Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(7)

“I’ll wrap up here,” Richter says, reaching for the radio on his hip. His voice drops an octave. “Make sure the parents didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Take your girl and give her a big treat.”

“Plan on it. Thanks, Sheriff.”

My sharp whistle draws Keena back to my side. I tap my chest, and she gently leaps up to plant her two front paws on my chest. Chuckling, I pet her head. “Those ears work better when food is involved, don’t they?”

After a healthy dose of praise, I head for my truck while Keena keeps pace beside me. My skin feels too tight from nerves, and my fists ache for a good session in the gym with the punching bag. Then at least a five-mile walk for Keena.

Inside my truck, Keena rides passenger. I turn on the heat, letting it blast, and crank down a window for my dog. Icy air hits her in the face, her tongue lolling. As my truck winds its way around the sharp switchbacks of Resurrection, miles of snowy wilderness stretch out before me. The crackle of my police scanner spits today’s radio chatter.

We pass over Dead Fred’s Curve, a narrow stretch of road with blind corners around every bend. Instead of guardrails, there is a multi-thousand-foot drop to the valley below. Posts designating grave markers dot the side of the road. Though harrowing, I prefer to take this route. It’s a shortcut back to Runaway Ranch and my time alone to breathe and think.

By the time I get back to the ranch, rays of bright sunlight are streaming through the clouds, chasing away the morning chill in the air.

I exit the truck. With a woof, Keena bounds for the Warrior Heart Home, the kennels and housing facility for my dogs. I chuckle and watch her run. Dog’s so goddamn free it kills me.

I scan the ranch and its perimeter. Construction in varying stages is going on all over the grounds to get it ready for opening season. My job, as head of security, is to keep a pulse on the ranch. Keep it safe.

Something I fucked up once.

I won’t do it again.

Runaway Ranch has always been Charlie’s. Ever since he first set foot on this land to escape the memories of his fiancée’s death. His breakdown brought us all out here to keep him together and so far, no one’s shown an interest in leaving. Resurrection—just like Runaway Ranch—has become a part of our souls.

And it’s become my purpose. Serve my town, protect my brothers, train my dogs. A simple, peaceful life. Although peace doesn’t have much of a chance as long as one of my brothers is around.

“Hoo-wee. I can feel your temper boiling from over here.” My twin, Ford, comes loping around the side of the lodge. Shaggy dark blond hair flops in his face. Though all of us Montgomery’s are well over six feet, he’s got the lean physique of a baseball player while I’m Marine through and through.

One thing we share: we both have damn great aim. I knew stellar sharpshooters overseas, but Ford’s fastballs are legendary.

I glance at my brother’s Merrill sawtooth hiking boots, then jerk my chin to his pack. “You hit the dome today?”

“Not as early as you.” He tosses a bag of powder into his rucksack. “But yeah. I was out and about on the mountain.”

Ranch life only works for Ford if he can stay busy. Since he left baseball, he’s been spinning his wheels, searching out any small job he can. Ranch hand, bartender, car mechanic, adrenaline junkie. That’s Ford. Any adventure, he’s game. It’s why we call him the wildcard of Runaway Ranch. No one knows what Ford gets up to. Not even him.

His eyebrows lift. “Bad mornin’ already?”

“Tough mornin’.”

“You find the kid?”

“Yeah. She climbed into an empty fridge on the edge of the property. Keena sniffed her out.” I exhale the anger simmering in my gut. The reminder makes me want to punch something. “People and their fucking junk.”

Ford follows as I trek across the icy tundra. In the distance, our new barn stands tall and proud. It burned last year after an arson attempt. Thanks to the help of our tight-knit community, we got it rebuilt right in time for winter.

“You okay?” When I hesitate, Ford says, “You didn’t sleep last night.”

Not since I came home from the Marines. Most nights I’m lucky if I get four hours.

I scoff and shake my head. “Christ, Ford. You and that woo-woo shit.”

He flashes a bright white grin. “Maybe so, but I know your surly ass believes it.”

I grit my teeth and ignore him. I want to tell him to mind his own damn business, to knock it off with that in-sync shit, but I can’t. Because he’s right.

I believe it.

So many times, our twin senses have been synced up.

The summer I found him after a gnarly dirt bike accident. One broken ankle, still smiling even as I helped him limp back home.

Christmas, on leave from the Marines, he pulled me from the creek after my horse threw me.

Ford was the first in my family to know I got shot. Before anyone from the higher ups had called my parents, he sounded the alarm and rallied our family.

Somehow, we just know.

I stop, noticing the truck in the gravel drive. “We got company?”

Ford looks back at the lodge and then toward me. “Ruby and Charlie are back.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. I should have made a quicker getaway.