Page 1 of Montana Rain

Chapter 1

Cole Phillips

Chicago was the worst.

Not only was it cold, but the people weren’t friendly. Downtown was confusing, and the wind chill in this city was nothing short of damned ridiculous.

Then again, I doubted there was any city I would be happy in right now, because wherever it was? It was effectively banishment. I got sent here because there was extra desk space in the field office. Literally.

But it didn’t matter. In a week, I wouldn’t have to be here anymore. I wasn’t sure who was more relieved that I suggested I take administrative leave while everything with Jones was resolved. Me, or the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.

It didn’t really matter that I’d saved lives or taken a bullet in the thigh while taking down Simon Derine; I was the agent who didn’t notice his own partner was the scum of the earth. If I couldn’t even recognize that, how was I supposed to be a functioning agent? How was anyone else supposed to want to partner with me when I clearly wasn’t capable of what should have been basic common sense?

My stomach twisted, and I ran a hand over my face, the discomfort in my gut now familiar. I couldn’t go long without the same track of thoughts running through my mind. Which was why I didn’t want to be here anymore.

I needed to get away and be by myself for a while. And more importantly, be out of sight of the FBI while people either forgot about me or used the evidence to decide what they thought. My active presence wasn’t helping anyone.

Reaching down, I rubbed my thigh. It had been more than a year since I’d been shot, but it still ached from time to time. Especially when it was cold. Which made me feel absolutely ancient, and I hated it. My doctors said it was normal, and my therapist said it was psychosomatic, brought on by all the guilt I harbored around the situation.

Because in my head, I didn’t deserve to be healed when I could have stopped it all so much earlier. He was probably right, but I didn’t need a therapist to tell me that. I needed someone to invent a time machine so I could go back and figure out what Jones was up to when it would have made a real difference.

Did I need to go to therapy?

Yes. I knew enough about post-traumatic stress to know I should be going, if only to sort out the myriad of complicated feelings I had about what had happened. But I wasn’t going. Because the only thing I thought about while in my therapist’s office wasn’t figuring out my shit.

Instead, I thought about another, different therapist, with red hair, a killer body, and a tongue that could cut as sharply as a blade.

And the things I thought about had nothing to do with therapy.

Physical therapy, maybe.

I took a sip of my beer and looked around the bar of the hotel, the one good thing about being here. The Bureau put me up in a gorgeous hotel, and it was nice, because no one questioned you at hotel bars. Everyone was passing through, and the people on staff weren’t the neighborhood, “Tell me your life story, stranger” type of bartenders.

Thank fuck.

A group of people came up beside me, clustering around the couple of empty barstools. The lanyards around their necks gave them away. There must have been a conference in the hotel. Poor bastards. Coming here now must be miserable. Late fall and early winter in Chicago so far had been nothing but wind, cold rain, and early snow. And not the good kind of snow. If I wanted snow, I wanted it to snow.

They ordered drinks, a couple of them taking the stools next to me and forcing me to move over in order not to be touching them.

“It was better last year.” A man’s voice cut through above the others. He had one of those voices that naturally resonated, but his tone also told me he wanted to be heard and noticed. “They should have had you speak again, Westerfield.”

My ears perked up at the name. It was a coincidence—it had to be. Just because the elusive redhead who filled my thoughts far more than she should was also named Westerfield… It was a common name. Right?

Laughter sounded from all around the group, and they split into side discussions. But one laugh seemed to break through the rest, low and rich, and so fucking familiar, it made me sit up and pay attention.

“Thank you for the compliment, but I admit I was relieved not to be asked this year. It’s fun and everything, but I don’t miss the pressure of being a speaker.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t cold. Warm summer air filled my mind, along with the faint thump of nearby music in that trademark Montana silence.

“We shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be doing this.”

I slipped a hand behind her neck and pulled her into me again, pinning her body against my car. “Should and shouldn’t are overrated.”

Rayne laughed. “You can’t say things like that. You’re part of the FBI.”

“I’m not wearing a badge right now,” I said quietly. “All I’m thinking about is this—and you.”

I had no chance of keeping my lips off this woman. When I saw her the other day, I’d been so startled I’d nearly frozen in my tracks. No one had ever bowled me over at first sight before, and now that I’d spent the whole night looking at her, I wasn’t sure anyone would do it ever again.

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