NEVER LOOK BACK.
That’s what Ben Blackwell’s grandfather, Big E, always said.
At least, that’s what he used to say. Back when he and Ben used to talk. Back before Big E eloped with Ben’s fiancée. Back before Ben left behind trail dust and boots and Montana to be a top public utilities lawyer in New York City.
And now, Ben was doing more than looking back—he’d gone back. Home to Falcon Creek and the Blackwell place, which had been a cattle ranch for five generations, but was now also a dude ranch.
“Big E wants us to call it a guest ranch,” Ethan, Ben’s twin, had corrected Ben when he’d muttered something about dudes on the phone last week.
Seemed like Ben had been muttering ever since—about his bossy older brother, Jonathon, who wanted him home ASAP; about his younger twin brothers, Tyler and Chance, who couldn’t seem to be bothered to help at the family homestead; about the grandfather whose picture was in the dictionary under selfish; and about the small-town attorney who was suing the ranch for water rights.
At thirty-two, Ben was too old to be dragged back into the family drama that orbited Big E and the Blackwell Ranch.
Too big for your city britches, more like.
That was his grandfather’s voice in his head. That voice had been talking nonstop since Ben had agreed to return to Falcon Creek.
You have arrived, big shot.
And he had.
Ben got out of his Mercedes, punched his arms into his suit jacket, ignoring the stifling feeling from being buttoned-up in the early afternoon heat. He’d flown from New York to Montana, and then driven to Falcon Creek without stopping. He didn’t plan to stay more than a few days—a week, tops.
Across the street, Pops Brewster looked up from his chess game on the Brewster Ranch Supply porch to get a good look at the city slicker. Annie Harper slammed too hard on her truck brakes as she pulled up to the stop sign, gaze ping-ponging between Ben and the intersection. In the Misty Whistle Coffee Shop parking lot, Izzy Langdon tipped his straw cowboy hat up, the better to ogle Ben’s ride.
Rachel Thompson opened the door to the law office of Calder & Associates, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Ben. “Late as usual, Blackwell.”
“Welcome home,” Ben muttered, walking around a knee-high weed bending over the sidewalk. He stopped in front of the steps of a white clapboard shack, which had probably been built over a hundred years ago when the town had been founded. “Traffic was gridlocked, it was impossible getting out of Bozeman.” That was like saying traffic in the Mojave Desert was bumper-to-bumper.
Overexaggeration. Hyperbole. Sarcasm.
It was completely lost on Rachel. She spun on her high heels without so much as a roll of her eyes.
Reluctantly, Ben followed. It took him two tries to get the front door closed behind him. The building had settled, and the doorframe was no longer plumb. He slammed it home, earning a dry, “Really?” from Rachel.
“Really,” Ben said airily. “You should run a planer on that door.” And think about practicing law elsewhere.
The narrow, rectangular building was divided into two offices and a waiting area with a black couch that was so old it had butt impressions in the cushions. The building’s hardwood floor was worn to the nails that kept it in place and there was a crack in the ceiling plaster that spoke louder of foundation issues than the ill-fitting front door.
Everything
