Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

  Rough Country

  Lauren Landish

  Edited by

  Valorie Clifton

  Edited by

  Staci Etheridge

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Dirty Talk

  About the Author

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Bennett Boys Ranch:

  Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts

  The Tannen Boys:

  Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country

  Standalones

  My Big Fat Fake Wedding || The Dare || Filthy Riches || Scorpio

  Dirty Fairy Tales:

  Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After

  Get Dirty:

  Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets

  Irresistible Bachelors:

  Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper

  Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker

  Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed

  Chapter 1

  Willow

  “Quit staring at me!” I snarl, emphasizing my point with a huff that sends my bangs up then right back down into my field of vision again.

  The recipient of my bark, which like the popular saying is worse than my bite, stares back, unmoved by the order. Fine, so it’s a mountain, not likely to sprout legs and move out of my way, nor is it going to quit looming over me like a judge.

  Stupid mountain.

  For most people, that’s probably the exact view they come here for, a quaint escape from their daily life to small town, rural America.

  Too bad I’m not here for a quick trip from the city. No, Great Falls is my new hometown. And the fancy mountainside resort I can now see is most definitely not my destination.

  “Ugh,” I growl, though there’s no one to hear me since I made the trip alone, driving for hours over the last three days with nightly stops at motels. I’ve been living on the cheap—scratchy sheets, sketchy neighborhoods, and greasy takeout. If I see one more slice of pizza I’m going to scream.

  The road is straight and empty, giving me time to glance up again. Broad strokes of nature’s grandeur, striped with green and brown and even . . . I lean forward to glance out the top of my windshield . . . yep, white at the very tippy-top of the peak. It’s beautiful, I’ll admit that at least.

  But still it feels . . . judgy. The weight of the horizon presses in on me, even heavier than my conscience. But not even that mountain could withstand my Mom’s earnest gaze begging for help.

  Fine. I’ll go to Podunk, Nowheresville, Mom. Just quit looking at me like that.

  I come to a blinking red light and take a right, thankful to put the mountain behind me. But now, I’m almost there . . . and that might be even worse.

  “Destination is on the left. You have arrived.” My phone tells me the dreaded news.

  I park in the packed dirt lot, my ten-year-old Subaru one of only two cars versus nine—no, ten—trucks. They come in two varieties, old and dented or jacked-up and pristine other than the layer of fine red dust on the lower half. “Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

  I shut off the engine but make no move to get out. I’m not the type to get nervous, but this is an extraordinary circumstance, so I’m basically shivering inside my skin with jitters. Hence, the grumpiness with the inanimate mountain. It’s not every day you waltz into a place uninvited and announce yourself. Especially when I’m not sure the welcome is going to be all that friendly. It’s entirely possible that I might get hustled out of town faster than I got here.

  Despite my hesitation, the heat gathering in the car forces me out. Crunch-crunch-crunch. My flips flops are nothing against the small pebbles mixed into the dirt, and I’m nearly dancing before I’m halfway across the parking lot. I pause at the door, my hand on the brass handle, and look up, praying for strength.

  The only thing I see is the neon sign proclaiming this place as Hank’s.

  Resigned to my fate, at least for the foreseeable future, I open the door and step inside. Part of me expects it to be like one of those low-budget, B-grade action flicks where the city girl walks in, a record scratches—even though no one plays those anymore—and a dozen sets of narrowed eyes turn to me in suspicion. Two heartbeats later, there’ll be a redneck slurring out that my kind’s not welcome here.

  Despite years of late-night movies telling me so, none of that happens.

  No one even looks my way, which gives me a chance to take everything in with a quick scan. Wood floors, wood walls, wood tables, all gleaming in the overhead lights, which are bright considering it’s mid-afternoon. There are a few booths with pleather that, even from here, I can see is patched with red duct tape like someone was doing the best they could to hold it all together and keep the stuffing inside. Country music plays faintly, with the chatter of the patrons mixing in easily.

  Automatically, I reach for my back pocket to grab my phone. Its camera isn’t the best by any stretch, but it’s the least intrusive. Still, I can’t exactly start snapping shots in the middle of the bar so my hand falls back to my side, though my fingers itch to press the shutter. My brain does it anyway, framing each take mentally.

  An old guy, wrinkles lining his eyes and mouth, the edge of a bottle of beer paused at his lip as he stares at the television over the bar. Snap.

  A group of five guys wearing neon vests, work boots, and dirty jeans crowded around a table, looking like their day has already been enough to make them weary. Snap.

  A bell rings out, drawing my attention to a cutout in the wall framing a middle-aged, heavyset woman who’s setting a plate in the window. “Order up!” she calls out. Snap.

  I intentionally ignore the man behind the bar and make my way to a corner table, hiding in the slight shadow offered by a couple having a leisurely lunch, judging by the number of empty beer glasses that decorate their tabletop. To further disguise myself, I pick up a menu from the holder by the wall and duck into my shoulders.

  “What can I getcha?” a voice asks from right beside me, the sentence all run together like it’s one multi-syllable word.

  I startle at the direct question, but the waitress is looking at her notepad, not me. “Oh, uh . . .” I stammer, so caught up in my own mental games that I haven’t really looked at the menu. I hate being unprepared, but I make the quick decision to play it safe. “A cheeseburger.”

  “Howd’ya want it cooked?” Her blonde ponytail swishes impatiently, her lashes dark against her cheeks. She’s young, at least a few years younger than me. Twenty-one or two, I’d guess, to my twenty-five.

  Was I ever that young, though? Even as a child, I was an old soul. Not sure what that says about me now.

  “Medium.”

  “Ell-tee-oh-pee and fries?” Olivia asks. Olivia. That’s her name, according to her nametag. I have no idea what she’s asking, other
than fries, and the confusion must show on my face. “Lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, fries?”

  “Sure.” She scribbles on her notepad before hustling away. I realize a moment later that I forgot to order a drink. But as I watch the goings-on around me, Olivia saves me by bringing a glass of water with a lemon wedge.

  “Let me know if you want a beer or soda or anything.”

  A shot of whiskey, I think but don’t say out loud. Instead, I smile politely and nod.

  I take my time squeezing the lemon and unwrapping the straw just for something to do. But once that’s done, I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.

  I look at the bar. More specifically, I finally look at the man behind the far end of the bar . . . Hank Davis. He’s over seventy now, but the leathery skin peeking out of his short-sleeved T-shirt is covering lean muscles and etched with old tattoos. The scowl on his face is familiar, gut-punchingly so, but I swallow the bile that tries to rise, helping it down with a sip of water. His eyes are blue and bright, clear as a summer sky, and full of sharp intelligence even from here. If he’s anything like I remember, I’ll have to be careful or he’ll figure me out in an instant.

  He’s talking with the old guy watching the television, but I can’t tell what they’re saying, only that they seem friendly. Hank is mindlessly drying a beer glass with a white towel, which he sets on a shelf beneath the bar before grabbing another glass. I imagine the two men are giving each other shit over the ball game playing. Maybe they have a bet on who’s going to win. I do that a lot, create entire scenarios for the people around me, giving them personalities and backstories. I like the real stories too, but when I don’t know, I fill in the blanks for myself.

  The lady in the window calls out for another order and Olivia grabs the plate. Not needing to check her ticket, she brings it directly to me. “Anything else?”

  Having decided against the whiskey for real, I answer, “No, thank you.” I bite into the burger, moaning at the unexpected deliciousness. It’s fresh, hot, and stacked with the crispness of fresh veggies. A pickle falls out, and I snag it, crunching it alone. I think it’s home-canned. Oh, my God, I could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. I want to go peek in the cook’s window and tell her that I appreciate the life-changing flavor of her food as an accompaniment to my day.

  Because today is the day my life changes.

  But there are some things that will never change. I promised myself that when I agreed to this fool’s errand.

  I set the burger back on the heavy white plate and pull my phone out. I snap a quick shot of the burger and fries, make a few adjustments for the lighting, and add a caption that says TDF good, a skull emoji, a halo emoji, then hit Post. I stare at it for a moment, counting the seconds until the first heart appears. Twenty-two seconds. I smile. More hearts and comments start appearing, but after reading a couple, I shut it off and set the phone facedown on the table.

  I eat. And watch.

  I have a unique ability to disappear, be invisible and forgotten. When I was younger, it used to eat me up inside, making me feel unimportant. As I got older, I learned how to put it to good use as a photographer. People don’t notice me, which gives me a sneak peek into their world, their experience in a way I couldn’t get if I were bolder. It took time, but I’ve turned my weakness into a strength.

  Once I’ve stuffed as much burger into my belly as I can—okay, maybe more than I should’ve—I gather my courage, stuffing it into every nook and cranny of my soul not filled with ground beef. I lay a ten on the table for Olivia and put my phone in my pocket, wishing I could capture the look on Hank’s face when he sees me.

  But I already know I’ll memorize it with my eyes. In that look, I’ll know if this is going to work. My heart races with hope that it will.

  I walk up to the bar, between two stools, and wait for his eyes to drag away from the television. “What can I getcha?” he asks in the same run together, one-word way Olivia did. It’s something they both must do dozens of times every day.

  I smile even though my lips are shaking and my knees are knocking. “Hi, Uncle Hank.” As I say it, the words sound foreign. I always called him ‘Unc’, but I’m not sure if he’d welcome that familiarity after all these years.

  Those blue eyes narrow dangerously before they pop wide open and he grins. “Willow? Well, I’ll be damned!”

  I return his smile, that hope blooming quickly and spreading warmth through my body.

  “Get over here and give me a hug, girl.” The order is accompanied by a wave of his arm toward the opening in the bar. He comes around quicker than I would’ve thought he could, wrapping me up in a squeezing embrace that lifts me clean off the floor to spin me around.

  Hell, he’s unexpectedly spry for an old guy.

  “You are a sight for sore eyes, honey. What are you doing here?” He sets me down, petting my hair and scanning my face like he thinks it’s entirely possible that I’m a mirage.

  “Needed a change, I guess you could say. And I thought of you . . . and Great Falls.”

  That part’s not a lie, at least. I did think of him in a bent old photograph kind of way. The way you remember someone from years ago, when they seemed larger than life because you were just a kid.

  Unc, because that’s who he is to me, chuckles, the sound rougher than sandpaper. Smoke. I remember he used to smell like clove cigarettes that brought to mind the Christmas crafts with oranges we did at school as gifts for our mom. I wonder if he still smokes now? I didn’t smell it on his hug, though.

  “Well, I reckon Great Falls is a might bit different for a city girl. Have a seat and tell me everything.”

  That sounds ominous to my ears. I swallow, knowing I can’t tell him everything, but I can tell him a lot. And I want him to tell me things too, like his version of why I never saw him after I turned fourteen. I’ve heard Mom’s version, and I heard Grandpa’s curse-laden one a time or two, but never Unc’s. Then again, does it even matter now?

  He gestures to the end of the bar, following me over. I sit, my legs dangling until I rest my feet on the crossbar. Unc more perches than sits on his stool, but he bends a knee and places his boot on the crossbar too, taking pressure off his leg. Oh, I remember that now. He always had a hip-rolling gait that made me think of a cowboy swagger, but Mom told me it was because he had an old injury that flared up sometimes. I’d preferred my story to hers back then, and I want to believe it even now, though the signs of arthritis are in his bony hands too.

  His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and my reprieve is over. I’ve practiced this. I know what to say, so I launch into my prepared speech.

  “It really is so good to see you, Unc.” I test out the affectionate nickname and he doesn’t so much as flinch. “I don’t know how much you’ve kept up, but my mom and dad are good, driving each other crazy, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. Oakley is as all right as a pain in the ass older brother can be. He’s an accountant, got married last year, and probably has a five-year plan for home ownership, two-point-five babies, and a Labradoodle named Daisy.”

  I smile even as I’m smack talking my brother. He’s the sore thumb in our family, rebelling against Mom and Dad’s creative, hippie hearts and souls by going full suit and tie. He even carries a briefcase. Shudder.

  “And what about you? Last time I saw you, you were in middle school, wearing paint splattered overalls with your head buried in a sketch book. You still drawing?” Unc seems genuinely interested, but the nostalgia of the image he paints isn’t the warm fuzzy of a happy memory. Those were hard days where my awkwardness made me a weird outsider, Mom hadn’t understood why that was a bad thing, and I struggled to become ‘normal’, whatever that meant. News flash, I failed on that mission spectacularly.

  I shake my head. “No, not much anymore. I moved on to photography in high school for the yearbook and never looked back. It’s everything now.”

  He asked for me to tell him everything, and photography is my
most important truth. I can at least give him that.

  “Whatcha take pictures of?” he asks.

  Safe territory, thank goodness.

  I pull out my phone and show him the picture I snapped of the burger I ate. He grabs my wrist, pushing the phone further away like he should be wearing glasses but refuses to on principle. When he focuses on the screen image, his mouth moves a little as he reads the caption.

  “What’s tee-dee-eff? And the little pictures?”

  I can’t help but grin. “It means ‘to die for’, because it was so good. The skull is shorthand for dead, the angel for heaven. Just saying it was really delicious, basically.”

  He quirks a bushy white brow. “Then why not just put delicious? You kids are taking the nuances of the English language and turning it back into hieroglyphics for no good goddamn reason.”

  I shrug, amused at the drawl of his accent. High-ROW-gli-fix. That second syllable lasted at least a full two seconds. “Just how we communicate to keep the old fogies from understanding,” I tease back.

  “I’ll show you old fogie,” he scowls before winking, and it feels so easy and right, as if no time has passed. “So, what brings you to Great Falls?”

  “Wanted something different than the city, I suppose.” Just keep repeating that as your mantra, Willow.

  “City life not treating you kindly?” He sounds irked at the very idea.