Page 9 of Claimed By 3 Mountain Men

“You know it’s true.”

Ben’s hand catches my arm, stopping me. “JT, come on. He might’ve been tough on us, but he wanted what was best for the family. For us.”

I shake my head, my jaw clenched. “What’s best for the family or what’s best for the business?”

He lets go of my arm, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. But you know he loved us in his own way.”

“He left us with a mountain of a mess. Hundreds of files, loose paper trails. I can’t believe the bastard never thought to hire an accountant.”

“Yeah, well, we’re gonna have to deal with it now.”

I rub at my face, trying to will the thoughts away. “I just want to get the hell out of here and back to San Francisco.”

I sitin the worn leather chair, facing Dad’s mahogany desk. The walls are lined with hunting trophies, the lifeless glass eyes of all the animals stare down at me. They used to frighten me when I was a kid, when Dad would drag us in here to lecture us on some bullshit.

He hasn’t changed a single thing about this place.

“Any luck finding the will?” Ben asks, his voice tinged with fatigue and frustration as he walks into the office.

“Yeah,” I reply, holding up a thick, yellowed envelope. “Found it in his safe. Along with a bunch of other crap.”

I tear open the envelope and pull out the will, spreading the pages across the desk. Ben moves to my side, peering over my shoulder.

“It’s like deciphering ancient hieroglyphics,” I mutter, scanning the dense legal jargon. “But from what I can gather, he left the business to us equally. No surprises there.”

Ben snorts. “He always said we’d have to figure it out together.”

“Right,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because we’ve been doing such a stellar job of that lately.”

We fall into a tense silence, the only sound the rustling of papers and the occasional creak of the old leather chair as I shift my weight. I glance around the room, my eyes landing on aframed photo of Dad in his prime, standing proudly in front of a pile of freshly timber. He looks strong and invincible, like a king.

The door creaks open again, and Hank strides in.

Hank is the perfect blend of Ben and me. At six foot three, he’s not as towering as Ben, but his frame is lean and sinewy, covered in tattoos.

His hair is jet black, thick and unruly, often falling into his dark blue eyes, which are sharp and penetrating. He’s got the high cheekbones that run in our family and a rugged complexion with a few faint freckles from our mother.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Hank says, plopping down on the chair across from the desk. It creaks loudly as he leans back, sizing me up.

I look up from the desk, taken aback by his sudden entrance. “Nice to see you too, Hank.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You think you can just waltz back in here after being gone for so long?”

“Hank, calm down,” Ben says, trying to diffuse the situation.

“No, Ben,” Hank says, his gaze never leaving mine. “I want to know what JT thinks he’s doing here. Dad’s dead, and now you decide to show up?”

“I’m here to help sort things out,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I know things have been rough.”

“Rough?” Hank laughs bitterly. “You have no idea. Dad’s been killing himself trying to keep the business running, so have we. Where were you?”

“Living my own life.”

Hank’s eyes flash with anger.

“Dad wouldn’t have had to push himself so hard if you’d been here.”

“I know,” I say quietly, the weight of his words slamming into me. “I should have been here. I’m sorry.”

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