Page 18 of Montana Justice

“Pawsitive Connections? That’s an animal shelter place, right? A farm just outside of town?”

“Yeah, they raise and train animals. Emotional support, service, and security animals. Stuff like that.”

“How big is it? What types of animals?”

I had no idea why he wanted this information. “I don’t know. A couple different barns. Multiple horses, dogs, cats, and other animals. A llama.”

Ray was quiet. I could picture him in whatever cheap motel he was holed up in, probably with a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the no-smoking signs. Despite the fact that it might hurt those around him—he didn’t care about that at all, and it made me sick to think about.

The silence stretched until my nerves screamed.

“Actually,” he finally said, calculation dripping from every syllable, “this might work out better than I thought. Rural location, lots of traffic in and out with those therapy sessions. Delivery trucks coming and going for feed and supplies. A perfect front for us to run drugs through.”

Ice flooded my veins, a cold so sharp it made my teeth ache. “Ray, no. These are good people. They help veterans and?—”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” His voice cracked like a whip. “You do what you’re told, when you’re told. That’s how this works.”

“Please. Not here. Not these people.”

“Getting attached already? That’s your problem, Piper. You always were too soft. Too much like your mother.” He paused, and I could practically see his cruel smile, the one that made him look like a skull. “Speaking of soft, how’s the good sheriff? You warming his bed yet?”

Heat flooded my cheeks, shame and anger warring in my chest. “No.”

“Why not? You spread your legs for him once before. Should be easy enough to do it again.”

The casual cruelty made me want to throw the phone, to scream, to claw at something until this feeling went away. That night with Lachlan had been so special to me. Trust Ray to try to soil it with his poison.

“He’s been respectful,” I managed through gritted teeth.

“Respectful.” Ray’s laugh sounded like breaking bones. “Men like him are only respectful until they get what they want. Mark my words, sweetheart. Soon enough, he’ll be expecting payment for all this generosity. They always do.”

“Lachlan’s not like that.”

“They’re all like that. You’re just too naive to see it.” His voice dropped lower, the tone that used to send me hiding under my bed as a child. “Now, about that computer access. You get his log-in yet?”

My throat constricted. I still couldn’t believe Lachlan had given me his password without hesitation. Such a simple gesture of trust. The memory of it—him holding Caleb while rattling off the numbers, with no consideration that I might abuse that access—lodged like broken glass in my chest.

“Still working on it,” I lied.

“Work faster. I need intel on their operations, patrol schedules, anything you can find. The Highway 37 tip was good, but I need more. Much more.”

“I’m trying?—”

“Try harder. Remember what’s at stake here, Piper. Remember what happens if you disappoint me. What I’m capable of.”

The line went dead. I stared at the phone, my whole body trembling with a cocktail of fear and desperation, clawing hopelessness.

Two nights ago, Lachlan had stood close enough that I could feel his body heat, his thumb tracing my cheek with such tenderness I’d nearly shattered right there in his kitchen.

If Caleb hadn’t grabbed my hair, I would have kissed him.

God, I’d wanted to kiss him. Wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that I could be with Lachlan and that any chance we had with each other hadn’t been ruined from the beginning.

But kissing him would’ve been a mistake. How could I accept his affection when I was actively working to destroy him? How could I let him care about someone who would inevitably betray everything he stood for?

The baby monitor crackled, Caleb’s soft complaints indicating he was waking up. I shoved the phone back into my pocket, wiping my dirty hands on my jeans as I headed for the makeshift nursery.

“Hey, sweet boy,” I murmured, lifting him from the crib. His weight felt more substantial than it had even a week ago—regular meals and safety working their magic. “Hungry again?”

His response was to root against my chest, little fists batting at my shirt. I settled onto the bench and got him latched, though we both knew he wouldn’t get much. My body, like everything else about me, was failing at the most basic level.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, tears burning tracks through the dust on my cheeks. I knew it wasn’t just him I was talking to, but he was the only one here to hear the words.

There had to be a way out. Some path I wasn’t seeing that would keep everyone safe. But every scenario ended the same—with Lachlan’s trust shattered and Ray winning.

And me? I had no idea what would happen to me.

Duchess whinnied from her stall, the sound urgent enough to pull me from my spiral. I finished feeding Caleb, supplementing with formula until his belly was round and full, then carried him over to the pregnant mare.

She was pacing, her sides heaving with each breath. Sweat darkened her coat despite the cool air.

“Hey, mama,” I said softly, recognizing the signs. “It’s scary, isn’t it? Knowing everything’s about to change.”

I remembered that feeling vividly, but nothing had prepared me for how far off my expectations would be.

Duchess stopped pacing long enough to bump her nose against my shoulder, leaving a smear of moisture on my shirt. Her eyes were wide, showing white at the edges—fear mixing with instinct.

“You’ll be okay,” I told her, wishing I believed it about my own situation. “You’ll do whatever it takes to protect your baby. Even if it destroys you. That’s what mothers do.”

“Talking to the horses already?” Lark appeared beside me, that piece of licorice now tucked behind her ear like a pencil. “Careful, that’s how it starts. Next thing you know, you’ll be having full conversations and taking their advice on your love life.”

“Does Duchess look okay to you?”

Lark’s demeanor shifted instantly, all business as she entered the stall. Her hands moved over the mare with professional efficiency, checking her temperature, feeling along her sides.

“Could be early labor,” she murmured. “Or could be a false alarm. Mares are drama queens about this stuff.” She glanced at me. “Want to learn how to check?”

Before I could respond, she was showing me what to look for—the subtle signs that separated true labor from practice runs. Her hands guided mine to feel the muscle tension, the slight elevation in temperature.

“If she does go into labor, it’ll probably be at night,” Lark said, stepping back. “They like privacy for the big event. I’ll be sleeping in the office for the next few nights, just in case.”

“By yourself?”

Something flickered across her face—there and gone too fast to read. “I’m used to handling things alone. Safer that way.”

I understood that sentiment too well.