Page 2 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

“He will.”

Boone gives him a lazy smile. “You know, Cade, sometimes people make bad business decisions. Not every man in Moon Ridge is trying to start a war with you.”

Around us, the bar keeps pressing in. Boots on old plank floors, chairs scraping, so much chatter. It should be easy to tune out after years spent sleeping through mortars,firefights, engines, and Boone snoring like a wounded bear. Tonight, I can’t think.

Then the bartender gestures toward our table, and I notice, because I’m always aware of my surroundings. I notice entry points and exits, I see fights before they start, and I watch for people who look lost, angry, drunk, or dangerous.

The woman following the line of the bartender’s hand is none of those things.

And for one clean second, I forget about Harlan Turner, lost clients, and the bills waiting on my desk at home.

The woman isn’t from Moon Ridge, but she doesn’t look out of place.

Most visitors who come into the Rusty Spike for the first time hesitate inside the door as they take in the old timber beams, the antlers over the bar, and the framed historical pictures that cover nearly all the available wall space. Out-of-towners usually look like deer in headlights as the locals glance up collectively to take their measure.

The copper-haired woman coming our way moves confidently, head up.

She’s late twenties, probably. Maybe five-six in her dusty boots. Curvy in a way that makes my hand tighten around my beer mug. Her rounded hips fill out a pair of worn field pants, and her green jacket is open over a fitted dark shirt.

Her skin has a natural warmth, the kind that comes from time outdoors.

Pretty isn’t the right word, because that sounds decorative.

She has a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and is striding toward us with purpose. My body responds to her with an irritating immediacy, but I’m not the only one.

Cade’s usual stillness has shifted into the kind of predatory focus that used to make enemy scouts regret moving first.

Boone’s leaning forward, forearms braced on the table, his interest as obvious as a neon sign.

Three identical faces turned toward the same woman. Three identical reactions under different masks.

It triggers a silent alarm.

We notice women. We’re men, not monks.

Boone flirts as easily as he breathes. Cade looks but rarely acts on it. I keep my attention where it belongs and my hands to myself, unless otherwise invited.

We don’t usually respond with the same intensity to the same woman.

CHAPTER 2

RHETT

She stops when she reaches our table.

Her eyes are hazel. Green at first, then brown with flecks of gold when the light catches them. Her gaze is intelligent and direct.

“Wilder brothers?” There’s a soft rasp to her voice that slides under my skin before I can stop it.

“You found us.” Boone’s smile broadens naturally. The bastard.

Her eyes go to him, then Cade, then me, and her expression remains serious. She’s not giggly or looking at us like a roadside attraction, and I like that more than I should.

“I’m Wren Hollis.” She pulls out a badge wallet from the inside pocket of her jacket and opens it with efficient fingers. “Federal wildlife biologist. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’ve been told you know the backcountry passes better than anyone.”

I get to my feet only half a second before my brothers, and our coordinated movement is enough to make Wren Hollis’s eyebrows lift with something that might be faint amusement.

“Rhett Wilder.” I hold out my hand.