Page 1 of Montana Memory

Chapter 1

Jada Banks

Pain woke me.

It wasn’t the sharp, sudden kind that yanked you out of sleep like a slap, but a deep, aching sensation that throbbed in waves and settled into my bones. My head pulsed, my ribs throbbed, and when I took a breath, something in my side burned. A groan slipped from my lips before I could stop it, the sound small in the heavy silence around me.

For a long moment, I didn’t move, just listened. My pulse pounded in my ears, but beyond that, nothing. No voices, no hum of a TV, no familiar sounds at all. I opened my eyes but didn’t recognize anything.

Where was I?

I swallowed hard and shifted, my cheek scraping against rough wood. The floor. I was lying on the floor. I flexed my fingers against it, trying to ground myself, but even that felt wrong.

Slowly, I pushed up onto my elbows. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through me, radiating from my ribs, my shoulders, my head. Every inch of me felt battered, like I’d gone ten rounds with someone twice my size.

I tried to think, tried to remember what had happened, but nothing came.

Not just about where I was, but—everything. My mind was a blank slate, wiped clean of anything that should have been there.

Panic slithered in, cold and savage. I forced myself to stop and think, moving back to the very basics:What is my name?

My breath caught, chest squeezing. It should have been easy, but when I reached for it—nothing. I couldn’t remember anything, even my own name. Everything was a void.

Stay calm.Maybe I was drunk. Maybe I’d hit my head. Maybe I just needed a minute to clear the fog.

I took a slow breath, fighting the tightness in my throat, and tried to focus on my surroundings. The air smelled musty, like old wood and dust, with something sharper beneath it—metallic, like blood.

I touched my face, fingers coming away sticky. Even in the dim light, I could see the dark smear across my fingertips. My nose was bleeding. Had it been broken? I gingerly pressed along the bridge, wincing. Tender, but not shattered.

I pushed myself upright, biting back a groan, and took in the space around me. A large rustic-style room. A cabin, maybe? Wooden walls, an older couch, a dining table with two chairs—both overturned, like there’d been a struggle.

Had I been in a fight?

I swallowed again and tried to push to my feet. My legs wobbled, and I had to grip the side of the table to steady myself. A shiver ran through me, but it wasn’t from the cold.

Something had happened here. Something violent.

I turned toward the only window, but it was dark outside, the glass smudged with a layer of dust too heavy to see much beyond my own faint reflection.

I looked like hell.

Wild brown hair tangled around my face. A cut along my cheekbone, drying blood on my nose. Shirt wrinkled and clinging to my skin like I’d been sweating, sleeves streaked with what looked like dirt from the floor. My jeans were also dirty.

Panic surged again, threatening to choke me.

Who the hell am I?

I tried again, squeezing my eyes shut and forcing my mind to give me something. A name. An age. An address or recollection of a friend. A single goddamn memory. But the void stayed dark and empty.

I sucked in a breath, pushing back the panic. Right now, I needed to get out of here. Figure out where I was and get help.

I barely took a shaky step toward the door before it slammed open, the force rattling the walls.

A man barreled inside, his breathing ragged, chest heaving beneath a bulky coat. The gun in his hand gleamed under the weak light, his knuckles white around the grip. His eyes—wild and unfocused—jumped from window to window.

He muttered under his breath, voice rough, frantic. “I’m not going to die like the others. No fucking way.”

My body locked up, a primal instinct telling me not to move. Not to breathe. But it didn’t matter. His gaze snapped to me.

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