Page 3 of Montana's Bravest

Down on the street, Captain Zander is escorting Ivy Forbes out of the building, Noah is firmly in her embrace.

“Go home, Sam. I’ll deal with the police.” Mark pats my shoulder firmly. His understanding voice reminds me why he’s the best partner a soldier and a man could have.

“Take care of her,” I quip, winking at him, my head turning slightly to Ivy Forbes.

Mark narrows his gaze, telling me to shut it.

Noah’s mother, the attorney general of Montana who is tipped to be the next governor, is smart, firm, and empathetic—which is rare for a politician of her caliber. But behind all that, now I’ve seen firsthand that she’s a formidable mother. From the day she set foot in Red Mark’s office, briefing our first assignment, she’s had her eyes on Mark. It’s public knowledge that her marriage to a Californian technology tycoon is all but over.

“You okay, Mrs. Forbes?” I hear Mark talking behind me.

I turn around and find Ivy hugging my partner, while Noah seems to be warming up to him now.

Mark has chosen to abstain from relationships after his fiancée walked out on him. But if anyone deserves a second chance at love, it’s Mark. Right now, though, I don’t know what the hell is going on inside his head. The guy can’t even bring himself to hug back the woman who’s been craving for his affection!

Suddenly Noah’s dad barrels in, breaking into the cordoned area, causing a ruckus.

Ivy Forbes lets go of Mark, sidestepping her hero to confront her husband. “How dare you!” She slaps him. “You hired those incompetent people behind my back. Noah could’ve been killed!”

I’m sure she’s talking about the security firm that botched the rescue before we came in. It looks like her husband was the one making the terrible decision.

“I told you I only wanted Red Mark!” she continues.

“Mr. Forbes.” Mark shields Ivy, allowing her to retreat as Noah is now wailing desperately. It’s apparent that the boy is sensitive to people’s voices. “Please wait here.” Mark halts him as the man is about to follow his wife.

There’s a fire in me that wants to eliminate Mark’s competition—albeit it’s her own husband. That man doesn’t deserve her. The trouble is, Mark doesn’t want to admit his feelings for her. At the moment, my partner is trying to be a peacekeeper—treating the couple like any other clients. Right or wrong, to me, Ivy Forbes is more than just a client.

I have to step in and be the bad cop to make sure Mark doesn’t relinquish his protector status just because the husband is here. Most of all, I have to protect Noah from further trauma.

“Please leave, Mr. Forbes. You are distressing your own son,” I decisively say.

“What do you know about my son!” Darren Forbes bites out.

My jaw clenches, staring at him as if challenging him to a duel. “This is how much I know about your son. I saved him, and he was clinging tomewhile you were shitting in your limo, wondering why you tried to save money.” I step forward, firmly pushing him away. “Leave!”

The man backs off, but he stays in the vicinity. His remorseful face triggers a strange emotion in me. Much as I hate that moron, the man still has the presence of mind to be with his son, and insists on staying even though he was told to leave. That’s what fathers do. It hurts to think that my own father, who used to be my hero, turned out to be worse than a ruthless businessman.

Mark ushers Ivy and Noah to her car, keeping watch on the surroundings. He’s not taking any chances, he even has his hand on his gun. Taking the passenger seat, Mark signals to the driver to go.

Ivy acknowledges me, Noah waves, and in that moment, the choice to shut love out feels right. To see a mother’s face like that, with her precious child safe in her embrace—I feel fulfilled. It’s not just about saving others. It’s a shot at saving ourselves, too.

2

CASSIDY WINTER

The morning unfolds differently in the Winter household, uniquely ours and defying routine. It’s the weekend, a time when the world seems to slow down for most, but for me, it accelerates. I’m grinding away in my hideout, surrounded by the smells of malt and hops.

The ‘Pour Me Up, Scotty’ shed, I call it. It’s a modest wooden outbuilding at the back of my house. Here, my adventurous spirit finds a quiet joy in the crafting of flavors, melding the boldness of the New World with the traditions of the old.

My life has revolved around concocting ales and working at bars. I’ve wandered through the country and beyond its borders, sharpening my skills, thirsting for new experiences. The journey’s been a mix of bitter and sweet, and I’ve embraced it all—save for one detour.

Seattle. Amidst the backdrop of tourists and postcard vistas, I fell for a man whose charm was as panoramic as the view from the top of the Space Needle.

But Grace, our daughter, redeems it all—the unintended yet beautiful consequence of a path I once thought I’d regret. She’s the heartbeat of my world.

I push the thoughts back as I rinse the brew kettle. Those memories belong to a different lifetime, one I’ve since traded back for the open skies of my home state, Montana. Yet the shadow of that chapter lingers, a past that now drives me to seclude myself in Helena, to hide my daughter and me from the man who, much like the unpredictable weather of his city, changed from doting partner to a storm of trouble.

My fingers trace the familiar contours of my latest creation, a bottle of ‘Fallen Angel,’ its contents holding the promise of a thirty-year legacy borne from my mother’s recipes.

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