by Layne, Lyssa
She ignored his impatience. This was her life on the line. “You know the price of horses,” Montana told him. “They’re rock bottom right now. Only killers are buying and I’m not sending a single one of my horses to any Mexican slaughterhouse.”
He stared at her without blinking through round frameless glasses. “Can you get a loan from a family member or friend?”
Her mind raced over possibilities. Everyone she knew was in as bad financial shape as her. There wasn’t anyone to ask for help.
“No.” The lights seemed to dim, and she swayed. “Can I refinance?”
“Not until you’re caught up.” Aaron licked his thick bottom lip.
She was screwed to the wall. No way out. Nowhere to turn. Slowly, she stood and shook his damp, limp hand. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
“Take care, Montana.”
“You, too.”
Somehow she made it outside and leaned against the red brick building to steady herself. Late September sunshine should have warmed her, but she shivered so hard her bones rattled. She’d been warmer in a blizzard.
The double glass doors of the bank burst open and Aaron rushed toward her, waving his chubby lily-white hands. “Montana, wait.”
Had he changed his mind, and she had to come up with the money even sooner? Dread filled her, but she straightened and lifted her chin. Wendall Weaver hadn’t raised a quitter. When Montana’s mother left them both heartbroken and lost, he’d refused to coddle his six-year-old daughter, insisting she stand on her own two feet. But her father had loved her without fail until his death four years ago.
“What is it, Aaron?”
He gasped like a fish out of water, his face red. “After you left, I had an idea that might help you.”
A tiny spark of hope fought for life. “What?”
“I shouldn’t share this, but I heard the Marshes have more hunters than they can handle. Maybe you could take a few off their hands.”
She’d never taken a handout in her life, but if it saved her land and her horses, she’d force herself to talk to her neighbors. “I’ll do that.”
He headed back to his office, calling over his shoulder, “Good luck.”
Montana walked to her blue Ford dually with her head high. Only after she’d climbed inside and closed the door did she rest her forehead on the steering wheel. Without any way to pay the bank, she’d known the trip to town was likely fruitless. Her faint hope for an extension had been extinguished quicker than a lantern in a windstorm.
“What do I do, Dad?” she asked out loud. “I’m out of options here.”
Of course he couldn’t answer, but Aaron’s suggestion nagged her. The Marsh family ran an outfitting business, and although Montana refused to hunt bear or big cats like they did, both guided deer and elk hunts.
With a resigned sigh, she started the engine and turned toward home.
Halfway down the block, she decided pride be damned. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to ask the Marshes if they had an overabundance of hunters. Losing the business her family had built on blood, sweat and tears would be a hell of a lot worse.
~*~
Colleen Marsh poured two cups of coffee and handed one across the granite bar in her kitchen. She didn’t offer cream or sugar because Montana didn’t require either. Tall, slim, with reddish hair sprinkled liberally with silver, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, her friend was the quintessential western woman.
Montana wished her mother had been like Colleen. The kind to stick around when times got tough.
Colleen took a seat on an oak barstool opposite her. Sunshine fell across the bright kitchen. “How’d your summer treat you?”
“Slow.” Montana sipped her coffee. “Dead, actually.”
“The economy’s keeping families closer to home nowadays,” Colleen said. “On so-called staycations.”
“I guess.”
Colleen studied her over the rim of her mug. “You have any hunters coming in?”
Here was the moment of truth. “No.”
“Damn.” Colleen eyed her with sympathy. She didn’t have to be told what that meant to Montana as far as surviving the winter. “We’re down, too.”
Montana’s stomach dropped. “You’re not booked full?”
“Not even close,” Colleen said. “Only about half. I’ve heard all the outfitters in the area are slow this year.”
Damn, damn, damn. There went her last hope to save her land and business. Her shoulders sagged. Dad would be so disappointed to witness her colossal failure. To cover her dismay, Montana sipped more coffee. She set down her cup. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah.” Colleen stared out the window at the San Juan Mountains in the distance. “For another year anyway.”
“You’re a year ahead of me. The bank plans to foreclose at the end of the month,” Montana admitted.
“How much?” Colleen said immediately. “I have enough put away I can float you a loan.”
“I can’t accept.” Montanan shook her head. “I’d just owe two instead of one. And if I can’t pay my mortgage, I can’t pay you either. I won’t bring you down with me. It would kill my dad, but I’m going to have to sell.”
“Oh, honey.” Colleen rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Ordinarily, I’d tell you not to worry about paying me back, but we’re in deep, too. So bad that the boys are going to guide Tom Kerrigan.” At Montana’s stricken expression, she reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “Honey, we have to. I was going to tell you—”
“I understand.” Montana swirled her cup. Her ex-boyfriend. The creep. She forced her thoughts away from him. How had she gotten herself in such a mess? Upgrading the cabins hadn’t been an option. They’d been falling down. Without refurbishing they weren’t livable. Maybe she could rent them to the ski bums who would soon descend upon the valley. An ad in The Register wouldn’t cost too much. Worth a try.
While she was at it, she’d check if the ski area would hire her to take sleigh rides around the village. If so, she could bring in a little income through the winter months. If all else failed, she’d apply to be a ski instructor.
Somehow she’d find a way to stay in her home and not lose the horses.
The thought of working for someone else depressed her. Punching a time clock and being on a schedule was something Wendall Weaver had loathed and refused to do. He’d instilled a similar way of thinking in his daughter.
She sighed. Maybe she should put her environmental science degree to use and go to work for the Forest Service. A shudder ripped up and down her spine. It would be like prison.
~*~
Montana accepted the fishermen’s check and generous tip with a grateful smile. She waved until they drove out of sight. They had been a good group—easy to deal with and fun to boot. She wished she had another ten like them.
The horses and mules grazed peacefully in the bottom pasture. A cold breeze blew off the mountains, stirring the few leaves remaining on the gold and red aspens. Winter had begun to gather speed. The bitter old man would be here soon.
The resort had turned down Montana’s application to run sleigh rides, and she’d yet to hear back from the ski school. With a sigh, she patted her Border collie Boots’ head. “Come on, boy. We have work to do.”
She’d picked up her bucket filled with cleaning supplies when her cell phone rang. A California number she didn’t recognize. With a mental shrug, she hit ON. “Hello.”
A male voice she didn’t recognize said, “Montana Weaver?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Joel Ernstein.” He paused, and when she didn’t immediately respond, he continued. “We went to college together.”
“I remember.” Memories of a shy, quiet man filled her head. She’d befriended him, so clearly out of his element in a wilderness survival class all environmental science majors had been required to take. Shortly after that class, he’d changed his major to business, but they’d remained friends in spite of their vastly different interests.
She hadn’t heard from him since graduation. “Joel. What a nice surprise. What are you doing nowadays?”
His rich chuckle carried across the line. “You probably won’t believe it.”
“Tell me and I’ll let you know if I buy it or not.”
“I manage a rock band.”
“What? Seriously?” Montana laughed. “Good for you.”
“It keeps me busy,” he said.
“I can only imagine.” Montana couldn’t picture the geeky guy she’d known in college as a manager of a band. Running a retail store? Sure. Or a bank? Yes. Either seemed more likely.
“I’m wondering if your father still guides big game hunters.”
A familiar pain ripped through her chest. “Dad died four years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joel said.
“Thank you. Were you calling to set up a hunt?” She held her breath. Was this the answer to her prayers? Or just an out-of-the-blue social call?
“If your father has passed, then who—?”
“Me. I took over when he died. I’m bonded, licensed and legal,” she said.
Joel was silent so long she feared he’d hung up. “Can you handle a temperamental rock star? And his entourage?”
Her first reaction was a resounding hell no. In the past she’d refused to deal with celebrities and their overblown egos. Her own brush with fame had convinced her she didn’t want anything to do with the lifestyle. But she hadn’t been looking at foreclosure then.
“I can,” she said. “Mind telling me who we’re talking about?”
“Cowboy and the Silver Star Band.” He said it so proudly, one would think he was the lead singer.
It took a minute for Montana to recognize the name. She’d seen the singer on entertainment shows with one girl or another hanging on his arm, but she’d rarely listened to his music. Her taste ran more toward Blake Shelton and Luke Bryant than rock-and-roll. Cowboy and the Silver Star Band had one song on country radio, but it hadn’t stuck around long enough for her to memorize the lyrics. She could set her price high enough to pay the overdue mortgage, and if he refused, nothing gained and nothing lost.
“How many total?”
“Four. Cowboy, two of the band and me.” Joel paused. “I assume you understand we will require absolute privacy and security.”
“Of course.” Montana doubted the wildlife would beg for autographs. She sure the hell wouldn’t. Being a groupie of any kind wasn’t in her makeup. “You understand this is a primitive backcountry hunt, right?”
“How primitive?”
“Wall tents set on platforms. Campfires and Coleman lanterns.”
“Jeeps and four wheelers?”
“Horses and mules,” Montanan said. “Vehicles aren’t allowed in the wilderness.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Will there be cell phone access?” Joel sounded shaky.
“Nope.” Damn. There went her last hope. The Marsh family had private land with cabins equipped with computers. Maybe she could steer some business their way. “I can put you in contact with someone else—”
“How much?”
Montana took a deep breath. “Thirty-five hundred each.”
Joel didn’t hesitate. “Give me your address and I’ll have a check in the mail later today.”
Her heart pounded wildly, but she forced her voice to remain professional as she recited her address. “Which season? Second rifle season starts next week.”
“That one,” Joel said.
“Are any of the party experienced hunters?” It didn’t matter; she’d guided everything from beginners to seasoned pros. But an idea of which would tell her where to take them. “And do any of you know how to ride?”
“Cowboy hunted as a kid. I believe he can handle a horse. Adrian, our backup singer, is an experienced hunter and can ride. Stoney and I are complete novices.” Joel sounded as if he might throw up. Montana wondered why he was coming. Why were any of them? The thrill of it, she supposed. God knew her ex and his buddies would do anything, or take any dare, just for kicks.
She shut off that train of thought.
Tom Kerrigan stood far in her rearview mirror.
Joel pulled her back to the present. “What are we required to bring?”
“You’ll need your own sleeping bags, rifles and any personal gear. Warm clothes and boots are a must. It’s likely to snow. I supply tents, cots, horses and food. We eat simple, but well. Any allergies I should be aware of?”
“No. What about alcohol?”
“You supply your own.” She hardened her voice. “No drugs.”
“Isn’t marijuana legal in Colorado now?” Amusement filled Joel’s voice.
“It is, but not on one of my hunts.” Montana’s heart sped up. Was she about to lose her clients? She wouldn’t back down even if it meant losing the job. She refused to deal with drugs of any kind. A hunter high on dope, carrying a high-powered rifle, could get himself or someone else hurt. Possibly killed. Booze was bad enough, but thankfully most of her hunters didn’t drink much, more anxious to stay sober to hunt than drink.
“I’ll make sure the band leaves their drugs at home,” Joel promised as if this was something he did every day. Hell, what did she know? Maybe it was.
“Grand Junction’s airport is closest,” Montana told him. “When you have flight arrangements in place, let me have your arrival time and I’ll pick you up. We ride early Monday morning. At first light.”
“Do you have accommodations available for Sunday night? Or do I need to book something in the closest town? Let’s see. It says here that’s Black Mountain?”
“I have cabins here,” she said. “But understand they’re not the Hilton.”
“Can we get cell and internet service? If not, we should probably spend Sunday night elsewhere.”
Montana rolled her eyes. Did he think she was using a telegraph on her end? “I have cell and internet here. You’ll have to provide your own breakfast Monday. After that I’ll feed you.”
“That’s fine. We’ll bring bagels. I’ll rent a car. That way you won’t have to pick us up.” Joel rattled off his cell number. “Contact me here. Please, Montana, again, no one can get wind of this. It’s vital no one knows Cowboy is in town.”
“Understood.” She refrained from rolling her eyes again. Celebrities and their egos. Sheez. She hoped this guy didn’t expect her to kiss his famous ass. She’d treat him like everyone else. No better, no worse. Not one bit different just because he’d chosen a career that considered groupies a perk. “Call me at this number on Sunday after you touch down, so I know you’re on the way.”
“Will do.” He hung up without a goodbye.
For a moment, Montana stared at the phone in her hand. Then she fist-pumped the air and whooped. Boots barked and danced at her feet. She patted his silky head. “Someone just answered our prayers, boy. Our bacon has just been saved.”
The black-and-white Border collie grinned a wide doggy smile as if sharing her joy.
She sobered. “Come on, buddy. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Those cabins won’t clean themselves. They have to sparkle for our guests.”
Montana hummed as she changed linens and scrubbed bathrooms. Who would have ever guessed a friend from the past, one she’d nearly forgotten, would save her? The universe worked in mysterious ways.
A year ago she would have turned down any celebrity client. The hassle of dealing with them outweighed the benefits. She hated the way they demanded special treatment as if they were above the rest of the population.
No one was better because they could throw a ball, sing or act. People were people.
CHAPTER THREE
“This place is ridiculous.” Stoney Dobson, lead guitarist for the Silver Star Band, stared out the front passenger window of the rented SUV. “Not a chick in sight.”
Johnny took in the tiny town from the other side of the Escalade. The first impression that jumped out at him was the place seemed deade
r than his great Aunt Shirley. He knew the Victorian homes decorated in bright shades lining Main Street were called painted ladies for the whores that had once inhabited them. Too bad some of those bitches weren’t still hanging around to liven shit up.
Backup singer Adrian Devereaux yawned. “Boresville.”
“Why’d you come if all you’re going to do is bitch and moan?” Johnny glanced over his shoulder at Adrian sprawled across the third seat. A tight T-shirt that read MEOW hugged her small tits. Her black leggings and lace-up boots looked more appropriate for the stage than a hunting trip. Her short ebony hair with the blonde patch in front stood on end. He never would have guessed the petite girl as a skilled markswoman, but when he’d mentioned this trip, she’d shared her secret talent and asked to come along.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t say I don’t want to hunt. But this town looks sleepier than me after a six-month tour.”
Johnny had to agree. Not a bar in sight and he had a powerful craving for vodka. He tapped Joel on the shoulder. “Find me a drink.”
Joel met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “We’re due at the ranch by seven. The owner says it takes about forty-five minutes from town to drive to her place. We have alcohol in our supplies…”
“That’s for the trip. I want a drink now.” The glowing green clock on the dashboard read 5:30. “We have plenty of time,” Johnny insisted. “How hard can it be to find a honky-tonk in a town this size?”
Joel leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “There’s a place. Sure you want to go in? You might be recognized.”
“Yeah, I’m positive.” Johnny ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Although I don’t really feel like dealing with fans right now.”
Adrian laughed. “You really think you have any fans in this Podunk town?”
“I doubt they’ve heard music past Elvis’ generation,” Stoney muttered.
“Don’t you mean Beethoven?” Adrian laughed again. “Or Bach?”
Stoney began humming the theme from Bonanza. Adrian kept time, beating on the headrest in front of her.
“Actually,” Johnny said, “Dillon and Shiloh Travers live here when they’re not touring or recording. And that newbie, Maura Whittaker, too.”
