1
Trevor McCall sped down the steep, winding road leading to his family’s ranch, only giving it a cursory amount of attention. The snow drifts shoved to the road’s edges by plows passed by as little more than a blur, and he hardly noticed the signs warning him to watch for wayward animals or falling rocks. He’d been seeing them for most of his life, and at almost thirty, he understood that life held more dangers than those he’d find on this road. Where the road was taking him, for starters.
“Giving the place too much credit, man,” he growled to himself, shaking his head with an impatient sigh. “Stop acting like you’re still a stupid kid.”
It was solid advice, exactly the kind he’d give either of his younger brothers if he saw them working themselves up over nothing. Unfortunately, he’d always been better at giving advice than taking it.
Not that he was particularly good at giving it, either. He let his eyes drop from the road ahead to the phone sitting on the passenger side of his truck, looking for some sign that he wasn’t the first to arrive.
“Whoa!” he cried, eyes darting back up to the road at the blare of a horn. Barely in time, he swerved out of the way of an old Jeep turning out of the drive onto the county road. Heart pounding, he squinted to see the driver of said Jeep. All he needed was for the guy to put it into park and get out to try and start something. In his current mood, he was more than ready for a fight. He would have welcomed such a diversion after the mess he’d been dealing with these past couple days.
Except the Jeep’s driver wasn’t a man. The woman behind the wheel was rolling down her window, already apologizing before he had his own window down enough to talk through.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a nervous smile, her eyes wide. “I thought you were going to veer into me. I shouldn’t have honked at you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said gruffly, looking more closely at her face. He thought he knew her from somewhere, although he couldn’t put his finger on where. The way her bright blonde hair seemed to capture the light of the day stirred the beginning of memory, something he’d fought resolutely to avoid.
He cleared his throat and looked up the road for any sign of his brothers.
The woman he couldn’t quite place laughed shakily, and he found his eyes drawn back to her face. A beautiful face, no denying that. Had he met her under different circumstances, he might have tried to keep the conversation going. As it was, he needed to get on his way.
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said again, throwing her Jeep back into drive. “Have a good day, Mr. McCall. Or as good as you can.”
She turned bright red and stomped on the gas, her Jeep lurching forward before heading down the road in the direction of the town of Winding Creek. For a minute, Trevor just sat and watched her progress, wondering how she had known who he was. Then he took his truck out of park as well, forcing himself back to the task at hand.
He sighed as he reached the high point along the long driveway that overlooked the main buildings of the ranch, parked, and unfolded himself from the cab of his old, beat-up Ford truck. It was a good truck, almost as old as he was, but sturdy, and Trevor was grateful for it. He was fond of telling people when he was a little too far into his cups that it was one of the only useful things he’d gotten from growing up on the McCall ranch.
“And I could sure use a beer now,” he muttered to himself, shielding his eyes with one calloused hand and looking out over the expanse of his family’s land. If he could call it that, which, he reminded himself, he had no real right to do.
It was good land, beautiful, really, despite the old wounds dredged up simply by seeing it again. As little as he wanted to be here, a part of him responded to the place he had always called home. His father had always said that land had a way of getting under a man's skin, of seeping into his blood and taking root. Trevor and the late James McCall had disagreed plenty, but on this matter, they had been of one mind. It didn't matter how widely he traveled or how far away from home he ended up: there was nothing in the world like standing under the expanse of the open Winding Creek, Montana sky.
“Brother!” a familiar voice called from behind him. Trevor heard a car door slam and turned to see his middle brother, Carson, standing next to his own truck. Unlike Trevor, Carson had not opted to keep the old clunker their parents had gifted him. At the moment, he was driving a brand new, shiny monstrosity, presumably bought with his winnings from rodeo riding.
"Well, look at what the cat dragged in," Trevor chuckled, closing the distance between them and pulling Carson in for a hug. "I was wondering when you guys were going to get here. I was starting to think I was the only one who was going to make it."
"What—is Randy not here yet?" Carson asked in surprise, turning in a slow circle as if by doing so, he might make their baby brother magically appear.
“Nope, haven’t seen him,” Trevor said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, the way he always did when he was feeling on edge. Lord knew he felt that way now. Truth be told, he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, if such a thing were possible.
He’d known it was going to be like this, at least had expected some approximation of his current level of discomfort. Trevor wasn’t under any illusions of home being the kind of place a person could always return to. Whoever had said that had either had a strong case of nostalgia or had grown up without a family of his own. As far as Trevor was concerned, the notion of home was just another fantasy.
"Well, what do you want to do, then?" Carson asked, prompting Trevor to abandon his own thoughts begrudgingly. "Do we wait here in the clearing for Baby Brother to show, or should we go to the house?” He cocked an eye at Trevor. “The lawyer’s going to be waiting. He's...he said we've got business to attend to."
Carson's voice broke near the end of the statement, and for a gut-wrenching moment, Trevor didn't think his younger brother was going to be able to finish the sentiment. It didn't matter how much Trevor had been dreading returning to the McCall ranch. Seeing Carson this way made him want to put his fist through something. Though the two of them had fought like cats and dogs growing up, they loved each other all the same. No matter the differences between them—and there were more than Carson could begin to guess at—Trevor would have done just about anything for the guy. Actually, that went for both of his brothers.
“Come on, little man,” he said gruffly, clapping his hand on Carson’s back. “Let’s head to the house. Don’t want to keep Mr. Barnes waiting.”
“Cut it out, Trev,” Carson groaned, rolling his eyes. That response set Trevor to laughing, a great guffawing sound that felt good for the soul. Carson was two years younger than Trevor’s twenty-eight and three inches shorter than Trevor’s height of six foot three, something Trevor had always enjoyed ribbing him about. Some things never changed, whether you were twelve or going on thirty.
Trevor was surprised by the twinge of emotion it ignited in him, but he was pleased, too, glad to find something he could enjoy aside from the view at the old family homestead.
“Come on,” he said again, still chuckling at his brother’s indignation. “Let’s go to the house. What do you wanna bet we find Randy already there?”