CHAPTER 1
DEAN
The first thing I do in any bar is count the exits.
It's not something I think about anymore—it just happens.
Some people check their phone when they sit down, or glance at a menu. I walk in and my brain starts mapping: two exits, back door past the pool tables and the main door I came through.
Awareness of your surroundings is key. There’s four stools open at the bar and a couple of booths along the wall. A jukebox glows in the corner, playing some country song about a beer and a girl and a Friday night. A burly guy nurses a pitcher at a high-top.
Behind the counter, the bartender dries a glass. He’s in his mid-fifties and looks as if he's heard every sad story this town's got and stopped caring a while ago.
Fifteen years of walking into rooms where I don't know anyone—without planning to stick around long enough to change that—will wire you like this.
I’m always assessing, ready for anything. Mostly to make sure I can take off at the drop of a hat.
The Rustic Ridge is exactly the kind of bar I'd expect in a town called Deepwood Mountain, Montana. Exposed timber beams line the ceiling, antler chandeliers drop from strategic spots above, and a mounted elk head watches everyone from the far wall with judgmental glass eyes. The stools are worn smooth from years of denim and drunken decisions. And it smells like pine and spilled beer, soaked into the very foundation over the years.
It's perfectly fine. It's a bar. I'm not here to critique the atmosphere.
I'm here because in two days I start the first permanent job I've had since I was nineteen years old, and my nerves have gotten to me.
Not visibly. But inside, there's a tremor that won't quit. It’s been going since I crossed into Gallatin County this afternoon, my truck loaded with everything I own, which fits in the bed with room to spare…and isn't that a depressing inventory of thirty-five years on the planet.
"What'll it be?"
The bartender's got a rag in his hand, already half-turned toward the taps. He’s efficient and doesn't give a fuck about small talk. I respect that.
"Whatever's on draft. Doesn't matter."
He pours me something amber with bubbles and a foamy head, and slides it across the countertop.
I take a long pull and set it down and tell myself this is it. One drink to settle the nerves and get the lay of the land. Then I’ll go back to the motel, get some sleep, and show up Monday morning like a man who's got his shit together.
Connor Leigh, the owner of the Timber Run Eco-Historical Lumberjack Camp is either the best judge of character I've ever met or the worst. Jury's still out. I mean, the man did his homework—knew about my assault charge, the eighteenmonths, the drifting. He knew I've spent the last fourteen years collecting seasonal paychecks and fake names the same way some people collect stamps.
And he looked me dead in the eye on a video call and said, "Everyone deserves a shot at starting over. Question is whether you're ready to take it."
I said yes before I could talk myself out of it.
Unfortunately, I haven't stopped second-guessing myself since.
Because the thing about starting over is that it requires you to believe you're worth the trouble. And I've never had that much self-respect.
I take another drink. The beer's decent. And that elk is starting to grow on me.
"Mind if I?"
I glance sideways. The voice is feminine and a little breathless, like she just came in from outside, and the woman attached to it is?—
Christ.
She's gesturing at the empty stool next to me, in heels and a short dark dress that's doing things I'm not prepared for on a random Saturday night. The fabric catches the light when she moves and clings to curves that make my brain stall out mid-thought. Her hair's down, and it’s a pale gold, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. She’s pretty in that girl-next-door way. Not sharp or polished. And her warm brown eyes actually look at you instead of past you.
The next thing I notice is that she's young. Not dangerously young, but young enough that a decent man would probably keep his eyes on his beer and let her find someone who isn't hauling around a decade and a half of damage.
I've never claimed to be a decent man.