Chapter One - Diane

CHAPTER ONE

DIANE

My bare feet rest on the dusty porch steps. My brother, David, stands by the barn, face shaded by his hat. The trailer backs up slowly, beeping and flashing lights as the horses in the paddock watch with blank eyes.

The trailer comes to a halt. Jensen Childress kicks the truck door open and jumps to the ground with a puff of dust—he's a handsome man with a cut jaw and a dirty hat on his head. Two of his cowboys appear at his heels, and I take that as my cue to check dinner.

I scramble to my feet. I'm wearing a cotton sundress that buttons up to my neck and leaves my legs bare from the knees down. It's only the beginning of the summer, but it's shaping up to be a hot one. I wish I could wear shorts, but all the men stare at my ass when I do. Except for Jensen; he's always respectful.

"You watching the beef?" David snaps. "It's almost time to eat."

I want to flip him off. Maybe I'd have done so when Nana was still alive, but not since David slammed me into the hallway wall so hard he knocked the faded family portrait on the ground and cracked it down the middle.

That's the last picture we have of our parents, taken when I was a baby and he was five years old .

Who knew that little boy would grow up to be such a dick?

I nod and slip back through the screen door. The big ranch house is quiet as I move down the hallway, stirring up dust, reminding me I need to clean myself up before we have company. I step out the back door to where the beef is cooking. It's a huge piece, and I have to push hard to get the spit to rotate. Fat sizzles as it hits the open bed of coals.

I wipe my forehead. I'm grimy, and my hair is greasy from cooking all morning and afternoon.

In the distance, a truck revs up the driveway. I recognize it as one of the two remaining Garrison brothers, and a chill runs down my spine. They're both so fucking mean, especially Avery. He's the oldest, and he's got eyes like a snake watching a bird.

I consider it a mercy that the middle brother, Clint, passed recently. He used to watch me with a hungry, unsettling gaze.

The truck door with GR emblazoned in red opens, and the youngest brother, Thomas, who's a few years older than me, jumps out. I slip back, unwilling to be noticed. He has always had a thing for me, and sometimes, it feels aggressive. I find him immature and unsettling, but I tolerate his presence because I have to. His family is important around here, and we need their business.

The beef is done; it just needs to be taken off and wrapped in foil to keep hot.

I creep back into the house and find David talking with Jensen on the front stoop. He glances up, narrowing his eyes. Jensen gives me a polite smile, taking off his cowboy hat.

"Can you carry the beef in?" I ask.

A crease appears between David's brows. I know he wants to chew me out for interrupting, but he also knows I can't carry it by myself. He sighs, pushing past me into the hall. I follow, keeping my distance.

He's annoyed, so I stay quiet, holding the door open as he brings the beef inside and lays it on the kitchen counter. Then, he wipes his hands and gives me a hard stare.

"You'd be more useful if you'd been a boy. "

He slings those words casually, like they don't hurt. My eyes sting, but I keep it to myself. It's not the first time he has expressed that sentiment.

"Make the potato salad. That much you can do." He jerks his head and grabs his hat, pushing past me. The screen door slams.

The clock over the stove chimes five. I need to get upstairs and wash, but David's right. I still have to make the potato salad. Wrathfully, I switch off the gas stove and dump the boiling water down the drain, filling it up with cold water to set.

I rip off my apron and stomp upstairs to my room at the far end of the hall. No one can hear my rage, so it's alright to let it out.

The floor is worn by my feet. This has always been my room, every pivotal moment of my life centered in these four walls. It holds my childhood, the treasured memories like my Nana braiding my hair in bed while we watched the stars come out through the window. It was my escape when Nana fell asleep and never woke up.

I turn on the shower in the bathroom and circle around to the big window overlooking the yard.

The mountains spill out in the distance like sentinels holding up the sky. Down below, Thomas and Avery Garrison stand by the barn with David. They're in a circle smoking cigarettes, all just shooting the shit, talking about nothing. Tonight, after dinner, they'll get drunk and burn trash in the back field. It's the same thing every time.

Tomorrow, hungover and in a bad mood, David will slam everything in the kitchen trying to make a cup of coffee.

Quietly, I lift my middle finger and flip him off in secret. Then, I pull the curtain. My dirty dress goes in the basket, and I step into the shower. I've had endless chores to do since this morning, and I'm sticky with sweat and dust.

I hurry through, jumping from the shower with my soaked hair hanging down my back. It feels like something exciting is going to happen. Tomorrow, I turn twenty-one. No one has mentioned my birthday, but that doesn't surprise me. We haven't celebrated anything since Nana left.

Since she died .

But I keep telling myself she just left. She slipped away into the next room, where it's a little too dark to see her face anymore.

I grab a hand towel and dry my hair. Then, I pull on a sundress. It's stretchy yellow material, and it clings to my upper body, the knee-length skirt flared. It's long enough that I can bend down without hearing one of the men whistle at me.

I scowl, feeling faintly murderous, and head downstairs.

In the kitchen, I grab a bowl and start making potato salad, chopping the red potatoes into messy chunks, dicing up onions until my eyes stream.

Somewhere in the distance, Red the border collie starts yapping. I dump everything into the bowl along with a splash of pickle juice and mix it up. There—it can sit for a minute.

Wiping my hands, I creep softly to the door and press my forehead against the screen. Six more trucks line the drive.

Two trucks for the Garrisons—Thomas and Avery.

Then, there's Jensen and two more of his men. They came in different trucks, so that leaves just one, and I can't tell who that belongs to. There's a faint symbol on the side, but it's half-covered in dried mud.

The sun is sinking below the horizon as I slip back to the kitchen. Working quickly, I finish everything and lay the dishes on the main table, save for the meat. That, I carefully slice and lay on a platter, waiting for it to be taken out. Standing back, I wipe my hands.

It looks good, everything the way David wants it.

I hate David. Maybe not enough to hurt him, but enough to make his life hell. Nana told me it wasn't worth it to hate anyone. She said if they were bad enough, I'd leave them at the gates of heaven, so there was no point in it.

"Don't use up your energy on those who wrong you, baby," she'd whisper, running her fingers through my hair. "Vengeance belongs to the Lord."

Then, she'd hum a slow, mournful tune until I fell asleep, one I have no name for, though it still haunts me .

I disagreed and spent my nights plotting against David. He got snakes in his room, burs under his horse's saddle blanket, and salt in his coffee until he was big enough that when he pushed me, it hurt.

Now, I just have to take it.

I slip upstairs again and comb out my dry hair, letting it fall in waves down my back. My fingers trace over my face, touching the bridge of my nose. I'm pretty, I know, but I don't know how to use it to my advantage.

Maybe tonight, that changes.

Tomorrow, I'm twenty-one, old enough to legally drink whiskey. It's time to be a woman; at least, that's what I assume.

No one taught me how. Nana died before she could.

I put my boots on. They're new, and the bottoms are hard and loud on the stairs as I move. Red starts yapping again, and I freeze at the bottom of the steps.

There's something going on outside.

Heart thumping, I burst onto the porch. The men are fighting over by the barn, Avery Garrison lunging at someone while David holds him by the shirt collar. The Garrisons are big men, but my brother is bigger. He's got him reined in. Dust rises. Inside the barn, the horses kick at their stalls, spooked by the disturbance.

It doesn't surprise me that the men have been here less than thirty minutes and they're already fighting, especially not since Clint Garrison died a few months back.

Everyone north of South Platte has been walking on eggshells since that happened. The Garrisons are a prominent family around these parts. The middle brother's death sent shockwaves through the community.

I drag my eyes back to the men.

A storm is brewing.

Jensen stands in front of the other Garrisons, keeping them back. His pistol is out, held at his thigh and pointed down. Jensen doesn't fuck around; he's got perfect trigger discipline. When he wants to shoot, he'll point and— bang . There'll be nothing left but a hat fluttering in the wind .

He won't shoot, but he still has it out, just to let them know he could.

My eyes shift. The object of Avery's ire is another man, one I've never seen before. I blink, focusing on him. He's tall, about six-four, with dark chestnut hair. My stomach swoops in a way that feels...good.

I like the way he looks, maybe more than I should.

He's a large man, broad shoulders and big hands. His jaw is covered in a short beard, and it's tensed hard. He has good features, a strong, straight nose, low brows.

I can't tell how old he is, but I know he's too old for me, probably thirty-two or three. There's no gray in his hair, but he has light laughter lines around his eyes.

Those could just be from the elements. I can tell he's a wrangler, that he works a ranch. There's something about the confidence it takes to live in that world that runs like the blood in their veins.

His black hat is off, hanging by his thigh. I tilt my head, trying to see the symbol on the crown.

Avery yells something. Jensen shoots into the earth, and everyone calms the fuck down. There's something about a gunshot that induces either panic or sudden good behavior.

"Shut the fuck up," Jensen barks. "Back off."

He pushes up against Avery, their faces inches apart. I can see they're arguing, jaws tense. Jensen gestures with the gun still pointed down to the earth. Then, Avery throws his hands up and steps back, shaking his head.

He takes his hat off and wipes his face.

David releases a short sigh. "I have to be able to do business, Avery," he says, loud enough that I can hear. "I got grain to sell."

"Fuck it," he says. "You do what the fuck you want, David. It's your farm."

Three more trucks pull up the drive, and I recognize them as some of the men who work on the Garrison and Carter ranches. They're all the same: big, loud, and handsy when they get drunk. After I finish dinner, I'm going to make myself scarce .

I'm not foolish enough to stick around after dark.

The truck doors open, and more men than can legally be inside tumble out. Some, I've seen around, some I haven't. I step back through the screen door and watch from the safety of the house as they gather by the barn.

They do this every year after David gets a feel for how much feed he can sell. The surrounding ranches meet, talk it over, and place bids. This year, there are more men than usual. The spring has been unusually hot, and they anticipate a hard winter.

Clearly, some of the new wranglers know the man in the black cowboy hat. They start talking, and I see the situation diffusing slowly until they finally break apart and head towards the porch.

Heart pounding, I duck into the kitchen and pull a jug of iced tea from the fridge. Their boots clatter down the hall. I gather glasses from the cupboard and carry them to the table. The men enter the room, talking and laughing so loudly, it makes my ears ring.

I keep my eyes down, but it does fuck all. It's seconds before I feel someone brush against my hip. I know it's probably one of two people, and they're both named Garrison.

"Why so shy?"

I glance up, meeting Avery's gray stare. A little part of me hoped that, despite how much I hate Thomas, he was the one standing beside me. Avery makes my blood run cold, the kind of man who definitely bullied everyone growing up. He spends so much time torturing anyone who isn't big enough to hit him.

Part of me thinks he won't put his hands on me.

The other part thinks if he got the opportunity, he would.

"Hi, Avery," I say, pretending my mouth isn't dust dry.

He bumps me with his leg, like he's trying to flirt. I glance up again. He's handsome with those steel gray eyes and shock of blond hair, but the expression on his face is always meaner than a snake.

"You make all this?" he asks, leaning in until the side of his body touches mine.

I try to bite my tongue, but I can't.

"No, Avery. It just appeared this morning," I say tartly .

He laughs, but he's not amused. "Better watch that mouth."

I made a mistake sassing him, so I go quiet. He's up against my body now, but no one notices in the crowded room. They're all standing around with their arms crossed, feet apart, talking among themselves. I try to shift away, but there's a chair blocking me.

He sees I'm trapped, and he likes it. It glitters in his steel eyes.

"Where are you gonna go?" he says under his breath.

"Maybe if you quit dry humping her while she's trying to serve dinner, she wouldn't be trying to run off."

We both spin as the room goes quiet. The words came from the chestnut-haired cowboy with the black hat. Up close, our eyes meet, and I feel something I've never felt before: a little zing, like I brushed up against a blanket onthe line, loaded with static electricity.

My fingers clench around the plate I'm holding. Avery straightens and takes a step back, his stare glacial.

"Fuck off," he says. "Sovereign Mountain trash."

My heart skips a beat as the pieces fall into place. Clint Garrison died while making a business deal at Sovereign Mountain Ranch. He was run over by a herd of cattle, spooked by something in the hills. David said he got trapped in the mountain pass and his horse threw him, leaving him dead in the dust.

Sovereign Mountain is the black sheep of cattle ranches here in Montana; Clint's death didn't improve their reputation, but they're also the biggest, wealthiest operation in Montana. David sells them grain, as he does everyone, but he never goes out of his way to do business with them.

My eyes flick up and rest on the black hat, and I realize what the insignia on the band is. SMR—Sovereign Mountain Ranch.

I swallow hard.

"Go on," says the man, stepping between us. "Get."

Avery's livid, but the room is watching us. David clears his throat and pulls out his chair at the head of the table. Taking advantage of the distraction, I duck away and circle the table to make sure everyone has what they need. Then, I disappear into the kitchen with my heart pounding .

I'm not eating with them tonight. I'll eat whatever is left later—a small price to pay for getting out of that suffocating dining room. In the kitchen, I pour a shot of whiskey into the bottom of an old jam jar and go sit out on the back porch.

I'll probably need another glass by the time the night's over.

The men eat, and I hear them in the kitchen as they start drinking. I wish David would let me hide in my room, but he says I have to stick around because I'm the woman of the house. It would be rude to disappear.

He pretends he doesn't know I've spent the last few years dodging hands.

It's not like he'd say anything anyway. The worst perpetrators are the Garrisons and, other than Sovereign Mountain, they're the biggest operation out here. David does a lot of business with Garrison Ranch; he'd gladly trade letting me get felt up in the barn for pick of their cattle before auction.

I hear the front door slam, one after the other, as they leave. Quietly, I move back into the house and enter the dining room. The table is a wreck. I go get the cart and start piling dirty dishes on it.

Slam. Crash.

A little part of me wants someone to hear my displeasure.

There's nothing left of the meal. My eyes burn as I push the cart back into the kitchen. There's bread and butter; I can eat that. After I rinse the dishes and load them to be washed, I pull out a stool and reach for the bread box.

"There's a plate in the microwave."

I turn. The cowboy in the black hat stands in the doorway, half shadowed.

"What?"

He takes a step. "I put a plate for you in the microwave."

I stare. "Why?"

"Because you didn't come to the table," he says, crossing the room and leaning on the counter.

Why is my heart pattering so hard against my ribs? He takes off his hat and runs his hand through his short hair, slicking it back. His eyes are hazel, a mix of green, gray, and brown. They're bright and piercing under lowered brows. I take a second to look him over. He's handsome, and for some reason, I'm not afraid of him.

I don't know why.

He's big, with broad shoulders. He's rough—I see the calluses on his hands—but he doesn't feel like he would hurt me. He rests on his elbows and fills the space over the counter, fixing those brilliant eyes on me.

"Why didn't you come to the table?" he asks.

I swallow hard. "I don't like some of them."

"The men?"

I nod.

He cocks his head, eyes narrowing. "Why? Did they do something to you?"

For some reason, it's embarrassing to admit that they harass me. I drop my eyes, picking at the table.

"Sometimes they try," I say finally.

"Which ones?"

I snap my gaze back up. The way he said it sounds…dangerous.

"Why does it matter?" I whisper.

Maybe he hears the defeat in my voice, because he doesn't answer. I glance down and notice he's got a thick scar on the knuckle of his thumb. Perhaps from a branding job gone wrong.

His fingers are long and lean with the short white scars on the backs of his hands and forearms, the ones I see on men who work with barbed wire a lot. Gloves and long sleeves will only do so much.

"What's your name, darling?" he asks, his voice low.

"Well, it's not darling, that's for sure," I say.

I cringe, expecting him to get pissed off the way Avery did. Then the corner of his mouth jerks in a smile. He looks at me, head down, eyes up, amusement glittering in them. He has a toothpick in the corner of his mouth I didn't notice before, but I see it now, and I can't look away.

He flicks it to the other side with his tongue.

"You've got a little sass to you," he says .

I lean in, elbows on the countertop. I don't know where the courage to get closer came from, but the desire is there.

"Do you like it?" I whisper.

"Maybe I do."

"I'm Diane," I say. "Diane Carter."

He straightens and holds out his hand. "Westin Quinn."

Tentatively, I shake it. His hand is so much bigger than mine, and it engulfs me in a firm grip, wrapping me in warmth for a second before he withdraws. He leans back down so he's eye level with me, his elbows planted on the table.

"How old are you, Diane?" he asks.

The way he says my name sends a thrill through me. Di- ane . I like the little drawl he adds to the last syllable. My toes curl in my boots.

"Does it matter?"

His jaw works. "Yeah, it does."

I sigh, brushing my hair back. "Twenty. I'll be twenty-one at midnight."

His brows rise. "You're just a little thing. You can't even drink yet."

"I am not. How old are you?"

"Thirty-seven next month."

My jaw drops, and it takes me a minute to pull myself together. For some reason, the fact that he's older than me makes my toes curl even harder. My legs tingle, and the feeling creeps up my thighs and centers in my core.

Right where I feel like maybe it shouldn't.

He's so handsome, but it's the way he's looking at me that makes me feel something brand new, like I'm interesting, not just a potential place for him to get off. I stare, watching as he absently picks an apple from the fruit bowl. He rolls it in one hand, tossing and catching it.

"That scare you?"

I shake my head. "There's nothing to be scared about. We're just talking, sir. "

His pupils blow, but I'm not sure why. He straightens and puts his hat firmly back on his head. "You're a little young, aren't you, darling?"

Indignantly, I put my hands on my hips. "For what?"

He crosses the room, pausing in the hallway. "If you don't know what for, you're definitely too young."

For some reason, I'm crushed that he's leaving. "Where are you going?"

He tosses me the apple, and I catch it.

"Call me after your birthday," he says. "It was nice to meet you, Miss Carter."

"That's tomorrow," I whisper. "My birthday is tomorrow."

He dips his head. "See you tomorrow then, darling."

I don't tell him not to call me darling this time. He walks out, and the doors slams behind him. I stand there, knuckles white. It doesn't occur to me until later, when I'm in bed staring at the ceiling, that I can't call him. He didn't leave his number.

I turn my head, staring at my bedside table.

My eyes fix on the round, red apple. I didn't put it back in the kitchen—instead, I carried it up to my room. Now, it sits on my table, reminding me of him.

I only know three things about the cowboy in the black hat, and I run them over and over in my mind until I fall asleep.

He comes from Sovereign Mountain.

His name is Westin Quinn.

And he's thirty-seven years old next month.

Everything else is a mystery.