drunk from the night before.
“If you leave, don’t come back—not until you get a letter from my lawyer telling you I’m dead.”
The bitter, harsh words rang in the quiet room. Zach halted on the stairs. Beside him, Cade felt Eli and Brodie tense and go still. Cade’s gaze never left his father and he didn’t flinch under Joseph’s fierce stare. For a long moment, his father’s hate and accusation raged between them, though neither spoke. Then Joseph’s gaze flicked past Cade to Brodie.
Cade’s fingers curled into fists but he didn’t comment. He looked at Zach, gave a slight nod, and turned on this heel to leave the house. He heard his brothers’ boots echo on the porch boards behind him as he strode down the sidewalk and reached his truck, yanking the door open. His muscles were tight with the effort to keep his anger under control, but on some level he was glad to feel its burn. If he focused on the anger, he didn’t have to think about the wrenching pain of leaving the land he loved.
“I’m stopping at the cemetery before I leave.” Zach’s deep voice made Cade hesitate.
“See you there.” He knew his response was barely civil, knew too that Zach would understand his foul mood wasn’t aimed at him or his brothers. He slid behind the wheel and twisted the ignition key.
The four trucks left the Triple C ranch yard single file, heading for Indian Springs, the nearest town.
A half hour later, Cade stood with his three younger brothers, hat in hand, head bowed, at their mother’s graveside in the Indian Springs cemetery.
Cade was the last to say goodbye, bending to lay a bouquet of daisies, Melanie Coulter’s favorite flower, next to her headstone.
“Bye, Mom,” he murmured, fighting back the wave of guilt, regret and sadness that always accompanied thoughts of his mother. He trailed his fingertips over the cool marble headstone and turned away, settling his Stetson on his head as he joined his brothers. His gaze flicked over the other three, struck as always by the family resemblance. They’d inherited their mother’s green eyes, although her sons all had different shades from jade to bright emerald. Their six-foot-plus height, broad shoulders and black hair, however, had clearly been passed on to them by their father.
“I guess this is it,” Cade said. He ignored the lump in his throat and pulled Zach into a hard hug. “You take care. Don’t get yourself killed taking some damn fool risk.”
Zach shook his head, lips curving in a faint smile. “You know me, Cade. I can’t resist a challenge.”
“Yeah, well just make sure some challenge doesn’t end your life.”
“I’m not the one joining the Marines,” Zach reminded him. “Or riding rodeo bulls like Brodie.” He slung one arm over his youngest brother’s shoulders. “Eli and I are the only two planning on having normal jobs—I’m off to college and he’s interning with a silversmith in Santa Fe.” He pointed a finger at Cade. “You and Brodie are far more likely to get yourselves killed than we are.”
“Maybe,” Cade drawled, a rare grin breaking over his face. “But you’ve got Mom’s thrillseeker gene, which means you could get yourself killed any day, anywhere.”
Zach shrugged. He couldn’t deny he loved to take risks.
Cade glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go or I’ll miss my appointment with the recruiter in Billings. You guys know my cell phone number. I’ll let you know when I’m out of boot camp. We’ll keep in touch.”
He met each of his brothers’ solemn gazes, waiting until each nodded their agreement, acknowledging they were making a promise.
“We’ll keep in touch,” Zach repeated.
Eli and Brodie echoed the words.
Barely five minutes later, Cade drove south, away from Indian Springs, his brothers and the Triple C ranch he loved, away from the father whose grief-stricken descent into alcoholism after their mother’s death had made his life a living hell for the past ten years.
He knew he’d never be back.
Chapter One
Early March Indian Springs, Montana
Mariah Jones shoved open the barn door and braced herself for the frigid bite of a March Montana day. The wind swept down from the buttes, carrying the chilly scent of snow, and she tucked her chin deeper into the shelter of her coat collar. Despite the pale sunshine and the protection of her fleece-lined coat, gloves and wool hat, she couldn’t escape the sting of cold.
She walked to the corral and upended a bucket of oats into the metal feeder just inside the pole fence. A longlegged sorrel quarterhorse left the shelter of the cattle shed across the pen and ambled toward her.
“Hey, Sarge,” Mariah crooned. The big gelding eyed her, his liquid brown eyes inquisitive, and she tugged off one glove to stroke her bare palm over his soft muzzle. He nickered, pushing against her hand and snorting softly before he lowered his head to the pile of grain.
Mariah rubbed Sarge’s neck beneath the rough tangle of his dark mane, drawing comfort from the gelding’s easy acceptance and the feel of his solid, warm body beneath her palm. She still had a long list of chores to finish before she could rest, but the familiar crunch of oats between the horse’s strong teeth and the inevitable signs of winter moving toward spring soothed the worry that nagged at her, stilling her for the moment. There was reassurance in the ordinary moments of ranch life—especially now, when the rhythm of life on the Triple C had changed irrevocably only a few months earlier.
She petted Sarge’s neck in absentminded movements, distracted as her gaze moved over the buildings that made up the Triple C headquarters. Across the wide gravel yard, the two-story structure of the main house was silent. There was no trail of smoke drifting skyward from the chimney, no movement behind the drawn curtains. The house looked shuttered and lifeless.
Grief caught her unaware, slicing into her heart with all the power of a razor-sharp knife. Her lips trembled and her vision blurred before she firmed her chin, willing the tears not to fall. Three months had passed since Joseph Coulter, owner of the Triple C, had died of lung cancer. They’d buried him in the small family plot in Indian Springs Cemetery, next to his wife and among the graves of generations of Coulters that had cared for the ranch before him.
“I miss him, Sarge,” she murmured, turning her face away from the deep porch, now so empty without Joseph’s gray-haired, lanky figure. The taciturn sixty-eight-year-old widower had become a father figure to Mariah and his passing had left a deep ache in her heart.
Everything seems quieter, she thought as her gaze slipped over the cluster of outbuildings, corrals and the big barn. She had the strange sense that the Coulter Cattle Company was holding its breath, marking time while waiting for the next generation of Coulter males to arrive and set it in motion once again.
The rumble of an engine broke the quiet. Mariah looked up just as a mud-spattered pickup rattled over the planks of the bridge across the creek. Moments later, the driver pulled up next to the corral and got out to join her at the fence.
“Any news?” she asked hopefully, searching the older ranch hand’s somber features.
Pete Smith shook his head, his weathered face doleful
