Dedication
To my readers, you guys are the best
Acknowledgments
GRATITUDE, AS ALWAYS, to my brilliant editor, Amanda Bergeron, who makes everything I write way better. Special appreciation is also due to the fabulous Gabrielle Keck. To my lovely agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, you always know when to give the perfect pep talk and it’s so very appreciated.
Love to my dear writing compadres: Jennifer Ryan, Jennifer Blackwood, Natalie Blitt, Jules Barnard, Megan Erickson, and A.J. Pine.
Super special thanks to my family for putting up with me. When I grunt an answer or stare off into the distance, what I’m really saying is “I love you.”
To my readers, I couldn’t do any of this without you. Your support means the world.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Curious Tale of the Castle Falls Phantom
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
An Excerpt from Right Wrong Guy
About the Author
Also by Lia Riley
An Excerpt from The Bride Wore Red Boots by Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from Rescued by the Ranger by Dixie Lee Brown
An Excerpt from One Scandalous Kiss by Christy Carlyle
An Excerpt from Dirty Talk by Megan Erickson
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Curious Tale of the Castle Falls Phantom
(Excerpt from Brightwater: Small Town, Big Dreams)
DURING THE DAWN of the twentieth century, an alleged phantom haunted Castle Falls Gulch just beyond the Brightwater city limits. Anglers and hunters alike spun fireside yarns about a so-called “watcher in the woods.” A strange phenomenon was also noticed near the riverbanks above the cascades, circles of flowers, perfectly formed fairy rings.
Many townsfolk believed the area was haunted and stayed away, but a few attributed the ghostly occurrences to the Castle Falls hermit. While his existence has never been proven, sightings of a mysterious man along the riverbanks occurred on and off for nearly twenty years. Unsubstantiated rumors claimed he was everything from a ne’er-do-well hobo to a murderer on the lam to the victim of a horrendous physical malformation. As a result, Castle Falls and its surrounds were considered a place better avoided and remain unpopular to this day despite the area’s abundant natural beauty.
Stories of the phantom and the enigmatic fairy circles eventually dwindled. The official cause was never determined.
Chapter One
FIFTEEN HUNDRED FEET below the plane window, smoke and flame rose from the mountainside as if a dragon prowled the forest. “McDonald! Kane!” The spotter beckoned, shouting over the Twin Otter’s noisy propellers. “You’re up.”
Wilder Kane tightened his helmet’s chinstrap and maneuvered through the aircraft’s jam-packed interior, which was teeming with equipment and other smoke jumpers. The adrenaline surge added an extra beat to his heart and cleared away the mental cobwebs. After reaching the back, he jittered his boot heel against the floor while his partner, McDonald, took position in the open door.
“Got any plans for your mandatory day?” the spotter hollered, bracing a hand on the roof as they hit a pocket of clear air turbulence and dropped hard. It was a record temperature outside and Wilder’s gut rolled with the plane as he breathed deep, inhaling fuel and a hint of charred wood. Friday was his day off—he had to take one every three weeks because of pain-in-the-ass regulations. He’d just as soon work through the whole damn season.
“Probably going for a ride.” Free time meant thinking. Better to spend days off screaming his mountain bike down heart-pounding single track in the Rattlesnake Wilderness or Pattee Canyon.
“A couple of us are going into Missoula for the night. Come along and bikini-scope college girls down by the river.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Occasionally, he drove west on I-90 to the Silver Dollar or Rusty Spur and searched the roadside bars for a pretty face and weary eyes. Someone hoping to forget, if only for an hour. Someone like him. Bubbly and cheerful younger women weren’t his type. He’d lost hope and innocence so long ago, it was hard to know if he ever had them at all.
“Jesus, Brick.” The spotter shook his head, annoyance and amusement warring across his features. “Anyone ever try and clue you in to the fact that you’re a surly S.O.B.?”
“Once or twice,” Wilder replied, scrubbing the thick scruff on his jaw. “But they never made the mistake again.”
The spotter’s laugh boomed. “You’re something else.”
“Got that right.” McDonald twisted around from his seated position in the door and shook his head. “Something that needs to get laid.”
Wilder shrugged. He hadn’t earned the nickname Brick for nothing. He caught good-natured shit from the others for the steadfast way he maintained an unflappable personal wall, a stoic face no matter the situation, but he didn’t care. This job wasn’t about the accolades or prestige.
He was a smoke jumper because it was the only thing he could ever be.
He knew no other way to endure himself.
For the next two minutes, he’d be a kickass parachutist, and the second he hit the ground, it was time to transform into a firefighting machine—a smoke jumper’s real work. What other career required flying over desolate wilderness with a team of warriors and jumping from a small plane armed with not much more than an axe, shovel, and iron-clad balls?
Best job on earth.
The inferno devouring Lost Moose Gulch appeared to be a classic “gobbler,” a wildfire hungry for destruction. Detected two days ago, following an unremarkable lightning strike in the remote wilderness, the resulting smolder took advantage of the summer’s bone-dry conditions and changeable Montana weather, especially here along the Continental Divide. The calming wind left the fire vulnerable to defeat—just—providing the team could rally quick, scratch some lines to make a fire break, and hook it. If they couldn’t gain the upper hand within a day or two, an extended attack crew would be sent out, the on-ground hotshots.
Wilder didn’t have any intention of letting that happen. He won. That was his reputation. He threw himself against every blaze as if his very life hung in the balance, and it did, in more ways than the others ever guessed.
The spotter slapped McDonald’s shoulder, and he was out the door in a blink.
“Take position,” came the order.
Wilder stepped forward, licking his dry lips. His partner’s parachute opened and McDonald swung around, expertly steering toward the designated jump site, a pre-determined meadow.
“Get ready,” called the spotter.
Wilder crouched to sitting and braced his hands on the outside of the plane, the aluminum cold against his palms. Tension hummed through his body. His muscles might as well be rendered stone. The second the spotter’s hand slapped his shoulder he flung forward with every ounce of strength, giving over to the void.