Denim Blues: Montana Heirs 1

by Ashley Kay

  “I will, babe. I have more incentive than just to see you! Just kidding, love ya!” We hang up and I shake my head, grinning. That girl is a hoot. We’ve been friends since junior high and I miss her something fierce. I’ve opted to stay in Montana this whole time, but she fled down to Florida for culinary school and took up roots running a restaurant on the beach. High school wasn’t kind to her, and I don’t blame her for leaving our hometown. We talk every week and visit when we can, but it’s not the same.

  My bag, heavy on my shoulder, slips off when I stride off my steps and trip, catching myself on the railing, a rare expletive passing over my lips. There’s a deep split down the middle of the wood, raised and wider than it was yesterday.

  This house is cute and quaint but in need of some work. It was here when the property was purchased, and Grey lived in it while he got SoS up and running. I moved in after he built his current house. The trek from my hometown wasn’t bad on a daily basis considering I grew up a town over, but living here is so convenient. Plus, running into certain people isn’t as likely.

  I’m thankful the indoor archery yard isn’t far. My abnormally boring brown hair’s up in a braid, and the cold wind bites into my neck. Snow blankets the ground, covering the entire outdoor yard, so training inside is more comfortable for employees and clients. I don’t mind the cold. I grew up skiing and snowboarding these mountains on school breaks, so beanies, hoodies, and boots are a staple in my wardrobe. Montana winters are brutal, but spring is on the horizon, you can hear it in the birds’ song and the slow awakening of the forests.

  Practically skiing a hundred yards to the door, I let myself in. There’s a long desk right up front. Tia, the admin assistant, is already busy on the phone while typing on the computer. Stomping the snow off on the mat while trying to be quiet about it, shows my level of commitment. Tia doesn’t notice it, thankfully, since she’s chatting it up with whom I assume is a client.

  “Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, we can most definitely schedule you and your husband for gun safety. What days and times work best for you?” She’s shuffling papers, looking for something, and her eyes widen in relief when she finds the mouse. Snapping her head up, she winks before shifting back to the calendar. Without Tia, we couldn’t do half our jobs, she’s the best darn admin assistant around.

  With a smile, I wave and round the corner, down a long hallway to the training area. This is the biggest indoor archery yard in Montana. Targets line the back walls, some set further back for the more experienced clients. Windows on either side showcase the rest of the facility and the formidable Madison Ridge mountains in the distance. It’s one of my favorite places to be. I can relax and shoot arrows at the same time.

  I busy myself with lesson prep while waiting on my first client, including firing off some practice rounds. My personal quiver is loaded with slender arrows and I pull out my favorite one. The blue fletchings catch the natural light, shimmering, and the shaft of the arrow is as smooth and flawless as the day someone freshly made it.

  It slides into the bow evenly, and I nock it by pinching the string onto the back of the arrow. Tension builds in my arms when the string is pulled back, my fingers lightly grazing my cheek. My elbow is set out and up by my jawline, and my muscles go rigid. While breathing in and out, I force my pulse into an even cadence for maximum accuracy. Aiming my sights on the target, I’m zoned in. On my next deep exhale, I release the arrow. It flies true, meeting its mark. Chunk. Dead center of the target. Wanting to limber my body up some more, I let a few more arrows fly.

  A fast clap sounds behind me. Evelyn walks over, hands clasped together, a twinkle in her eye. “Great Job, Savannah, I can’t get over how good you are!”

  Smiling, I say, “Thank you, that’s so sweet of you. Are you ready for today?” Peering behind her, I scrunch up my face. “Wait, isn’t Franky supposed to join you? He didn’t chicken out, did he?” I grin good-naturedly at the older woman in front of me.

  “Oh no, dear, he didn’t chicken out. I told him it was just me today. Don’t tell him, but I wanted to practice on my own without him hovering over me like I’m going to poke my eye out or somethin’. You understand, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  I laugh, grabbing her practice bow off the hook. “Of course, I get it. It’s perfectly fine. It will be just a girls’ practice today.”

  “I’m going to show him how I can hunt us some dinner on our next retreat and see what he thinks then!” She preens, patting her gray curls close to her head. Her feisty attitude is refreshing.

  I help her get the bow ready for this first round of practice by reminding her how the strings are supposed to look and ensuring nothing is frayed or out of place.

  “Miss Evelyn, Franky should be honored to have a wife that’s willing to kill his dinner for him.”

  Lord knows I didn’t have a husband like that. My ex, Brody, was good for really only one thing—making me miserable. Even though we were high school sweethearts, it didn’t mean we would stay in love forever. Things such as cheating put a damper on ideas, like unconditional love.

  “How am I doing?” she hefts the bow up, widening her stance.

  “You look great. That target’s ready whenever you are. No rush, slow your breathing, and focus on the center.”

  I stand off to the side, giving her some space so she’s comfortable. She lets loose the arrow, and it wobbles but hits the target a little off-center.

  “Wahoo! I made it!” Her energy at her age is infectious. I whoop along with her.

  “Great job. You should be so proud. Give me a few more shots just like that, except let’s adjust your stance, might help with the aim.”

  After a few more rounds, we take a short water break. Wiggling my eyebrows and grinning after I’ve slugged down some water, I ask her, “Can you tell me another story about you and Franky? I want to know there’s hope for me after all. Cobwebs are taking up residence in my soul and other areas if ya know what I mean.”

  “Savannah Martin! You just hush it with that talk now, sweetheart. You’re beautiful inside and outside, incredibly deserving of someone special in your life. Someone to spark your insides, if you know what I mean.” She wiggles her eyebrows right back at me. “As for Franky and I, it hasn’t been easy, but those hardships made us who we are now. They’ve shaped us and helped us grow as individuals and together. I’ll tell you what, let’s finish this practice and for every excellent shot I make, I’ll tell you a story. We may be here all day because of your superb training, missy!”

  Evelyn was true to her word. Although her stories inspire hope in my rusty, dusty ole heart, my outside doesn’t match my insides. I’m truly afraid I’ll always be alone, history consistently repeating itself. I’ve had a good life with so few complaints, except that I’m twenty-nine, divorced, and lonely. Trifecta of misery.

  Putting away my gear, the sound of heavy boots on concrete floors reverberates behind me. Turning, I smile as Greyson approaches me. “What are you doing over here today? I thought you needed to get some stuff ready for when your big, bad brother huffs and puffs into town?”

  “Hah, just because he’s older by a minute means nothing.” A weird look appears on his face as he rubs his neck back and forth, avoiding eye contact.

  I ask, “What’s up? Are you stressed about all this? I’m here if you need anything, you know that.” I reach over and squeeze his arm, forcing him to look at me.

  Clearing his throat, he offers me a half-shrug, his hands tucked firmly into his jean pockets. “There’s something I need your help with. I just don’t know how you’re going to take it.”

  “Uh … ok, well, let’s talk over lunch. I have another client in thirty.” I jerk my head toward one of the meeting rooms, growing nervous. What’s this about?

  With our pizza almost half gone and our conversation stilted, I study him for a minute. The dark circles prominent under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept in days.

  Finally, I blurt out, “Ok, spill it, Grey, what do you
need me to do. You look like crap,” I huff. “You need me to take Theo for a bit?”

  He sets down his food and takes a swig of his water. Swallowing, he wipes his mouth on his flannel sleeve like a neanderthal. Men today are only slightly more evolved than cave dwellers.

  “No, Theo’s fine. I need help with Preston.” He squints at me. “I need him to stay next to you for a bit until we figure some things out.”

  I still my hand with a piece of pizza close to my lips. Open-mouthed like a guppy, I balk. “Seriously? I mean, it’s available, no one has lived there in months, but you’re sure you want to put Preston there?”

  My heart beats a little too fast at this. Preston, right next door? My home isn’t just mine; it’s a double, used for other employees as needed. There’s a shared wall with an adjoining door. I don’t know him at all, but one look at him during the funeral and I feel in my bones he’s the type of guy to come out here, chew us up, and spit us out like rancid tobacco.

  The tiny glimpse I got into his demeanor spelled dangerous and yet, he ignites something deep inside me. The need to save him? I don’t have the faintest clue, but right now my loyalty is to Greyson, and they have some serious history. Enough to turn his face a putrid shade of green. I immediately feel sorry for him.

  “Ok, fine, I’ll do it. It’s not like he’s going to be living with me, just next door.” Separated only by a thin door that luckily locks on my side. Not that I’d ever be opening it. At all. Ever.

  Grey sags his shoulders. “Thank you Savy, I wasn’t sure where else to house him. The hotels in Bingham are booked because of the ski resort, and the other guest house isn’t finished … then there’s Theo. It’s not smart to have Preston there with him yet.” He rubs at his temples with his rough and callused hands. Greyson may have loads of money, but he never acts like it. His hands are proof of his hard work.

  Curiosity has me spinning tall tales. “Why? I don’t mean to pry … but …” I really am trying to weasel answers out of him, though. He can be guarded when it comes to his brother.

  “No, you’re fine. You aren’t prying. There’s just a lot and I haven’t wanted to bog you down with any of my baggage.” He sighs, pushing back his plate. “Preston doesn’t know about Theo. I haven’t told him.”

  “You haven’t told your brother he’s an uncle?” My mouth flops open and I blink my wide eyes a few times to make sure I heard that correctly.

  Grey winces, his blue eyes full of shame. “Yeah, I know, but he never answered my calls, never, and I couldn’t spring it on him in a freaking text. So I chickened out and said nothing at all.” He rakes his hands through his shaggy brown hair before looking sheepishly over at me. “Right now, I don’t need Theo to be confused, and I want to ease into this thing, you know?”

  Oh boy. This is bound to get messy. If Preston’s murderous vibe is any sign of how this is going to go, Teflon-grade body armor is on my next Amazon order.

  “I know, I get it. No worries, Preston can stay next door.”

  I get the impression there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. I don’t push him; he looks stressed enough. He’s been co-parenting Theo ever since he was born and trying to run SoS at the same time. I try to help when I can. Theo’s a sweet kid and Greyson is doing a great job with him. Preston would be an idiot not to fall in love with him, too.

  Exhausted and in need of a bubble bath to ease my sore muscles, I trudge through the snow, sighing as I open the door to my cozy, warm home. The smell of leftover vanilla mint, my favorite candle I burn every day, still lingers in the air.

  Passing by the door separating the two parts of the house, I run my hand over the knob that’s locked on my side. Next door is empty for now. A quiet space that’s soon going to be filled with the energy of a man with mysteries I secretly want to unravel. What could’ve possibly happened between him and Grey that created this tension? And am I ready to be immersed in it? I don’t think I have much choice.

  Before my feet reach the bedroom, my phone pings with a notification from my work email. Normally, when I leave work, I don’t check it, but once I read that the sender is Preston Lee himself, my heart flips. Instantly intrigued, I open it. Afterward, I toss my phone on the bed and go to grab some bourbon. This is going to be a very long year.

  3

  PRESTON

  The airplane smells like stale coffee and sweaty lumberjack with a mild hint of alcohol. That’s reassuring. Greyson insisted I take the Cessna instead of flying in a private jet. In the spirit of being “professional,” I didn’t argue … this time.

  A suspicious stain on the seat next to me makes me cringe and I resort to staring out the window to distract myself from it.

  Pleasantly surprised by the view, thoughts of how much I’m not looking forward to this subsides only fractionally. The mountain ranges are beautiful, like a postcard you’d pick up at a gas station. Snow cloaks the peaks and the evergreens line up for miles like soldiers awaiting a signal from their colonel. It’s approaching spring, but up here it’s an eternal winter.

  Turbulence jolts through the plane and panic swells up, lodging in my throat. Knuckles white, I grip the hard plastic armrest to the point of almost cracking it. Is this how dad felt in his last moments? Terror seizes me in its razor-sharp claws and won’t let go. Bile rises in my throat, threatening to spill out and join that offensive stain.

  Closing my eyes and concentrating on my breathing does nothing but make me wish I was a yogi in a past life, safe in my ashram, humming meditations, oblivious to the outside world. This is Greyson’s way of punishing me for being an asshole. Making me fly in a plane similar to the one that killed our father. More turbulence hits and I clutch my stomach, cursing those on a commercial jet in first class with smooth leather seats, whiskey, and a seasoned pilot.

  The plane eventually levels out. My breathing regulates, and the engine purrs evenly under my feet. I’m able to glance down at my phone without getting dizzy. Several text messages and emails wait for my response. Service is spotty, but I get a few emails through. There’s one text from Haley asking me if I’m up for company later. Shit. I forgot to let her know I was leaving. She’ll get over it and move on to the next willing guy. I put my phone away and look over to see SoS come into view through the tiny window smeared with dirt.

  It’s quite impressive from the sky. Sprawling over hundreds, probably thousands of acres, buildings and forests collide to create a picturesque place that I’m confident loads of people other than me enjoy. It’s a great-looking piece of real estate. No wonder dad was enthusiastic about opening it with Grey. Not that I paid attention to their conversations or anything.

  The pilot flings out stats about the place and I’m only half listening. My mind churns with the reality that I’m miles away from my place of comfort and I’m about to be thrust into Greyson’s world against my will. My blood pressure spikes. I squelch it; it’s only a year, not the rest of my life. Get in and get out.

  After a rough landing, I stand as tall as I can in this ridiculously small plane and straighten my suit jacket. I only have a carry-on—the rest of my stuff is scheduled to arrive later this week. Stepping out, there’s only one vehicle on the tarmac, and I assume it’s my ride.

  Arching my eyebrows, I grumble. I guess it’s too presumptuous of me to expect a luxury car. Instead, it’s a rundown pickup truck that’s seen better days. Red paint chipped on the side leads back to a dented bed. The windshield has a few cracks, most likely from rocks, and the rims are dirty and heavily rusted. It’s idling and a slight coughing sound and smoke pours from the exhaust.

  One peril into another.

  I grit my teeth. Surely with the amount of money Greyson makes at this place, he can afford to pay his employees enough money to buy reliable vehicles. I roll my head back and forth and stalk toward the death machine. A man stands by the driver’s side with his hands deep in his pockets. Puffs of steam from his mouth permeate the air. I don’t know why I’m surprised not to
see Greyson here to greet me. Coward.

  The man steps forward, taking one of his hands from his pocket to shake mine. “Hey Mr. Lee, I’m Shelby and I’m here to take you to SoS. Can I help you with any of your bags?” He swipes his sandy blond hair streaked with white off his forehand with a rough hand. His face crinkles and the merriment bounces in his rheumy blue eyes.

  I hold up only one bag. “I’m good, thank you for the ride.” Nice or not, I’m not looking forward to this. Once I reach the passenger side door, I pull on the handle. It’s stuck. Of course, it is. I wipe my hands on my coat, peering over at Shelby, who’s rocking a cocked eyebrow.

  “Oh yeah, sorry about that, sir, the door sticks. Here let me help you.” Shelby gives it a hard yank and the door flies open with a loud creak. An empty soda can tumbles to the tarmac and the wind skitters it away. I grunt, folding my large frame inside, and put my bag in the back among all the other items strewn about. Papers, bottles, cigarette butts, and gum wrappers litter the back of the cab. I have no choice but to step on all the junk. Jesus. How do people live like this? Wrinkling my nose at the smell coming from a leaky container on the floor, I scowl and stare out the window, wanting this to be over.

  “Mr. Lee—”

  “Preston, just call me Preston. Please.” I say, exasperatedly. Mr. Lee was my dad and mentioning him just … hurts …

  “Preston it is. How come we’ve never seen you here before, considering you’re the spitting image of Mr. Greyson?” Shelby’s crooked grin resembles a clown.

  “I’d rather not get into it. How much farther until we arrive?” I’m not about to enjoy small talk with this man. A stiff drink and a hot shower in my hotel room are the only things on my mind. He frowns before leaning over to fiddle with some nondescript knobs, a country song coming to life on the radio. Much better than his personal questions. Must be how they do things in Montana. Nosy as fuck.

  I close my eyes, lulled into a false sense of security. Per my email, I let everyone know what I expect. There’s going to be some changes, that’s normal. There are surely some business aspects that Greyson has overlooked, and I’m going to have to fix them. Mom and dad wouldn’t have visited so frequently if there weren’t some issues. I’ll keep myself busy improving this place and then leave.