Page 2 of Montana Justice

“You take care of yourself, hon,” he said as I grabbed my backpack from the floor. It contained everything I owned: two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of painkillers I’d stolen from a gas station in Nevada, and seventeen dollars in crumpled bills.

“I will. Thank you, Eddie.”

His smile was paternal, worried. “You sure you don’t want me to wait? Make sure your friend is home?”

“I’m sure. Really.”

The night air was crisp with the promise of winter, and I pulled my jacket tighter as Eddie’s truck disappeared down Main Street. I stood there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and mountain air. This place had been home once, before I’d learned that home was just another word for temporary.

I walked toward the cluster of businesses that made up Garnet Bend’s downtown. Most of the shops were closed for the evening, but warm light poured from Draper’s Tavern, andI could hear laughter and conversation spilling out onto the sidewalk. Through the windows, I could see it was busy.

Perfect. Crowds meant opportunities. Crowds meant I could blend in, observe, find someone with money and poor situational awareness.

I paused outside the tavern, checking my reflection in the window. The black hair dye I’d used three months ago had faded to a dark brown, nothing like the blonde I’d been born with. The break in my nose from two years ago had changed the shape of my face just enough that even I looked different to myself sometimes. Nobody would recognize me. I was sure of it.

The tavern was packed. Every table was occupied, and the bar was lined with locals nursing drinks and engaged in animated conversation. There was a festive atmosphere, like people were celebrating something, though I couldn’t tell what. Perfect cover for what I needed to do.

I found an empty stool at the far end of the bar, trying to look like I belonged. Moving carefully to avoid aggravating my ribs, I slipped my backpack under my feet where it wouldn’t draw attention.

“What can I get you?” The bartender was a woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.

“Just water for now,” I said, then picked up the menu. “I need a few minutes to decide.”

She nodded and set a glass in front of me. I opened the menu, my stomach clenching as I scanned the prices. Even the cheapest appetizer cost twelve dollars—nearly everything I had left. But I had to order something. Sitting here nursing free water would look suspicious, and suspicious drew the wrong kind of attention.

My mouth watered as I read the descriptions. Loaded potato skins. Buffalo wings. A burger with hand-cut fries. When was thelast time I’d eaten a real meal? Two days ago, maybe three. Time had started blurring together somewhere around Fargo.

“Rough day?”

I looked up to find a man sliding onto the stool beside mine. He was probably in his fifties, with thinning hair and the kind of rumpled clothes that suggested he’d been driving for hours. A trucker, most likely, just like Eddie.

“Something like that,” I said, offering him a cautious smile.

“I’m Buck,” he said. “Just rolled into town. You local?”

“Carol,” I lied smoothly. “And no, just passing through. Visiting family out of state.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink while you’re here,” Buck said, signaling the bartender. “What’ll it be?”

Relief flooded through me. “Actually, a soda would be great.” Alcohol on this empty of a stomach wasn’t a good plan. “Thank you.”

Buck ordered himself a beer and the soda for me, and I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. One small problem solved. Now I could nurse my drink and figure out my next move.

As Buck launched into small talk about the weather and the drive from wherever he’d come from, I let my gaze wander around the room. The crowd seemed to be centered around a large table near the back, where a group of people were laughing and raising their glasses in what looked like repeated toasts. Someone’s birthday, maybe, or a promotion.

That’s when I saw him. Lachlan Calloway.

He sat at the center of the celebration, his dark hair catching the golden glow from the overhead fixtures. He was laughing at something someone had said, his whole face lighting up in a way that made my chest tighten with something that had nothing to do with broken ribs.

He looked older—lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when I’d left eight years ago—but he was still achingly, impossibly handsome.

And he was the last person I should be thinking about right now.

I forced myself to look away, to focus on Buck’s rambling story about traffic in Seattle. But my eyes kept drifting back to Lachlan’s table, stealing glances like a teenager with her first crush—and hell if that hadn’t been exactly what he was.

“You seem distracted,” Buck observed, following my gaze. “Know someone over there?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Just wondering what they’re celebrating.”

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