Page 3 of Montana Mystery

There wasn’t much. Nothing that could tell me anything. A wallet. No money, but then Brandon wasn’t one to carry cash. Cash got him into trouble, and we’d agreed that he wouldn’t. If money was out of sight, it was out of mind.

Nothing in his pants pockets, and I even checked his shoes, though that was unlikely. The jacket was last. His phone was long dead, the screen cracked. And there wasn’t much else. Except... my fingers brushed a piece of paper in the inside pocket. Nothing fancy, just a torn piece of notebook paper with Brandon’s scrawled handwriting.

Noah Scott. And a phone number.

That name sounded familiar. Why? I was sure I’d heard it before.

I grabbed my phone from my pocket and went to Google. With his name and number, it was the first result. And now I knew why I remembered. He worked at Resting Warrior Ranch. They specialized in helping veterans with PTSD, and when I’d found them, it had seemed like a sign from the universe.

Brandon had been there less than a week when he came back, darker and surlier than ever, claiming it was a joke and that they would never be able to help him. That had been a couple of months ago now.

But then why would he still be carrying around Noah’s number? Unless he hadn’t really quit. Unless maybe the people at Resting Warrior weren’t who they said they were, and that’s where Brandon had gotten himself into trouble.

I’d never met them. But if the military men I’d met through Brandon were any indication, then they probably weren’t the squeaky-clean men their website claimed they were.

From an image on the ranch’s website, Noah looked straight at me. Jet-black hair and blue eyes so dark that they pierced through the screen. It was easy to see how eyes like that could be entrancing... or threatening.

Well, I could handle that. And if my brother couldn’t be conscious to tell me what the hell happened? Then I was going to talk to someone who could. Maybe that person was Noah Scott. Either way, I was going to find out.

The address for the ranch was a bit of a drive, but it was better than sitting here listening to Brandon breathe. “I’m going to figure this out,” I said to his unconscious form. “You’re going to be okay.”

I shoved his clothes back into the bag, grabbed my keys, and braced myself for war.

Chapter 2

Noah Scott

I braced myself against the sharp gust of wind and the memories that came with it. Along with that surge of emotion and adrenaline, I shoved my hand a little deeper into the fleece of the alpaca in front of me.

“Little cold out here, right, bud?”

He hummed, looking back past my shoulder toward the rest of the ranch. Probably saw one of the horses.

“Noah Scott is standing in the cold with an alpaca” was never a sentence I’d thought I’d say, but here I was, forcing anxiety through my fingertips and keeping my feet planted on the ground instead of heading inside.

Strictly speaking, I didn’t need to force myself to be out here, but I wanted to try it for a bit longer. The days I had appointments with Dr. Rayne, Resting Warrior’s therapist of choice, always left me raw. And she would probably tell me to take it easy. But when I was the rawest, it felt like an opportunity to face things head-on.

Winter was always harder for me, with the cold and the blowing wind that threw me back into darkness and pain. But this year it was hitting me harder than it had in a long time. Why? It took a lot for me to admit that I was struggling, but I was.

Being with the animals helped though. Even if it meant that I had to brave standing in the cold. I loved all the alpacas here, but this one and I had formed a special bond. Part of it was that intangible thing that happened with animals. Sometimes you just connected.

The other part of it was that he was named Al Pacacino, and no matter how many times I heard it, that made me smile.

Resting Warrior Ranch was the only place I could imagine being in to help with everything I was going through. After all, it’s what this place was designed for. A peaceful place for people who struggled with PTSD of all types, though retired military members were our most common client. The seven of us that ran the ranch were all former SEALs, all with our own trauma. We’d created the place that we needed first, with a goal to help others as well.

The animals, like the one in front me, were here to help our clients, and to be trained as therapy animals. Once they were trained, if they were deemed ready, we placed horses, dogs, and alpacas with therapy facilities and practices all over the country.

A gust of wind came down from the north, and I grit my teeth. Phantom pains rippled across my chest and legs. Closing my eyes, I forced my hand to move, stroking down Al’s neck. I wasn’t there. The memory was a long time ago. I was safe.

My mind flipped to the grounding exercises. What could I hear? The wind and the shuffle of animals. Far away, the slamming of a car door. What could I smell? The distinctive cold, snowy smell of Montana in the winter. Straw. The less fun smells associated with caring for animals.

It was enough to root me in the present. For now.

“As much as I’d like to stand here all day,” I said, patting Al’s neck, “got to take care of everyone else too.”

He hummed again as I turned to leave, hauling in a large, cleansing breath. Especially with the cold, there was even more than usual to do. On top of regular feeding and cleaning, cold weather in Montana meant double-checking the heaters in all the animals’ spaces and making sure that the water wasn’t frozen over.

I dragged a hand over my face. Then there were the kittens. Salem and Garfield. They were probably tearing down every curtain in my house right this very second.

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