Page 61 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Fifty-Six

Keir

After the meeting with Lyndon where we agreed to talk again when I was no longer hiding from the world—I had no idea he was aware of my situation—Atlas and I flew back to Birchwood Springs.

For the foreseeable future—translation: until we’re done with the Syndicate—I’m supposed to stay hidden.

Aka: Reclusive bastard mode. My options are: convince Simone to let me crash at her place or hole up in Heartwood Lake, a remote mountain town in Colorado with decent Wi-Fi and no emotional connections or people who might recognize me.

I picked door number one. Obviously.

Will Simone let me stay? Fuck if I know. She’s my next stop after I have a long discussion with my brothers.

No matter where I end up, starting tomorrow I’m taking over Old Birchwood Timber.

I’ll be working remotely. No one can know I’m the one calling the shots.

Which means I have to pull my head out of my ass and deal with Ledger.

Finally meet Galeana and Blythe—the ones trying to keep the business from collapsing while juggling, you know, actual lives and jobs.

Ledger will then focus on Maple Haven, Galeana’s company. He wants her to rest. Turns out they’re expecting their first baby.

Which I’m happy about but it makes me feel like a failure. This is another sibling living a life, building something while I . . . what? Not sure, but I’ll build something soon.

Though I find it funny that the three youngest ones have created something for themselves.

They’ve learned to love and be loved. Mal and I .

. . we’re definitely clueless when it comes to family.

Does it have something to do with the fact that we tried to be parents to our younger brothers?

And yes, we did a poor job at that. We clung so tightly to the idea of survival like it was all that mattered.

Turns out, surviving isn’t the same as living.

Who knew?

I stare out the window as Atlas drives, the winding road flanked by dense trees flashing their October colors—gold, russet, fire-red.

Leaves skitter across the cracked asphalt in bursts, caught in the breeze like they’re trying to outrun the season.

The silence between us stretches thin. Not angry.

Just tired. That bone-deep exhaustion that makes even breathing feel like effort.

We’ve both been running on fumes for weeks and now there’s nothing left but the quiet.

When the truck finally rolls to a stop in front of Hopper’s, the tires crunch over gravel, loud in the quiet.

I climb out slowly, the fall air greeting me with a cold slap—cool, damp, thick with the scent of turned earth, pine, and a hint of rain hiding in the clouds.

There’s the faint tang of woodsmoke in the distance.

“I still don’t think we should be here,” I mutter, tugging the brim of my baseball cap lower over the blonde wig itching beneath it.

Atlas rounds the truck with a grunt. “Stay in your lane.”

“People might recognize me.”

He gives me a look that says, Stop being fucking dramatic. “We’re not going to town.”

My disguise—if you can call it that—is half-assed at best. Oversized flannel. The world’s scratchiest wig and a very ugly cap. I probably look like a background actor in a survivalist documentary.

“Could’ve just gone with a hoodie,” I grumble.

Atlas smirks but doesn’t answer. Somehow I think the asshole did this on purpose. You know what would make me feel a lot more comfortable? A suit. Not this weird lumberjack ensemble.

The ranch stretches out in front of us. Horses graze lazily in the distance, their tails flicking at the occasional gnat. The barn rises beyond them, weathered but solid, holding steady like it’s absorbed every secret and never let a single one slip.

A gust of wind kicks up the scent of pine, earth, and the promise of rain. Atlas moves forward without a word. Then I see them.

Ledger, Malerick, and Hopper.

Ledger stands near the fence line, sleeves rolled up, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he gestures toward something in the pasture.

Mal leans against the barn wall, arms crossed, face unreadable—except for that twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s caught between laughing and throwing a punch.

And Hopper is there, gesturing as he talks, probably to Mal.

Ledger is the first one to spot me. “Nice disguise, Grizzly Adams.”

Malerick doesn’t even look away from whatever internal war he’s fighting. “He looks like a tourist who got lost on the way to a lumberjack competition.”

“Lumber-Con,” Hopper adds, snorting at his own joke.

I shake my head, dragging a palm down my face, scraping over the beard I’ve been too tired to shave. “Good to see you too, assholes.”

Ledger pats my shoulder like he means it. “Glad you made it back.”

“Barely.” I rub my face again, slower this time. Maybe soon, I’ll find the energy to remember what normal looks like.

“You made it through our father,” Malerick says quietly. “Back then, I used to tell myself that meant you could survive anything. Fuck, I used to say the same thing when I joined the Bureau. If we could survive him, we could survive anything.”

A bitter laugh scrapes out of me. “Yeah, well. Some nights, when the nightmares crawl in and refuse to let go, I still hear him. Like he’s standing right behind me, watching them beat the shit out of me.

And right before I wake up, he says, ‘Don’t kill him.

Let him bleed out. Just like he did to me. ’”

That silences them.

Malerick’s arms drop to his sides, his expression shifting, unguarded for once. “You never told us that.”

“It’s just a dream.” I shrug, already regretting the vulnerability. “Obviously, I’m working on it.”

His voice comes out low, but clear. “What if it’s not just a dream?”

The question lands with a thud I can’t name. I blink at him. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Our father.”

I suck in a breath because . . . it had to be a dream. Is he . . . “What about him?”

“You wanted to know what happened to him,” Mal says.

“Yeah, and?”

“He’s alive.” Malerick doesn’t sugarcoat it. “And he’s working with them—the Hollow Syndicate.”

I take a step back, not because I need to—but because I need something to brace against. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as a fucking heart attack.” He shrugs as if it’s a fact of life and we should deal with it. “Dear Daddy is no other than Desmond Draven’s right hand.”

My brain short-circuits, searching for logic in a landscape that doesn’t have any. I glance at Ledger and Hopper, who, like me, are astonished at the news.

“I always thought he had died,” Ledger adds.

“That’s what I tell everyone.” Hop shrugs then adds, “He’s dead to me.”

“How—” The question disintegrates before it forms. None of this makes sense.

Atlas steps in. “We have ears around but haven’t found out much. He began working for them after he left Birchwood Springs. There’s still the question of who is Desmond Draven’s heir.”

I remember that conversation they had with Simone while I was at the hospital. So I have to ask. “Is it Sims?”

Mal doesn’t answer at first. When he does, his throat works around the words. “No, but whoever is the heir . . . they’re either hunting her down.”

I swallow the curse clawing its way up my throat. “Why would they be hunting for her?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Atlas responds. “Possibly to take over the Syndicate.”

I stare at them, confused. I have so many questions, and . . . it seems like they won’t have any answers.

“Every time we think we’ve got answers, we’re handed more questions.” Mal sighs, as if he’s responding to at least one of my silent questions.

A beat of silence falls. A storm building in the distance—not in the sky, but here, between us.

And I can’t help but think: we survived our father. I survived his most recent attack, but maybe survival was never the endgame.

Maybe it was just the beginning, but what’s next?

“Are you sure it’s safe that I stay in town?” I ask because if they’re in danger, I should leave right now—maybe take Simone with me.

“We’re okay,” Mal says, voice even but not entirely certain. “As long as we stay ahead of them. And I think we are.”

Atlas tips his chin toward the truck. “Let’s get you to Simone. I need to get back to my girls.”

His girls.

I want to ask if I can meet Everly. If I can maybe see what life looks like when it’s not running on borrowed time. But that feels like a tomorrow thing—one we haven’t earned yet. Perhaps once whatever is coming finally passes, we can breathe without looking over our shoulders.

If that day ever comes.