Chapter 1

Ash

There comes a time in life when a person has to decide whether they're going to continue down the same well-marked path they've been traveling for far too long or whether they're going to jump the guardrails and go offroad.

I've jumped the rails.

"This is fine," I say to myself, checking my navigation as yet another mile of empty road passes. "We're almost there. Everything is just fine ."

It's so not fine.

"Me and you, right, Edna? We've got this."

My car sputters, and I let out an equally undignified squawk.

"Edna! Don't you dare crap out on me now. Stay strong, woman."

In response, there's a loud clunk , and my 2007 Honda Civic in tango red stalls out right in the middle of the road not two miles from my destination.

"This. Is. Fine ."

With a little more force than necessary, I pull my keys from the ignition and step out of the car. There's no smoke or dramatic glaring signs telling me what's wrong when I pop the hood. In fact, I have no clue what I'm even supposed to be looking for.

Muttering a curse, I head back to the driver's side door and pull my phone from the holder on the dash. Naturally, I ring Virginia.

"C'mon, c'mon," I mutter, tapping my foot.

"Hey, baby boy," my closest friend and most favorite troublemaker says in greeting. Before I can admonish her for calling me baby boy —I'm thirty-five years old, thank you very much—she goes on. "Are you here?"

"I'm here," I confirm. "There's just been a slight hiccup."

"I'm listening," Virginia says, the din of conversation and the sound of clinking glasses accompanying her voice down the line.

"I broke down," I tell her.

There's a beat of silence, and then my friend laughs.

"Thanks so much, Ginnie," I groan. "So very helpful."

She snorts before her voice is back in my ear. "Where are you?"

"A couple miles away," I answer, peering around at the admittedly beautiful landscape. Trees dot the sides of the road, the tips of some of the leaves just beginning to yellow, and tall grasses spread like a blanket far and wide in every direction. In the distance, the mountains stretch toward the sky, their stony peaks blending seamlessly into airy blue. It's gorgeous. Like a postcard.

"Well, better get walking," Virginia says.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind is a screech.

"I'm sorry," I say slowly. "I must have misheard. Did you just tell me to walk ?"

"Baby, I'm already at work, and you're only fifteen minutes away. Put those pretty feet of yours to use and walk on down the road. I'll have a couple welcome shots ready for you."

Pretty feet?

"Oh, and Ash?" she says.

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for the donkey."

With that, my friend clicks off the call, and I'm left wondering what in the actual hell I've gotten myself into.

"It's fine," I say for the umpteenth time, popping Edna's trunk. I pull both of my suitcases out and set them on the asphalt. "This is the start of something new. An adventure. Nothing's going to get me down. Nothing ."

Slamming the trunk closed, I let out a breath. As I stand upright, the twinge in my back has me wincing, but I roll my shoulders, grab the handles of my suitcases, and put my pretty feet to work.

There's a reason I up and moved across the country on a whim. A reason I asked my friend if her standing invitation to crash on her couch was still good. A reason I drove my run-down car over 2,000 miles from Maine to the Wild freaking West, of all places, with no more than two bags in my possession and a conviction that it was the right thing to do.

My life was in desperate need of an upheaval. It's not because I'm having a midlife crisis at three-and-a-half decades, as my mom so kindly accused me of. It's not even because of my ex. At least, not directly.

I needed a change—for me . So am I going to complain about having to hoof it a couple measly miles at the end of my journey? Not a chance.

The navigation on my phone tells me The Barrel, the bar where Virginia works, is precisely 1.9 miles straight ahead. So, with determination, I set off that way, my suitcases dragging noisily behind me. After a while, I start to hum. Cat Stevens is welcome company on the trek, and when I remember Nicholas— "don't-call-me-Nick" Nicholas —isn't here to silently judge my song choices, I sing. Because why not?

Luckily, there's enough of a breeze to keep me from sweating through my shirt. For being the end of September, warm temperatures sure are hanging on.

Not so luckily, I'm only one mile in—or one mile away, depending on how you look at it—when one of my suitcases lists to the side and begins scraping against the pavement.

"No, no, no," I mutter, stopping and staring at the wheel that's now rolling slowly toward the grass on the other side of the road. " Seriously ?"

A short honk has me whirling around, my pulse jumping. A rusted orange truck slows to a stop in front of me, its driver an older man with a big white beard.

Oh, Jesus . Please don't let me end up in some guy's basement freezer. I did not sign on for that.

"Need a ride?" the man asks, his window rolled down. The…is that a goat? …in the passenger seat bleats.

"Uh, I'm just heading into town," I tell him, well aware that doesn't answer his question.

"You own the car a mile back?" he asks.

"Yeah?" I hedge. "She's mine."

He nods. "We'll have Ratchet fix 'er up." Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, he says, "Hop in back. I'll drop you off."

"In…back?" I ask slowly.

"Misty's got shotgun."

Misty bleats.

I weigh my options for all of two seconds before deciding screw it . Suitcases in hand, I march forward and climb into the bed of the truck.

The man opens his rear window once I'm situated. "Name's Earl."

"Ash," I reply.

"Welcome to town, Ash."

Before I have time to formulate a response, Earl is gunning it. I brace myself against warm metal as the old, rusty truck ambles down the road. Misty hangs her head out the passenger window, and I bark a laugh.

In a matter of minutes, Earl is slowing down in front of what looks like the town center. It's the first time I've seen civilization in a good thirty miles.

"Where to?" he asks.

"Actually, you can just drop me here," I tell him, grabbing my suitcases. Earl keeps the truck in park while I jump down. When I get near the front of the vehicle, Misty bleats again, her head straining my way. "Can I…pet her?"

Earl nods, chewing something. Gum, maybe? Tobacco? "She's friendly."

Misty practically headbutts my hand when I hold it her way. I huff a laugh, rubbing over her head and behind her tiny stub ears. "She's cute."

"You got something to take down a number?" Earl asks.

"Oh. Sure?"

I pull out my phone, and Earl rattles off ten digits. "That's Ratchet's shop. Give 'im a call tomorrow for an estimate."

"Got it, thanks," I say, pocketing my phone. "And, uh, thanks for the ride, Earl."

He gives me a brisk nod. "Enjoy your visit to Montana. And Ash?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for the donkey."

I blink, and Earl pulls away, his truck rumbling as it takes a bend in the road. Shaking my head, I turn and face town.

And then I stop still.

Squat red-brick shop fronts flank either side of the gently sloping two-lane road, down which vehicles are parked, more than I'm expecting for early evening on a Tuesday. The mountains sit centered in the distance like a quiet sentinel, too far away for me to estimate their size apart from huge . Along the sidewalks are planters holding flowers in bright shades of pink and red and yellow, and awnings cover many of the businesses' front doors, creating a quaint, colorful visage. Small town charm at its finest.

But what captures and holds my attention is the large, swaying sign high above the street. Etched into the wood are four simple words. Four simple, monumental words.

Welcome to Darling, Montana .

I pull in a breath, fresh air filling my lungs. "We made it, Edna."

With a grin, I pick up my suitcases and head into town.

The Barrel isn't difficult to find, even without navigation. After passing a clothing store, a fudge shop, and an antiques market, I stop in front of a glass-front building flanked by two large casks. Like the other planters along the road, the wooden barrels are filled with flowers, brightening the exterior of the bar. "The Barrel" is stenciled on the window in front of me, and past it, I can just make out my friend.

Virginia lets out an ungodly screech the moment I push through the door, and every head inside the bar swivels in our direction. My tiny firecracker of a friend doesn't care in the least, all five-foot-three of her—five- four if you count the poofy brown hair—strutting my way. I have just enough time to drop my suitcases before Virginia is in my arms, squeezing me like I'm a lemon she's trying to juice.

"Jesus, Ginnie," I groan.

She squeezes harder. "Don't complain, baby boy. I haven't seen you in three goddamn years . I'm allowed to squeeze the stuffing outta you."

"Yes, Mom."

She drops down and swats me on the chest with a hand towel that had been tucked into her apron. I hiss, hand over my nipple as she turns to face the room.

"Everybody," Virginia calls, much to my mortification. "This is Ash. My best friend in the whole dang world. Be nice to him or you're cut off."

There are a few chuckles at that, a couple people wave, and a few others tilt their hats in greeting. I offer a quick smile before grabbing my suitcases and hustling after Virginia. As she makes her way behind the bar, I stuff my suitcases out of the way and slide onto a stool.

"Thanks for that," I mutter, brushing my hair off my face. "Just what I needed—everyone staring."

"Baby," Virginia says lightly, plunking a glass down in front of me. She fills it with water. "You're in Darling now. Ain't no such thing as a stranger here, so you better get used to it. Folks in this town are gonna be aggressively polite."

"That's…comforting."

She snorts before resting her elbows on the bartop. "You doing okay?" she asks seriously.

My stomach tumbles over, and I lean closer, speaking low. "Ginnie. Tell me I'm doing the right thing."

"You are," she says immediately.

"This isn't stupid? Coming all this way without a plan? Up and leaving everything behind?"

"Nothing you've done or ever will do could be stupid, Ash," she says before pausing. "Well, almost nothing. This is the right thing for you. I know it. You do, too. Trust that gut of yours."

I nod, deflating. "You're right. It's just… I don't have a job, a place to live, a working car ."

"You're staying with me for now, and we'll figure out the rest," she says calmly. "In fact, I've got some leads on the job front. For tonight, just take a load off. Tomorrow, we'll get you sorted."

"Yeah, okay," I say, rubbing my temple. With a huff, I joke, "I don't suppose there are any men here? That would certainly help me take a load off."

Virginia's lips curve into a smirk as she reaches across the bar to grab my chin. She redirects my gaze out the window, where a couple guys our age are passing by. I nearly choke on my spit. From the big leather hats to the boots and belt buckles, they look every bit like real-life cowboys.

"Damn," I mutter. "They sure don't come like that in Maine."

Virginia chuckles, turning and plucking a bottle off the shelf behind the bar. She places two shot glasses down in front of me before twisting the cap off the bottle and pouring the deep amber-brown liquid with a flourish. "Darling Whiskey," she says with a wink, sliding the shot glasses closer. "Welcome to Montana, Ash."

With that, my friend walks off to tend to her customers, and I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar. My hair is windblown, the blonde waves a mess, and my cheeks are still a little red from walking. But it's the smile on my face—the one that reaches my eyes—that has me doing a double take.

It's been a long time since I've seen that smile.

Giving myself a mental salute, I pick up a shot glass and bring it to my lips. The whiskey goes down smooth, pleasant oaky fire warming a path to my stomach. At the tail end is a hint of something that tastes almost like caramel.

With a happy hum, I exchange my empty glass for the full one.

Yeah . I think Darling and me are going to get along just fine.