Page 2 of Backed By You (Montgomery Brothers of Montana #3)

Callie

If I had known big men who stare for far longer than necessary were the kind of people Duke and Maci, my landlords, rent out to, I would’ve opted for elsewhere.

I lock eyes with the towering man standing on the front porch steps of the larger vacation rental that neighbors my quaint little log cabin.

I’ve been renting here on the outskirts of a small town in Montana known as Whitetail for nearly five months now, and this is the first time a tourist has given me the creeps.

I take in the unwelcome sight of my temporary neighbor and note just how intimidating he really is.

He barely clears the sloped roof over the front porch, and at my shorter five-foot-five, he has to be over six-and-a-half feet tall.

Broad and burly like an ox from his thick, vein-lined forearms. His biceps, covered by his beige T-shirt, have the fabric stretched to the point that if he tries to flex, it’ll tear right off him like one of those Thunder from Down Under pretty boys.

His T-shirt is tucked into a pair of camo pants and there are two military-like bags set at his feet clad in combat boots.

His dark hair is buzzed on the sides, leaving it a bit longer on the top.

A faint dusting of a five o’clock shadow grows on a strong jaw that’s locked tight as his intense gaze meets mine.

He’s handsome…in an angry sort of way that only puts me on high alert.

Hulk, my service dog, presses his sturdy frame against the side of my thigh, a low growl building in his chest, alerting me of my racing pulse and the presence of this unexpected visitor.

Hulk is not only a PTSD certified service dog, he’s also a fully trained police attack dog.

I know what he’s capable of. I’ve had him since he was a chunky puppy at six months old.

My father, Matthew Ryan, is an officer who trains K9 units.

Specifically, German Shepherds and their handlers. I grew up watching him train them.

Unfortunately, as Hulk grew and grew, he was deemed too big to be a police dog, regardless of the fact he passed the course with flying colors. If there was ever a scenario where he needed to be carried by his handler… Well, it’d be a little tough.

At a whopping one hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, forty inches to the withers, and a reach of over six feet standing on his hind legs, he’s a purebred German Shepherd the size of a Great Dane. A true anomaly among his litter.

We formed a bond early on that even my father could tell was unbreakable.

And after one too many stalkers, crazed fans, and being robbed at a gas station four years ago, Hulk hasn’t left my side since.

He watches my back and all my surroundings.

Whenever there’s a threat, he signals me and keeps me grounded and calm.

When I need him the most, he’s always there for me.

He’s my best friend.

My big baby .

I grab my wallet, keys, and the dinner we picked up from one of the local pizzerias before heading toward the cabin. Hulk stays at my side as we step onto my cute front porch filled with blooming flowers on this late spring evening.

The man grunts loudly.

I glance at him still watching me as I unlock the door. I try to get a feel if he’s a threat or not, and I absently wonder if I should call Maci to find out how long this guy is staying for.

Should I get a hotel room until he’s gone? I don’t need the added anxiety.

“No dogs,” he says, his voice a deep, husky growl that doesn’t quite have the Western twang most people have around here.

My brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“No. Dogs,” he repeats, like that’s supposed to explain his ignorant statement any further.

I roll my eyes and turn to the front door.

When I push inside, I get the urge to say something.

Normally I keep to myself with any of the obnoxious vacation renters I’ve come across since moving in.

I never want to cause any problems, but…

This guy is already pushing my buttons with his leering, and now his comment about Hulk, even though he’s not wearing his service vest at the moment.

“How about you mind your own business,” I say, shooting him a heated glare and striding inside with Hulk. I close and lock the door behind me, being sure to slide the extra deadbolt and slip-chain lock I installed.

The cabin is a typical one-bedroom, one-bathroom log cabin with a covered porch off the back that matches the one on the front. Rustic, quaint, wholesome. My perfect mountainside hideaway.

I walk to the left where the small kitchen-dining area sits with a sliding glass door that leads to the back.

The four-seater dining table feeds into the living space where I’ve updated the original furnishings: a brown leather couch, end tables, a matching coffee table across from the stone fireplace, and a make-shift office with a desk beside the window for more natural light.

To the right is the bedroom where I’ve got a pillow-top, king-sized bed, a cluttered closet, a dresser, and a TV mounted on the wall. Through the bedroom, the bathroom is attached. A simple, standing glass shower, toilet, and sink set up—where I added new shelving for proper storage.

Even with all my updates and homey touches, I’ve kept some of the bear and deer décor that decorated the cabin when I first moved in.

Call it Montana Inspiration , if you will.

You could say I’ve been channeling that middle-of-nowhere atmosphere just by reading my latest screenplay. Because it’s what I do, I’m a screenwriter—or as my loving and supportive father used to call it, “ Wasting my time .”

Key words being: used to.

At the prime age of twenty-eight, I’ve sold over fifteen screenplays in the horror movie genre, with two completed films in a trilogy, and the third releasing in just six short weeks.

When you’re young, well off financially, and sort of famous, one can gain a lot of unwanted attention from seemingly kind people with ulterior motives.

Hulk has needed to put his multitude of training to good use against a few close encounters. I don’t know what it is about me, but people seem to think a petite blonde woman who writes about serial killers is someone they can try to take advantage of.

It’s why I came here, to a small town barely on the map if it wasn’t for the rising popularity of Winton’s Ski Resort. Thanks to one of my best girlfriends back in LA, Shea Winton, I found this mountain paradise.

I set the to-go bag on the counter and grab a treat for Hulk. I give it to him with a kiss on the nose. “Good alerting, big boy,” I coo.

I shuffle to the fridge to pull out the chicken breast I mix in Hulk’s high-end, premium dog food for his dinner. He gets two of these fancy meals a day, with a variation between chicken, steak, and ground beef. I spare no expense to take the best care of him. He does the same for me.

Prepping his dinner, I hit play on the Bluetooth speakers I had installed throughout the cabin. The music bumps, and I sway my hips as I get to cooking with Hulk waiting patiently beside me.

It’s not another five minutes later when I have the chicken in the frying pan on a low simmer that someone pounds on my door. Hulk’s ears perk on high alert. He watches the door, but remains at my side.

I bet it’s that asshole renter come to complain about my music and dog.

I snatch my phone off the table and lower the music. I hit dial on Maci’s number and hold the phone to my ear as I walk to the front door with Hulk. I unlock the two deadbolts and chain, then finally the knob itself. I open the door to reveal the same towering brute from before.

“ Pass auf ,” I say, the German command for Hulk to guard the door from allowing anyone or anything from entering.

Hulk takes point at the door, positioning himself between me and the man glowering in my direction. He looks between Hulk and me, his scowl deepening.

“Hello?” Maci finally answers.

“Hey, Maci. It’s Callie,” I say, glaring at the obnoxious renter. “I’ve got some asshole over here banging on my door. He has two seconds to get off my porch before Hulk gets a taste of soldier boy.”

The man at my door raises a stern brow, standing a little taller as he crosses his large arms over his insanely broad chest. Jeez. With that pose, he’d have to turn to the side just to walk in my front door.

“Oh—Oh my god,” Maci whispers before frantically speaking to someone on the other end. “No, no, Callie. It’s fine. Duke and I will be there in just a minute. Please, don’t—”

“No pets allowed inside the cabins,” the jerk grinds out through clenched teeth. “Chain up your dog outside, or you’re both gone.”

I bristle at his tone. “Who the hell are you to tell me where my dog is allowed?”

“And turn down that fuckin’ music,” he bites out, ignoring my question.

“Absolutely, not ,” I snap. “This is my house. I live here. Not you. You’re just some dickhead who’ll be gone by the end of the week.”

“Callie, no, that’s—” Maci tries to say.

“I want all these flowers gone. It’s not a goddamn greenhouse out here,” he demands. “And what the fuck is that raised block out back? What are you growing in there? Marijuana?”

I wish .

Hulk takes a menacing step forward with a rumbling growl in warning.

“ Blieb ,” I command him to stay, and he returns to his original position.

The man snarls, glaring at Hulk, then me. “Like I said, no dogs.”

“He’s a service dog,” I finally say. “He has every right to be anywhere and everywhere I am. Now get off my porch before I call the police.”

The towering man’s brow furrows, but before he can say anything, Duke’s truck pulls in the driveway behind my car. Maci gapes at me from the front seat as she hangs up the phone.

“What kind of service dog?” Big Jerk asks.

“None of your damn business, that’s what kind,” I sass with a heated glare.

Duke jumps out of his truck and jogs over. “Beau! Christ, man. You really know how to make a first impression.”

Beau?

Wait…