Page 7 of Backed By You (Montgomery Brothers of Montana #3)

Beau

“Beau? You out here, son?” my father calls from outside the shed.

I grit my teeth. “Yeah. In here.”

I’ve spent the last three days and two nights at my parents’ house, sleeping in my childhood bedroom on a twin-sized mattress that has my feet dangling off the end and my knee killing me every damn morning.

The old metal shelves creak when I push aside boxes labeled in my mother’s neat handwriting. Camping gear, Christmas decorations, old sports equipment—all catalogued and preserved like family artifacts. That’s my mother for you, keeping everything just in case one of us might need it someday.

Dad appears in the doorway, blocking what little light filters into the musty shed. “Your mother’s been calling you. Dinner is ready.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I mutter, shoving another box aside.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps inside, the floorboards groaning under his weight. “What are you looking for?”

“My old tent.” I don’t look at him as I continue my search. “The small one. Two-person Coleman.”

“Going camping?” he asks. His tone is casual, but I know my father. Nothing he asks is without purpose.

I don’t respond.

He’s quiet for a moment, watching me rummage through piles of junk that should’ve been thrown out years ago. “Your mother put all the camping gear in the rafters after you left. Said there wasn’t much point keeping it accessible with you overseas.”

I glance up at the wooden beams above us, spotting the edge of a plastic storage bin. Of course. I ignore the twinge in my knee and reach up.

That bed may have fucked me up more than I thought.

“I can get that,” Dad offers.

“I got it,” I grunt.

The bin is heavier than it looks, and as I maneuver it down, pain shoots through my bad knee. I clench my jaw, refusing to show it.

“So,” Dad says when I set the bin on the floor and pop open the lid. “You thinking of sleeping at your property before the cabin’s built?”

I find the tent bag buried beneath a tangle of camp stoves and lanterns. “That’s the plan.”

“It’s supposed to rain.”

“I’ve slept in worse.”

Dad huffs, a sound I’ve heard a thousand times. Disappointment, concern, resignation—all wrapped in a single exhale. “Your mother’s not going to like it.”

Nothing I can do about that.

“She worries about you. We all do.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You only just got back, son.”

I stuff the tent into its bag, along with a rolled-up sleeping pad. “I’ve been stateside for months.”

“In DC. Not here.”

He’s really not wanting to let this go. He can see how miserable I’ve been here—crowded by everyone, waited on like I’m a fucking child.

I got here Sunday, thinking I could handle a week of family before the bachelor party next weekend.

Now here it is, Tuesday evening, and I’ve wanted to rip my hair out since Sunday.

“I need my own space.” I zip the bag closed with more force than necessary. I debate telling him part of the truth is I can’t sleep on that damn bed another night, but then he’ll ask about my knee, he’ll tell Ma, then I’ll really be aggravated.

Dad nods slowly. “I understand that.”

“Good,” I say, hefting the tent bag over my shoulder.

He watches me, heavy with the weight of all the things he wants to say. The questions he wants to ask about what happened overseas, my knee, why I’ve barely spoken ten words at dinner each night. But he doesn’t ask. That’s not how my father operates.

Instead, he says, “Let’s head inside. Dinner’s getting cold.”

I follow him out of the shed. The tent bag bumps against my back with each step, a small victory in my quiet rebellion.

I’ll eat my mother’s casserole and deflect her questions about my plans.

I’ll sit through my sister, Lily, yapping about some modeling agent that contacted her through Instagram and hear more details about my brothers’ wedding than any man should.

Because tonight, I’ll be on my property. Alone. A nylon barrier between myself and the rest of the world.

Just the way I like it.

I jolt awake when a stream of ice-cold water hits my face. For a disoriented moment, I think I’m back overseas, huddled in a leaking transport while monsoon season wreaks havoc. Then I remember, I’m in a fucking tent on my property, and my brilliant plan is quite literally underwater.

Thunder cracks overhead, vibrating through the ground beneath my soaked sleeping bag.

I reach for my phone. It’s 0117. The dim light reveals what I already know.

Everything is drenched. My duffel, my boots—all of it submerged in the inch of water that’s pooled beneath my sleeping pad turned waterbed.

“Goddammit,” I growl, struggling to sit up.

My knee screams in protest as I shift positions, the cold amplifying the ever-present ache to a sharp stab of pain.

Two nights in this tent had been manageable.

When it was dry, mind you. Now, with rain coming down hard enough to sound like machine-gun fire against the nylon shell, the situation has become unbearable.

Another leak springs open above me, this one dumping water directly onto my chest. I grab my phone and duffel, knowing there’s no salvaging this night.

I haven’t been this wet and miserable since training exercises in Georgia.

Unzipping the tent flap, I’m greeted by a downpour. The rain hammers against the earth with enough force to bounce back up, creating a fog of water at ground level. My worksite is a mud pit, the stakes I’d carefully placed now barely visible in puddles of rust-colored water.

I make a break for my truck, my bad leg tense as I slog through the muck. By the time I reach the driver’s side door, any inch of me that was dry isn’t anymore. I’m soaked to the bone, my T-shirt and sweats clinging to me like a second layer of misery.

Inside the truck, I crank the heat as high as it’ll go, but it does little to cut through the bone-deep chill. I stare through the fogged windshield toward my useless tent, now partially collapsed under the weight of the water.

Now what?

I could drive to my parents’ house. Ma would let me in without question, would probably even have fresh towels and hot coffee ready within minutes. But the thought of their concern, the questions, the inevitable ‘ I told you so ’ hanging unspoken in the air—I can’t stomach it. Not tonight.

My gaze drifts to Callie’s cabin. Dark. Silent. She’d left at the crack of dawn Monday morning without a word, and she hasn’t been home since. The warm, dry house sits empty, mocking me with its solid walls and waterproof roof.

I can’t.

I shouldn’t…

As another crack of thunder shakes my truck and rain hammers harder against the windows, my resolve begins to crumble.

It’s one night.

No one would know .

I’ll sleep on the couch and set an alarm.

I’ll leave the house exactly as is— no one will be the wiser.

Decision made, I grab my duffel and make a run for her porch. The stairs are slippery, nearly sending me sprawling as my bad knee buckles slightly. Fuck . I catch myself on the railing, cursing under my breath.

Under the protection of her porch overhang, I dig through my bag for the spare key Duke gave me. The door opens with a creak, and I step into the dark interior of the cabin. It smells like her—floral mixed with fresh linens and honey.

It’s intoxicating.

I breathe easier as I find the switch on the wall, flooding the entryway with warm light. “Breaking and entering. Nice,” I mutter to no one, leaving my muddy boots by the door.

The cabin is eerily quiet without her presence, the constant soundtrack of her god-awful music, or talking to her oversized dog. I stand dripping on her entry rug, suddenly unsure of myself.

This is crossing a line.

And a law or two.

But as water puddles around my feet, practicality wins out over propriety. I’ll clean up after myself , I repeat. She’ll never know I was here .

And I do need to warm up before my knee locks completely.

I step farther inside, navigating toward the bathroom attached to the single bedroom— her bedroom.

The bathroom light flickers on, revealing my reflection in the mirror.

I look like hell. Three days of stubble, dark circles under my eyes.

I strip off my soaked clothes and hang them over the shower rod to dry, then pause.

A shower wasn’t part of the plan, but…

I turn the knob and wait for the hot water to kick in. The water pressure is surprisingly good, and steam quickly fills the small space. Stepping under the spray, the heat penetrates my frozen muscles, bringing painful pins and needles as circulation returns.

There is only one bottle of body wash on the shower ledge. Something with a purple label claiming to be lavender and sea salt. I hesitate for a moment. I’ve already invaded her home, her privacy. What’s some borrowed soap going to hurt at this point?

The scent is decidedly feminine as I work it into a lather. I’m flooded with thoughts of a certain honey-blonde woman, curves, and a supple ass.

By the time I shut off the water, my skin is red and the throbbing in my knee has shifted to a different area of my body.

I reach for a towel from the rack and find myself holding the fluffiest, pinkest monstrosity I’ve ever seen. Of course, she would have pink towels . I shake my head and dry off before wrapping it around my waist, leaving my clothes to continue drying.

I really ought to consider installing laundry for the third cabin.

I exit the bathroom into her bedroom and pause at the threshold. I should head straight for the couch—that was the plan, anyhow—but curiosity gets the better of me as I take in the space that is undeniably hers .

A quilt in shades of teal and violet covers the neatly made bed, piled with more pillows than any one person could possibly need.

Books are stacked on both nightstands; their spines creased from multiple readings.

A pair of glasses rests atop one pile, and I’m surprised. I’ve never seen her wear them.

Framed photographs line the dresser. Callie with an older man who shares her smile—her father, I presume. Callie on a mountainside, arms spread wide with Hulk sitting at her feet. Callie with a group of women, all holding wine glasses and laughing.

No younger men in any of the photos .

Why the hell did I need to notice that?

I’m intruding. Not just in her home, but in her private world. The realization sits uncomfortably in my chest as I force myself to walk through the room without touching anything.

The living room is warm even without a fire in the hearth.

The couch is deep and soft, covered in a patchwork throw that looks handmade.

I sink onto it, the exhaustion of the past few days catching up to me all at once.

The rain continues its assault outside, but in here everything is still and peaceful.

I should set that alarm, make sure I’m gone at first light. I try to remember where I set my phone, but my eyelids are already growing heavy.

Just five minutes of rest, then I’ll get up and…

A low, threatening growl pulls me from the depths of sleep.