Page 2 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter One

Cassian

The Birchwood Springs welcome sign is overly cheerful for a town that could turn to ash if we’re not careful.

Whitewashed wood. Hand-painted daisies curling around the edges. A slogan that feels more like a warning wrapped in a smile: A place to grow together. Maybe that’s true—if you’re weeds.

Perhaps I’m just jaded because I know a little too much about this town, even when it’s the first time I’ve ever set foot in it.

I roll my jaw and watch the sign shrink in the rearview mirror as I ease down Main Street.

It’s all here, just like the file said. A post office that’s seen better days.

A gas station with prices so low they have to be a lie.

McNally’s, a hardware store straight out of a time capsule, untouched for so long it practically creaks with nostalgia.

Tucked between them—my new investment.

Old brick bones but polished now. The windows gleam like they’ve just had a good cry and are pretending they’re fine.

New glass, new signage, fresh mortar between the bricks.

The crew I hired finished the renovation two weeks ago.

Cleaned it up, kept the character. I imagine it smells like sawdust and fresh sealant inside, or something similar.

I haven’t set foot past the threshold yet.

Last Light Bar.

Better than the old name, Flatiron Tavern, which sounded like a pub where tourists mispronounce lagers and pretend they’re living their rustic bar fantasy.

They claim, in a cheesy social media post, that they’ve discovered authenticity.

I renamed it Last Light Bar because the town needed to believe I was settling in and taking charge.

That I was here to be part of it. I’m not just another guy who wants to reinvent himself and leave before the summer is over.

Do I believe it? Am I staying? That’s a tricky question.

Technically, I should settle. I’m past forty. Too old to be chasing shadows through city grids and sleeping in borrowed lives. Too tired to keep pretending that adrenaline and a half-warm bed are enough to make a man feel whole.

There was a time when I could pack up in twelve hours flat, hit the road, and be on a mission for months or years at a time. Now?

When I was offered this mission, I approached it in a different way. Instead of getting some random job while pretending to settle, I bought a building with a business and maybe a future. It probably means something—or it could just be exhaustion masking as hope.

Either way, I’m here. Keys in hand and my name on the deed.

Perhaps I just want to see if I’m man enough to live in one place, or . . . I try to ignore what my sister said when I told her I’d be moving here. She’s always saying some nonsense or another about my life. The point is that I’m here and have a bar with a cool name.

Last Light felt right. A little poetic, a little grim. A place where the people in this town drift toward when they’re tired of pretending. If tourists happen to visit, they’ll be welcome.

The apartment upstairs is mine. The contractor renovated it, too. It features a new kitchen with clean lines, warm wood, and blackout curtains, as I’ll be sleeping at odd hours.

I park out back and kill the engine, letting the silence wrap around me. It’s not peaceful. It’s more like a warning that makes you remember to look for the emergency exits before you walk through the door.

I’ve done this before—dropped into towns with fake IDs and temporary lives. I’ve created a dozen backstories I’ll never use again. But this place . . . this place might be different.

Maybe it’s because I’m doing things differently. I plan to keep to myself, but I’m not using a fake name. Or perhaps it’s because Malerick Timberbridge is here.

There was almost a story between us once. Almost. A non-existent tale that didn’t fade, no matter how much time or distance you throw at it. That dangerous, charged almost still thrums beneath my ribs every time his name surfaces in a briefing—or worse, in a memory.

I step out of the truck into a gust of mountain air so cold it sucker-punches the breath out of me. I heard once that Birchwood Springs in January is winter with a vendetta, and fuck if it’s not true.

I tug my coat tighter, shove my keys deeper into my jacket pocket, and head for the door.

The bar waits, already mine on paper.

Now, I just have to become the man who belongs to it.