Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 294(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“You know shit about us,” I mutter, my hands curling into fists.
Peterson shrugs. “Don’t have to.”
I see red. The guy’s already pinned this mess on us. “You fucking son of a—”
I lunge, but Chance pulls me back.
“Easy, Miles,” he says by my ear. “I don’t know what you’re used to in New York, but you can’t manhandle cops around here.”
Austin steps toward the detective, blocking me from him. “My brother’s right. This is insane. You know Miles and I had nothing to with this. Our only crime is that we were sired by Jonathan Bridger. And Chance? The big lug wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You sure about that?”
A vein in Chance’s temple throbs, but he says nothing.
“Why the fuck would he kill someone on his own land?” I ask.
Peterson shifts his gaze from Chance to me. “You have enough of it. Lots of places to hide a body.”
I break free of Chance’s grasp, but instead of flying at Peterson and rearranging his face, I stomp past him and out to the garage next to the main house where my classic Harley Softail waits for me. I bought it from the classifieds in the local paper the other day. It’s in rough shape, but I know a good thing when I see it. Some TLC and she’ll be incredible, just like all my other projects.
If I don’t get the hell out of here, I’m not sure what I’ll do. So much for a beer and some delicious flautas. I can’t sit at that table and pretend Peterson’s not going to fuck us all over. One thing’s for sure. I will not go down for the murder of some poor SOB who somehow washed downstream onto Bridger land.
Peterson is out for blood. Bridger blood. He’s got the look, and I’m feeling that slimy sensation, like lizards are scrambling beneath my skin.
He’s definitely dirty, and he wants to take down Jonathan Bridger. Unlike the mayor, where his beef was personal, this is different. Worse. Since our dad’s six feet under, Peterson will settle for us instead. I’ve seen it in New York, but I didn’t expect to encounter it in Bayfield, Montana.
I crank the engine, listen to the lusty growling of the chrome pipes, kick the bike into gear, and scream out into the evening. I thought my time in Montana was going to be easy. Simple. Boring.
Fuck, was I wrong.
1
MILES
* * *
I cut the engine and sigh. Damn, that was a good ride, better here than back home. I yank off my helmet and push my hair back. There’s nothing better than straddling a motorcycle and riding the open road.
Here, there’s nothing but open road. Fucking perfect. It’s the best way to clear my head of all the shit going down lately. Not just my asshole father or the stupid rules of his will, but also all the hard labor on the ranch—which I never imagined I’d do in a million years, or for a billion dollars.
The murder, too. Yeah, murder, per the pain-in-the-ass detective Peterson.
I left all of that behind at Bridger Ranch.
I climb off my new ride outside of a roadside bar and give it another once over. Yeah, it needs work, but this is what I do. What I live and breathe. Custom builds. All my jobs start off looking like this. Dented. Rusted. Worn. But I see past all that and focus on what it can become.
Not can. Will.
The engine is good. All it needs is a little attention. A little babying. A little love. I’ll make this motorcycle I found in the bargain bin section of the local paper purr for me, the same way I work a woman.
The sun crawls toward the purple mountains in the distance, but it won’t set for another hour or two. I stop just inside the door of the bar. The parking lot is full, so it’s popular. The high-top tables and booths skirting both walls are occupied, but the dance floor is empty. Neon signs on the wood-paneled walls give the room a glow of reds and blues. I make my way to the bar and settle on a stool.
The bartender comes over and takes my order, a beer on tap and a burger with fries. I missed the Mexican dinner at the house because of that asshole detective, so I’m hungry. I savor the cool bite of my drink as I wait for the food and then spin around to look over the crowd. This place is about an hour from Bayfield, so I don’t see a familiar face. Not that I expect to recognize anyone.
I’ve been in the state for two weeks. Not long enough to make friends. I’m just happy to no longer find my brothers a pain in my ass.
I know Carly, Austin’s woman. Lexie, the ranch’s vet, and most of the ranch staff. Unfortunately, I know Carly’s dad, the town mayor, who is a pain in the ass. More for Austin than myself, although the man has a pretty big beef with our father that he’s carried on to the next generation. Seems to be an unwritten law around here. The sons of Jonathan Bridger are somehow responsible for their father’s sins.