of gal. I’m a self-respecting, confident woman who just so happened to grow up in a house full of men and thus can take care of myself in almost any and every situation. But when Edward Hawkins fixes you with that all-penetrating and intimidating look in his steely eyes, and tells you to sit, then you better damn well sit your ass down.

“What is this I’m hearing about Prince Street?” he asks in his native New Yorker-accent.

I clear my throat, forcing a smile as I take a tentative seat in the chair across from his sprawling mahogany desk. “It’s nothing more than a misunderstanding, sir.”

My cell rings again from deep inside my purse and I do all I can to pretend as if I don’t even notice it. But I do notice it. So does he. He glances at my purse, his bushy brows drawing together. I blink once, my face impassive as the loud vibration continues through the heavy silence.

“You told me on Friday night that the deal was done,” he says finally, regarding me with a hard look over the top of his spectacles. “So, were you lying then or are you lying now?”

I swallow hard, carefully considering my words. He’s got me there. When he called me, late Friday evening, I was so happy to be able to give him the good news, and of course I told him the deal was done. Because, as far as I was concerned, the deal was done. Shareeq and I shook hands, and where I come from that means something; all a man has is his word and his handshake. Clearly, I was wrong.

“I’m on my way to meet with Shareeq right now to get everything sorted.”

Mr. Hawkins narrows one of his eyes, looking at me long and hard. “Do I need to remind you that this is a one-hundred-million-dollar deal?”

“No, sir.” I shake my head.

He quirks a dubious brow. “And do I need to remind you what losing a deal like this can do to a person’s career?”

I shake my head again, vehemently this time, not trusting myself to speak.

With one last lingering look of disappointment, he dismisses me without so much as another word, turning back to his computer, and I take that as my cue to leave, jumping up quickly and hurrying to the door.

“Wagner?”

I stop, my hand on the door handle, and I glance over my shoulder to find him still staring at his illuminated monitor. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Don’t bother coming back to the office without that signed listing contract.” He flashes me a hard yet fleeting once-over. “Do I make myself clear?”

With one swift nod I slip out of the office as seamlessly as I can, fully aware of that same relentless vibration coming from the depths of my purse yet again. I hurry across the shiny floor, cursing out loud when I make it out into the silent foyer, and I frantically press that elevator call button over and over again, as if my life depends on it.

***

Illusions is a pretentious bistro in the thick of SoHo, and with the morning traffic against me, it takes more than thirty-five minutes to get here. It’s quicker on the damn subway. By the time my town car pulls up to the curb out front, I’m a clammy, breathless mess as I cut across the sidewalk, bursting into the restaurant with such gusto, all heads turn to see what the commotion is about.

“Can I help you, miss?” The hostess glances up from her lectern, eyeing me cautiously.

I ignore her, scanning the dining room until I find a familiar head of perfectly highlighted hair, Mihir Shareeq’s face falling in stark shock when he catches sight of me, causing Adam Delaney to turn and do an almost hilarious double take.

“You!” I yell, pointing a finger at Adam from across the room, because now is not the time for manners. “Outside. Now!” I storm back out to the bustling downtown sidewalk, taking my first real breath in what feels like forever.

“Quinn?”

I turn, finding Adam stepping out of the restaurant, buttoning his blazer, his brow raised in piqued interest as he looks me up and down. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to hide his growing smirk, and my anger increases exponentially.

“Don’t give me that look, Delaney. You know full well what I’m doing here,” I hiss between gritted teeth, stepping right up against him.

He barely bothers to conceal his smugness, leveling me with a single look. And I swear, it takes every last ounce of self-control I have left in me not to clock him with my surprisingly strong left hook. “What the hell are you playing at?”

He scoffs, innocently holding his arms out at his sides. “Hey, babe, it’s just business.” He glances up toward the sky, scratching his chin in mock-consideration. “Isn’t that what you told me when you stole Columbus Circle?”

“First of all, don’t call me babe!” I warn him. “Secondly, I didn’t steal anything.” I poke him in his chest. “I won that listing fair and square. I can’t help it if you can’t pitch to save your damn life.”

He rolls his eyes indulgently before grinning down at me with that condescending smile I just want to slap right off his pretty-boy face. “Look, why don’t you just come inside, we’ll chat with Shareeq and maybe we can do a co-listing?”

I fold my arms over my chest, glowering at him.

“I don’t know why you don’t take me up on my offer to partner up. The two of us together could kill it in this city. Number-one agent—” He points to himself, pausing as he looks to me. “And what? Number … twelve?”

“Eight!” I seethe. “And I wouldn’t partner up with you if my life depended on it.”

He scoffs, quirking a brow. “That’s not what you were saying a few months ago when you were sleeping in my bed.”

I swallow back a string of profanities.

Yes. Call me a masochist, but Adam and I dated. I’m a sucker for punishment. I refer to our two-month tryst as an unfortunate lapse in judgment, a moment of insanity, something I’ve wished I could take back every day since.

“I swear to God, Adam—” My hand balls into a fist, but before I can do anything, my phone rings yet again, only this time I choose to answer it in the hope it will stop me from killing this impossible asshole in broad daylight where there are far too many witnesses.

“What?” I snap abruptly as I hit the answer-call button.

“Quinn?”

My brows knit together in confusion at the sound of the familiar voice coming through from the other end of the line, crackly and muffled, nearly inaudible. I turn away from Adam, shoving a finger into my other ear in the hope of hearing over the excessive sound of New York City going about its usual business around me. “Hello?”

“Quinn, it’s me, Cash.”

I can’t help but balk. I don’t even remember the last time my big brother called me. “Cash? W-what’s—”

“You need to come home, Quinny,” Cash says with a heavy sigh of despondency.

“What? Cash! What are you talking about?” I shake my head in exasperation, glancing furtively over my shoulder to find Adam watching on like the nosy prick he is. He probably thinks I’m speaking to another client he can steal from me. I get back to my brother’s confusing, cryptic phone call. “What is it? What’s wrong, Cash?”

“Quinn, it’s Dad,” Cash’s deep voice continues. “H-he’s dead.”

Chapter 2

It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been home. Ten years. And yet the two-hour drive from the city, following the banks of the Yellowstone as it runs through the mountains and the valleys, is a drive I know like the back of my hand. Every corner, every dip, every bump in the road is familiar. I could drive it with my eyes closed and never once take a wrong turn. And yet it’s been ten long years since I’ve bothered driving this road because I’m too damn stubborn and proud.

As I navigate my Land Rover rental through the winding roads of the Rocky Mountain foothills, beneath the sky-high ponderosa pines, their branches creating a canopy overhead, my heart races as an unbearable anxiousness begins to consume me from the inside out, the closer I get to my destination. My palms are clammy. My stomach twists. Sweat beads on my brow. I can barely even breathe. I had no intention of ever coming back here. Not after everything. I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t matter that it’s almost ten years later. I’m still the girl who left Colt Henry at the altar. The girl who broke the heart of the hometown hero. To the people of Black Canyon, I’ll probably always be that girl, no matter how many years have passed.

I still remember the look in his eyes when he came to find me afterwards. When he forced me to tell him what I feared admitting out loud.

I still remember that look of betrayal, the hurt and the pain that I was responsible for inflicting upon him. I still remember it like it was yesterday, not ten years ago. Because that kind of thing will stay with you forever. That look in his eyes haunts me, flashing in my mind every time I close my eyes, as if to remind me of everything I once had, what I’ll never have again because I was stupid enough to let it go in the first place.

I swallow the guilt and remorse that lingers at the back of my throat, reminding myself of my father and the reason that I’m here.

It still feels like some horrible nightmare. Except it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It is real. A quick glance in the rearview mirror reminds me just how real it all is. The bruise on my forehead and the graze on my cheek that I suffered when I collapsed from shock, right there on the sidewalk in front of Adam Delaney, is real. The shattered screen on my cell phone from when it fell with me to the pavement, is real. And, the call that started it all was and still is, painfully real.

My father is dead. The one man I’ve looked up to all my life. My hero. My everything. The one man who has always been there for me, to protect me, to keep me safe, to make everything better. He’s gone and I didn’t even get to say goodbye or tell him that I love him just one last time. I lost the last ten years with him because of my mistake, and now there’s nothing I can do about it.

I close my eyes for a beat and grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn a stark shade of white. My chest constricts around my heart, the pain almost unbearable. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, begging for release. But I won’t cry. I can’t. I’ve spent the best part of the last twenty-four hours crying. I don’t know how many tears I have left.

When the trees part and Black Canyon comes into view, for a moment my breath is taken away because in the ten years I’ve been gone, I’d forgotten just how beautiful it is. Surrounded by thick, lush forest, rolling hills, and looming snow-capped peaks, the tiny town really is a beautiful little secret, hidden in the middle of nowhere. A diamond in the rough of the unforgiving wilderness.

A light rain drizzles down over the windshield as I make my way into the city limits and the dark, threatening clouds begin to envelop the mountains, casting an ominous hue over the town.

Releasing a trembling breath, I scrub a hand over my weary face, sniffling back the traitorous tears that continue to threaten me as I drive into the place that brings back so many memories, passing the familiar buildings that haven’t changed one bit in the time that I’ve been away. Everything is still the same, and yet nothing is the same. I’m a different person to the one I was when I walked away from this place all those years ago, never even bothering to look back.

If I could go back and undo all the shitty things I’ve done in my life, I would. In a heartbeat. But I can’t. And now here I am, ten years later and my whole world as I’ve known it is falling apart. I didn’t expect to feel so sick to my stomach. But I guess that’s what happens when you come back to the one place you vowed never to return to.

***

Ten or so miles along the desolate road that leads out of town and in the direction of the ranges, I pull into the familiar drive, glancing up at the sign hanging overhead as it swings to and fro with the violent wind of the fast-approaching storm: Wagner Ranch. Home. At least, it used to be home. It’s not anymore. In fact, it hasn’t been home for so long that even just driving through the gates and into the thirty thousand acres of expansive, sprawling land, I can’t help but feel like I don’t belong here. Like I’m an imposter. A trespasser at the risk of being shot by a ranch hand.

I follow the rocky drive, looking out over the fields to my left where what appears to be a hundred head of cattle are grazing high up in the hills, to my right where buffalo are roaming free. Wagner Ranch lies in the thick of the country, what feels like a million miles from the rest of the world, a whole lifetime away from the metropolis of New York where I’ve spent most of my adult life.

Thick, heavy clouds cover the mountains, and in the distance a deep rumble of thunder follows a violent fork of lightning, but thankfully, just as the rain starts to fall harder against the windshield, the main house comes into view up ahead and I breathe a sigh of relief. The imposing log and stone structure I grew up in, the place I used to pretend was my castle and I, its princess, is illuminated like a beacon in the darkness of the fast-approaching storm, each window aglow giving off an air of warmth and comfort like only a home can.

Pulling into a makeshift parking spot between a shiny Dodge Ram with the ranch’s logo emblazoned across the side, a sleek Range Rover and a rusted F-250 pickup with a busted tail light, I grab my slicker and my handbag, leaving everything else in the car before making a run for it. By the time I make it up onto the porch, my sneakers are covered in mud and my jeans are soaked up to my knees.

Inside, the house is as I remember it, and as I take in the vast foyer, looking up at the exposed beams in the twenty-foot ceilings I’m struck by a million memories flooding through me at once, and despite my sadness, I can’t help but smile. The mounted bison head that used to scare me as a kid and, quite frankly, still does, sits high above the stairs, its black eyes lifeless yet terrifying as they bore into me. Then a sudden wave of emotion crashes over me, tugging painfully at my heart, and never before have I missed my father the way I miss him right now. He feels so close and this place smells just like him. But there’s something missing, and it’s so obvious that despite everything that is so familiar to me, so much like him, he’s no longer here, and that familiarity suddenly feels so empty and void.

With a defeated sigh, I hang my slicker on the hook by the front door before inviting myself in. The great room that steps down to the left is empty, the fireplace alight with a crackling fire that warms the cavernous expanse of the entire downstairs. The kitchen and dining to the right is empty, not a single thing out of place. I continue through to the corridor, stopping at the framed photographs of me, my brothers, my father, our mom lining the walls, and as I study the old picture of my parents on their wedding day, I reach out, gently stroking the glass with a resigned smile because I know they’re together again in a better place where my mom is happy, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

Hearing the faint sound of a murmured conversation coming from my father’s office at the end of the hall, I hesitate momentarily, smoothing my hair back from my face before heading toward the voices. I knock on the open door before walking nervously inside, and it takes a moment for my glassy eyes to adjust to the muted light in the room. But when they do, I pause on the spot when I find Cash standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the land, his silhouetted form cutting a lonely figure that hurts my heart.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I startle, turning in the direction of the desk, to the darkened figure standing so fast, the chair topples to the floor, big hands slamming down upon the glossy oak in a show of fury I hadn’t been prepared for, which causes me to jump in fear for my life.

I manage to collect myself, clutching at my racing heart. “Hey … Tripp.”

My twin brother looks at me in a way that stings like an abrupt and unexpected slap to the face. The disdain in his hard glare is unmistakable, piercing through the dim light of the room. He folds his arms across his broad chest, shaking his head at the sheer sight of me, his top lip actually curling up in disgust, and I can’t say it doesn’t hurt. It hurts like hell and it’s an added pain I’m not sure I can handle right now.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he asks again between gritted teeth before looking to Cash for answers. “Cash, what’s she doing here?” he demands, waving a hand in my direction.

“I called her,” Cash says gruffly, turning, his eyes finding me.

I shake my head incredulously. What am I doing here? Is he actually serious? “My father is dead!” I exclaim, my eyes wide as I gape at Tripp. “You actually thought I wouldn’t come home?”

“Like you give a shit,” Tripp mutters, shaking his head.

“Are you serious? How can you even say that?!” I yell, my voice breaking from the overwhelming emotion coming over me at just how little he clearly thinks of me.

“We ain’t heard squat from you in years!”

I balk at his words spoken with such vitriol, gaping at him.

Haven’t heard from me? Yeah, well whose fault is that, Tripp? I want to laugh in his face. But I don’t. He really does still hate me, even after all the time that’s passed. But he’s so wrong it’s scary, and although it doesn’t really matter at this time, I have to correct him. “I call him every single day. And every Sunday after church,” I yell, my tears getting the better of me, which I’m quick to swipe from my heated cheeks with the sleeve of my sweater. “I sit on the phone with him for an hour every Thursday morning while he approves the payroll. Hell, I call him after every damn Packers game because I know how worked up he gets watching his team play!” I take a deep, racking breath trying so hard to calm myself, closing my eyes a moment to placate my emotion.

“Yeah, well, he’s dead. You won’t have to worry about calling no more,” Tripp says, looking down at the desk, to the papers strewn across it.

I gape at him, at his brutally harsh words, tears blinding me. But I bite back my retort. He’s hurting. We all are. I soften a little. “I came home to help.” I glance at both of my brothers. “Any way that I can.”

Tripp scoffs, a derisive laugh void of any humor ringing through the air. “You’re here to help? Or you’re here sniffing around for your inheritance?”

My jaw actually drops, my heart stammering. His words are like a rusty knife to my stomach.

“Easy, little brother …” Cash warns, taking a step forward to stand between us.

Tripp looks from me to Cash and back again, murmuring a few choice curse words under his breath that I can’t quite make out over the sound of the rain as it pours down outside.

I hold my trembling hands in the air in surrender. “Look, Tripp. I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to say goodbye to my father …” Emotion gets the better of me, a sob bubbling up from the back of my throat, but I force myself to continue. “To help with the funeral, and—”

“We’ve been doing just fine without you, Quinny,” he interrupts with a huff, looking me up and down, a scornful glint flashing within his steely eyes, a look that cuts straight through me. “We don’t need no help. Especially not from you.” And, with those parting words, he turns and storms out of the room, leaving an air of anger, sadness and loathing in his wake.

I stand there a moment, my shoulders falling in defeat. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I knew my return wouldn’t receive the warmest of receptions, but I never expected my own brother—my twin—to ever look at me the way he just did. I swallow the painful lump that feels as if it’s strangling me, sniffling back the emotion threatening to break what little composure I have left.

“He didn’t mean that.”

I turn, finding Cash’s eyes watching me, and I exhale a trembling breath, pressing my lips together in the semblance of a smile. “Yes, he did, Cash. He meant every word.”

Cash crosses the room, coming to stop in front of me, and I’m actually a little taken aback when he pulls me into his arms, enveloping me in a hug that just about knocks the wind out of me. I hesitate, because an embrace like this is foreign to me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s held me in such a way. I tentatively wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes, and as I breathe in his familiar scent that reminds me so much of Dad, I realize right at that moment that this is exactly what I need.

“Well I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers into my hair before pulling away, his big hands resting on my shoulders.