Rough Country (Tannen Boys 3)

Chapter 1

Willow

“Quit staring at me!” I snarl, emphasizing my point with a huff that sends my bangs up then right back down into my field of vision again.

The recipient of my bark, which like the popular saying is worse than my bite, stares back, unmoved by the order. Fine, so it’s a mountain, not likely to sprout legs and move out of my way, nor is it going to quit looming over me like a judge.

Stupid mountain.

For most people, that’s probably the exact view they come here for, a quaint escape from their daily life to small town, rural America.

Too bad I’m not here for a quick trip from the city. No, Great Falls is my new hometown. And the fancy mountainside resort I can now see is most definitely not my destination.

“Ugh,” I growl, though there’s no one to hear me since I made the trip alone, driving for hours over the last three days with nightly stops at motels. I’ve been living on the cheap—scratchy sheets, sketchy neighborhoods, and greasy takeout. If I see one more slice of pizza I’m going to scream.

The road is straight and empty, giving me time to glance up again. Broad strokes of nature’s grandeur, striped with green and brown and even . . . I lean forward to glance out the top of my windshield . . . yep, white at the very tippy-top of the peak. It’s beautiful, I’ll admit that at least.

But still it feels . . . judgy. The weight of the horizon presses in on me, even heavier than my conscience. But not even that mountain could withstand my Mom’s earnest gaze begging for help.

Fine. I’ll go to Podunk, Nowheresville, Mom. Just quit looking at me like that.

I come to a blinking red light and take a right, thankful to put the mountain behind me. But now, I’m almost there . . . and that might be even worse.

“Destination is on the left. You have arrived.” My phone tells me the dreaded news.

I park in the packed dirt lot, my ten-year-old Subaru one of only two cars versus nine—no, ten—trucks. They come in two varieties, old and dented or jacked-up and pristine other than the layer of fine red dust on the lower half. “Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

I shut off the engine but make no move to get out. I’m not the type to get nervous, but this is an extraordinary circumstance, so I’m basically shivering inside my skin with jitters. Hence, the grumpiness with the inanimate mountain. It’s not every day you waltz into a place uninvited and announce yourself. Especially when I’m not sure the welcome is going to be all that friendly. It’s entirely possible that I might get hustled out of town faster than I got here.

Despite my hesitation, the heat gathering in the car forces me out. Crunch-crunch-crunch. My flips flops are nothing against the small pebbles mixed into the dirt, and I’m nearly dancing before I’m halfway across the parking lot. I pause at the door, my hand on the brass handle, and look up, praying for strength.

The only thing I see is the neon sign proclaiming this place as Hank’s.

Resigned to my fate, at least for the foreseeable future, I open the door and step inside. Part of me expects it to be like one of those low-budget, B-grade action flicks where the city girl walks in, a record scratches—even though no one plays those anymore—and a dozen sets of narrowed eyes turn to me in suspicion. Two heartbeats later, there’ll be a redneck slurring out that my kind’s not welcome here.

Despite years of late-night movies telling me so, none of that happens.

No one even looks my way, which gives me a chance to take everything in with a quick scan. Wood floors, wood walls, wood tables, all gleaming in the overhead lights, which are bright considering it’s mid-afternoon. There are a few booths with pleather that, even from here, I can see is patched with red duct tape like someone was doing the best they could to hold it all together and keep the stuffing inside. Country music plays faintly, with the chatter of the patrons mixing in easily.

Automatically, I reach for my back pocket to grab my phone. Its camera isn’t the best by any stretch, but it’s the least intrusive. Still, I can’t exactly start snapping shots in the middle of the bar so my hand falls back to my side, though my fingers itch to press the shutter. My brain does it anyway, framing each take mentally.

An old guy, wrinkles lining his eyes and mouth, the edge of a bottle of beer paused at his lip as he stares at the television over the bar. Snap.

A group of five guys wearing neon vests, work boots, and dirty jeans crowded around a table, looking like their day has already been enough to make them weary. Snap.