Page 3 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

I hear the hospital doors swing open behind me, and I know it’s Ben.

“Hank,” he says softly, but I don’t turn around. I can’t.

“We need to call JT,” he continues after a moment, his voice firmer. “He needs to know.”

I spin around, anger flaring up again. “You think I want to talk to him right now? You think I want to hear his sorry excuses for not being here?”

“It’s not about what we want. It’s about what needs to be done. He’s still our brother, and he deserves to know. Dad would want him to know.”

I glare at him, my fists clenching and unclenching. I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make this any easier. The anger battles with the grief, each emotion fighting for dominance. Finally, I exhale sharply, the fight leaving me. “Fine. Call him. But don’t expect me to be civil.”

Ben nods, pulling out his phone. He steps a few feet away, dialing JT’s number. I can hear the faint ringing, each tone stretching the seconds into hours.

“JT,” Ben says, his voice strained. “It’s Ben. We need you to come home. Now.”

He pauses, listening to whatever JT is saying on the other end. I can see the pain in Ben’s eyes, the struggle to keep it together.

“Dad’s gone, JT,” he says finally, his voice breaking. “We lost him today. It was bad. We need you here.”

Another pause. “I know you’re a thousand miles away, but you need to get your ass here.”

Another pause, then Ben hangs up.

“He’ll be on the first flight home,” he says, his voice hollow.

2

MAC

This is it—my first major assignment.

The airport buzzes with the hum of travelers, the clatter of suitcases, and the occasional announcement crackling over the intercom. I stand at Gate 24, my heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves.

I’ve been given the opportunity of a lifetime; to gather research on the near-extinct silver lynx in Silver Ridge, Montana.

It’s the kind of project I’ve dreamed about, the reason I spent countless nights hunched over textbooks and lab reports. The reason I avoided dates and relationships while working endless hours.

I adjust my backpack, stuffed with notebooks, cameras, and field guides, and take a deep breath. My fingers play with the boarding pass, the paper soft and worn from my anxious grip.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass window.

I pull my hair loose from the braid and gather it into a messy bun, securing it with a hair tie from my wrist. The movement is automatic, something I’ve done countless times during the long hours spent in the lab or out in the field.

I look like a mess.

It’s already been twelve hours of flying and layovers, coming up from Brazil from the last research project I was a part of.

As I finish adjusting my hair, a murmur ripples through the waiting area. I glance around and see several people gathered around a nearby TV screen, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern.

Intrigued, I get up and make my way over.

The news anchor’s voice is serious, almost grave. “Breaking news; Luke Truitt, renowned logger and real estate landowner in Montana, has tragically died during a logging accident. Truitt, known for his extensive logging operations and controversial land deals, was killed on his property during a tragic logging accident. Authorities have not yet released all the details.”

“No way,” I mutter under my breath. This can’t be happening.

The anchor continues, “Truitt’s death comes at a time of heightened tension in the region, with many questioning the future of his family’s empire. We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops.”

The screen shifts to a somber image of Truitt, a rugged man in his early sixties, standing amidst a forest.

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