The Brawl: Calamity Montana - Book 5 Read online

  THE BRAWL

  Copyright © 2022 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-957376-04-2

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Editing:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

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  Proofreading:

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

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  Cover:

  Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  OTHER TITLES

  Calamity Montana Series

  The Bribe

  The Bluff

  The Brazen

  The Bully

  The Brawl

  The Edens Series

  Christmas in Quincy - Prequel

  Indigo Ridge

  Juniper Hill

  Garnet Flats

  Jasper Vale

  Clifton Forge Series

  Steel King

  Riven Knight

  Stone Princess

  Noble Prince

  Fallen Jester

  Tin Queen

  Jamison Valley Series

  The Coppersmith Farmhouse

  The Clover Chapel

  The Lucky Heart

  The Outpost

  The Bitterroot Inn

  The Candle Palace

  Maysen Jar Series

  The Birthday List

  Letters to Molly

  Lark Cove Series

  Tattered

  Timid

  Tragic

  Tinsel

  Timeless

  Runaway Series

  Runaway Road

  Wild Highway

  Quarter Miles

  Forsaken Trail

  Dotted Lines

  Holiday Brothers Series

  The Naughty, The Nice and The Nanny

  Three Bells, Two Bows and One Brother’s Best Friend

  A Partridge and a Pregnancy

  Standalones

  Ivy

  Rifts and Refrains

  A Little Too Wild

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  The Brood

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  RONAN

  The man outside my office window glared at my car’s license plate as he strolled down the sidewalk.

  “Why do Montanans hate Californians?”

  My brother had warned me about this when I’d told him I was moving to Montana. I’d waved it off, but maybe he had a point.

  Gertrude, my new assistant, shrugged. “Hate is a strong word.”

  “Dislike,” I corrected. In the past seven hours, I’d learned that Gertrude was a tad on the literal side. “Why do Montanans dislike Californians?”

  “Mostly because Californians move to Montana and try to make Montana like California,” she said.

  I hummed. “Well, fear not. I have no desire to change Calamity.”

  This town was perfect, a relatively undiscovered jewel in southwest Montana, nestled in a mountain valley surrounded by indigo peaks. It was everything I’d hoped for as I ventured into this next chapter of my life.

  Roughly two thousand people called Calamity home. A far cry from the hundreds of thousands in San Francisco. There would be no traffic jams. No crowded aisles at the grocery store. Police sirens wouldn’t wail around the clock, and I doubted I’d turn on the local news to a report of gang violence. Did Calamity even have a local news channel?

  Probably not. I made a mental note to snag a subscription to the newspaper.

  But even though the town was small, there were enough residents in the area that minor trouble would undoubtedly arise, requiring the services of a lawyer. And, effective today, Thatcher Law was open for business.

  There hadn’t been a crush stampeding through the door when we’d opened at nine. We actually hadn’t had anyone stop by today, but eventually, word would spread that there was a new lawyer in town—me. Then business would pick up. That was, if my future clientele could get over the fact that I hailed from California.

  “I should probably update the registration on my car and get new license plates.”

  Gertrude nodded. “Sooner rather than later.”

  Literal, and brutally honest.

  Gertrude and I were going to get along just fine.

  I walked to the window that overlooked First Street, taking in the slice of downtown by my office. Nearly every building had a square roofline, the properties either butting up against one another or separated by a narrow alley. The place across the street had a faded, red brick exterior and had probably been built a hundred years ago. The building beside it had a graying barnwood façade.

  In any other town, the Western element might have seemed cheap and forced. Here, it was as authentic as the big, blue sky.

  Proving that I was equally authentic was going to be my challenge here, wasn’t it? Showing Calamity that I wasn’t some smarmy lawyer trying to bleed them dry with an outrageous hourly fee was top priority.

  For the most part, the community seemed rather friendly. Granted, I’d only been here since Saturday. Three days wasn’t long enough to pass final judgment. But when I’d come downtown yesterday to check out the office, catch up with Gertrude and make sure everything was ready for our first official day in business, people had offered me smiles and hellos.

  Except on Sunday, when I’d popped into the gas station for a six-pack of beer. The attendant—an older gentleman with a gray beard braided beneath his chin—had taken one look at my driver’s license and grumbled under his breath. And yesterday, when I’d picked up a medium, thin-crust pepperoni from Pizza Palace, the woman at the register had asked how long I was vacationing in Calamity. When I’d told her that I’d just moved here from California, her lip had curled.

  Eventually, they’d realize I had no intention of leaving. As of Saturday, I was no longer a Californian. Still, I’d put a rush on the plates for the car. And a new driver’s license. That ought to make it easier to distinguish me from random tourists, right?

  “If you’re trying to fit in, you might want to lose the tie,” Gertrude said.

  I turned from the glass, looking down at the gray silk tie I’d picked this morning because it matched my slacks. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

  “It’s very . . . fancy.”

  Fancy? Good thing I’d left two of the three pieces of this suit in my closet. “I’m not really a Wrangler jeans and square-toed boots kind of guy, Gerty. Can I call you Gerty?”

  Her lips pursed.

  “We’ll test it out this week.” I grinned, tugging loose the half Windsor knot at my throat.

  With the tie folded and stowed in my pocket, I opened the button at my collar, then uncuffed my white shirt at the wrists, rolling each sleeve up my forearm.

  “So . . .” I clapped my hands. “What’s next?”

  Gertrude adjusted her fuchsia glasses, lifting them higher on her nose before clicking the mouse to wake up her computer. “I believe I’ve made it through your entire list with the exception of your shelves. I’m still working on unboxing books.”

  “Excellent. You’ve done a hell of a job getting this place set up. Thank you.”

  “It’s what you’re paying me to do. But you’re welcome.”

  “Any chance you want to help me unpack my house?”

  “No.”

  I chuckled. That was a hard no if I’d ever heard one.

  I smoothed a hand over the cognac leather couch beside me. Matching chairs were staged in front of the window. A fiddle-leaf tree sat in the corner, a fresh bouquet of tulips on the rustic coffee table beside a few magazines.

  The space was cozy and intimate, entirely different than the modern six-story firm I’d left in San Francisco. Gertrude’s desk sat opposite the sitting area, positioned so that she could greet clients as they came inside. My office was beyond the sitting area. There was one bathroom. One kitchenette. One conference room with a long table and—empty—bookshelves.

  The walls were lacking artwork but I was hoping to buy some local pieces. Reese Huxley Art across the street looked promising.

  This office wasn’t big. I didn’t need much space, considering it would just be Gertrude and me for the foreseeable future. But it was comfo
rtable and the owners of the building had recently remodeled this unit as well as the studio apartment on the second floor.

  Next door was a retail shop clearly aimed at drawing in tourists. They sold everything from fishing poles to toys to CALAMITY MONTANA apparel. On our other side was an accounting firm, and with any luck, the CPA would kick some business my direction for clients needing a bit of legal work.

  In an ideal world, I’d own this building rather than rent, but at the moment, there weren’t any properties for sale in downtown Calamity. And a prime location had been my priority, not only to gain visibility in the community, but so that on slow days, I could stare out my gleaming office windows and people watch.

  I’d moved to Calamity for a change of scenery. A slower pace. What better way to soak in the view than from right here on First?

  “Can I help you with anything in your office?” Gertrude asked.

  “Nah. I think I’m done for the day.” I’d spent all morning setting up my desk and workstation. Then this afternoon, I’d returned the emails I’d been ignoring all weekend and paid a few bills.

  My diplomas needed to be unboxed and hung on the wall, but that was on tomorrow’s agenda—the only item until I got some clients. Maybe without a crippling workload I’d be able to breathe. To relax. To come to terms with everything that had happened this year.

  The past three months had been nothing but chaos. Preparing for this move had consumed every available minute. Buying a house in Calamity. Selling a house in San Francisco. Jumping through the hoops to get my license to practice law in Montana. Saying farewell to the California firm where I’d worked for the past decade.

  Moving had consumed my every waking minute, but that hectic pace had been my salvation. And hopefully Montana would become my sanctuary.

  “It might get boring around here for a while,” I told Gertrude, taking a seat on the couch. Firm yet comfortable. The leather was as smooth as butter—as it should be for the price tag.

  “Do I need to be worried that you’ll go out of business? Because I left a perfectly good job to come work for you.”

  I chuckled. “Your job is safe.”

  “Good. If I don’t have anything to work on, do you mind if I read?”

  “Nope.” As long as she got her work done and was gracious to clients, I didn’t care what she did to pass the time from nine to five.

  Gertrude had tackled most of the office setup these past three weeks. After I’d signed my five-year lease with the owners, I’d spent a week here interviewing candidates for her position. Hiring her had been an easy choice given her experience. And once she’d been hired, I’d handed over the reins—and my credit card—giving her a rundown of what I wanted for the space and letting her sort the details of furniture delivery and setup.

  But now that it was done, now that I was here and getting settled, the pace would change.

  Slow was not my preferred speed at work, but at least I didn’t need clients to keep Thatcher Law afloat. I wanted clients. But I didn’t need them.

  Thanks to the huge case I’d won last year, my finances were solid. Dad had suggested I take my windfall and retire, but I enjoyed being a lawyer—Mom joked that I’d come out of the womb poised for an argument. Sitting around, by myself, I’d go stir-crazy. So my plan was to keep the caseload light. I’d work enough to pay the office’s expenses and Gertrude’s salary. Anything left would be a bonus.

  I relaxed deeper into the couch, spreading my arms across the back and kicking an ankle over a knee. “How long have you lived in Calamity?”

  “About thirty years. My husband grew up here. We met in college and moved here after getting married.”

  Gertrude was in her early fifties, though she looked closer to my thirty-five. Her brown hair showed no signs of errant grays. Her smooth, olive skin was likely the envy of many women.

  “Do you know the other lawyers in town?” I asked.

  “I do.” She nodded. “Most are nice.”

  “Most. Not all?” I arched an eyebrow, wanting all of the dirty details about my competition. “Who don’t you like?”

  “Julian Tosh.” Her brown eyes glinted with a hint of mischief behind those pink frames. “He’s a miserable shit. He’ll hate that you’re here. And I, for one, hope we steal all of his clients.”

  “Oh, Gerty. You’ve got a ruthless side. I like it.” I chuckled. “Tell me more about Calamity.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What the tourists don’t.”

  She leaned back in her chair, swiveling it away from her desk. “Well, we’ve got a couple famous people in town.”

  “Really? Who?” I’d make sure to steer clear. I’d dealt with enough famous people to last a lifetime.

  “Lucy Ross, the country singer. Though she goes by Lucy Evans here since she’s married to the sheriff.”

  “I’ll confess that I don’t listen to much country music.”

  Gertrude held up a finger. “Might want to change that along with your license plates.”

  “Noted.” I grinned. “Who else?”

  “Cal Stark.”

  “Cal, I’ve heard of. I’m a diehard 49ers fan, and every year he played with Tennessee, they kicked our asses. That, and I heard he’s an asshole.”

  “He’s not so bad. We’ve bumped into him a few times around town, and he’s always been nice. Cal’s wife, Nellie, is a sweetheart.”

  “Good to know.” I glanced out the window just as a woman walked by, slowing to read the gold lettering on the front door’s glass.

  Thatcher Law

  I loved those gold letters.

  When the woman spotted Gertrude behind the desk, she smiled and waved.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Marcy. She’s a waitress at the White Oak. And that”—Gertrude gestured to the man passing the window wearing a tan uniform—“is Grayson. He’s one of the sheriff’s deputies. Word around town is that he’s about to propose to his girlfriend.”

  “Maybe they need an attorney to draw up a prenuptial agreement.”

  Gertrude snorted. “Don’t hold your breath. Most people around here don’t get prenups.”

  “Then maybe they’ll want a last will and testament.”

  “Maybe.”

  There wasn’t a lot of foot traffic downtown, but as one person passed by, followed by another, Gertrude rattled off their names and occupations along with little nuggets of information.

  Turns out, there were still riches to be mined in Calamity, Montana.

  When it came to gossip, Gertrude was pure gold.

  It was close to five. I had just sat up, about to cut Gertrude loose for the day, when a swish of silky, chestnut-brown hair snared my gaze.

  A stunning woman strolled past the glass, oblivious to the fact that my heart had momentarily stopped beating. A smile lit up her oval face as she waved to someone driving by. Her cheeks were flushed the same shade of pale pink as her soft lips.

  My breath caught.

  Damn. She was gorgeous. Maybe the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  “That’s Larke Hale,” Gertrude said as I tracked Larke’s every step, willing her to slow down so I could get a longer glimpse of her face. “She’s a teacher at the school.”