Six months later…

I arrive at White Oak Ranch early in the afternoon. Sleet whistles through the pine trees, collecting on the stone driveway leading to the house. Clouds fly by with alarming speed, low and angry. Stepping out of my pickup, I zip up my jacket. My shoulder throbs in protest from where the bullet entered and exited—my injury not enjoying the cold, wet weather. Leaning into the bitter wind, ice pellets sting my face and drive into my eyes. I shiver, trying to shake off the biting chill that’s crept into my bones. Keeping my head low, I shuffle up the driveway to the front door.

As I trudge up the steep steps, a tall man wearing a cowboy hat and scuffed boots appears in the entryway. “Ryan Kane?”

“That’s me,” I answer, hitting the top of the stone steps. The hairs on my arms raise through my flimsy jacket, and the bite of the wind leaves its mark in the form of small bumps that tingle on my arms. I may need to invest in warmer attire if I’m going to take this job.

“I’m Hank Patterson.” He extends his hand, and I shake it.

“It’s May, shouldn’t it be warm?” I ask, dusting the sleet from off my jacket.

Hank smiles and shrugs. “Montana weather is…diverse, to say the least. C’mon, let’s get you inside.” I follow him through the house into a large den. Waving his arm, he signals for me to take a seat. “So, let me start by saying I’m the head of the Brotherhood Protectors.”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you what in the hell that is since you didn’t explain much over the phone,” I answer as I flop down on the couch.

“Well, the Brotherhood Protectors is something I thought up after I got out. It’s a way to harness the energy, integrity, and desire to protect those separating from active duty, like yourself. We’re made up of the best of the best,” he boasts, walking past me toward a leather wing chair.

“That’s not exactly me,” I mumble under my breath.

“How’s that shoulder of yours?”

I glance down at my right arm. “If it were all right, they wouldn’t have forced me into early retirement,” I mutter, settling into the comfortable leather.

“You could have stayed on, been a SEAL instructor.” Hank takes the seat directly in front of me and waits for my response.

A woman comes into the room and stands next to Hank, placing her hand on his shoulder. “You two boys need a beer?”

“That’d be great, Sadie,” he says, patting her on the ass.

Once she leaves, I answer, “Sure. An instructor who can’t shoot a gun. No thanks.” I turn my hand palm up and attempt to wiggle my fingers. They move, but my range of motion has been cut by more than half.

“Well, I’m glad you made the trip out here in the middle of nowhere,” he confesses.

“I’m still not sure why I came. Don’t know what I can do for you with this bum arm.”

Hank leans forward in his chair, his brows furrowed. “I know you were a sniper, and not having full range of motion in your hand is devastating, but you’re not useless. I wouldn’t have given you this job offer if I thought otherwise.”

“How did you get my number in the first place?”

Sitting back in his chair, he smiles. “Top.”

“You know him?” My old captain wasn’t one to socialize with just anyone, and this intrigues me.

Sadie returns with two bottles of beer, handing one to Hank and one to me. “Thank you,” we both say in unison. She smiles, then leaves the room.

“We go way back,” he answers, then takes a pull from the bottle. “He called me the day your unit came back from Afghanistan. He knew then you’d need something to keep you going.”

“The day I woke up in the hospital, I knew I was done. There’s no coming back from a hollow point through the shoulder. At least, not if it were me doing the shooting.” Pressing the bottle to my lips, I take a sip.

He nods with a grimace. “That’s what I was told as well,” he admits.

“What, were you checking up on me?” I cough, almost choking on the liquid going down my throat.

“I have some connections—both current and former military—and wanted to know when you were being released from Bethesda so I could call and offer you a job.”

I narrow my eyes, but decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, here I am,” I sigh. I still don’t see how the head of the Brotherhood Protectors can use me for anything. I can’t even ball my hand into a fist. “What is it exactly you want me to do?”

“It just so happens I already have an assignment lined up for you.” Hank stands, then walks over to a table on the other side of the large room. He brings back a manila folder and hands it to me. “Abigail Montana.” Taking the file from him, I open it as he sits back down. “She and her three-year-old daughter, Avery, live close by.” I read the dossier over.

“Wait. Abigail Montana. Living in Montana?”

“Yes, the humor is not lost on me,” Hank chuckles, “but she didn’t grow up here.”

Still, you can’t make this shit up.

If I do take this job, I’ll need to ride her about that.

“This says she needs help with the farm. I grew up in Jersey City—I don’t know how to run a farm.” This is insane. The closest I ever came to a farm was when my parents took me and my two brothers apple picking in the fall. Taking a swig from the bottle, I continue looking over Abigail’s profile.

“She’ll show you,” he assures me. “Besides, that’s not the real reason you were hired for this job.”

“It’s not?” I ask, confused.

“Look,” he says, leaning forward in his chair, “her father is concerned. Her ex-husband dragged her here, practically kicking and screaming, and now she doesn’t want to go back home to Colorado.”

“Says here the ex is in prison.” I keep reading, her backstory becoming more and more intriguing.

“Yeah. Vehicular manslaughter. His daddy is a big shot here in Eagle Rock, so we’ll see how long he stays there.”

“Sounds like a stand-up guy,” I mutter under my breath.

His sarcastic chuckle makes me pick my head up from the brief. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head slow, then looks at me. “Everyone around here can’t stand the son of a bitch. He thinks his shit don’t stink cause of who is father is,” he says on a sigh. With a shrug, he changes the subject. “A friend of hers, a cop, has been by the farm, but he has a family of his own, and with his job, can’t do too much to help her out.”

“My arm is still pretty fucked up,” I admit, glancing down at my fingers.

“There are a couple physical therapists around here the guys frequent. I hope you’ll be willing to go. It’s included with the employment if you’re up for it.” I think about that for a second. The doctors at Bethesda did say physical therapy could improve my grip. It won’t ever be the same as it was, but anything is better than it is now. I try to close my hand into a fist, but my fingers only reach a little more than halfway.

“All right. I’ll do it. When do I start?”