Page 1 of Shared By the Mountain Men Triplets

CHAPTER 1

RHETT

“Fuck.”

I mutter under my breath, but Cade doesn’t miss it, even with the noise of the Rusty Spike’s Friday night crowd, and the honky-tonk song blaring about a pickup truck and a broken heart.

He fixes me with a look that says he won’t let it drop until I tell him what I just read on my phone.

I take a slug of beer and return the mug to the scarred table with enough force that some of the foam sloshes out.

That gets Boone’s attention. He’s been leaning back like he owns the saloon, one arm stretched along the back of the empty chair beside him, facing the crowd with that easy grin he gives too freely, especially to women.

Now, he turns toward me with a look that matches Cade’s. “What’s up?”

“The Morrison group canceled.”

Boone echoes my curse. “They give a reason?”

“They did.” My hand, resting on my thigh, curls into a fist reflexively. “Said they have no choice but to go with Elk Run.”

My brothers both narrow their eyes. Boone curses between his teeth. Cade’s response is quieter and meaner.

Our biggest repeat client, gone. Eight men, six nights in July, remote camp, high passes, backcountry fishing, private guided routes they’d trusted us with for three summers running.

Elk Run Outfitters had offered the same route for thirty percent less.

“That’s four clients in six months,” Cade says.

I glance over at him. “I can count.”

Boone shakes his head, disgusted. “Turner’s either desperate or stupid.”

“He’s deliberately bleeding us out,” Cade says.

Boone scoffs. “You’re being paranoid.”

I look from one brother to the other. Same face, same dark hair, same broad frame taking up too much space at the four-top table. Same eyes I see in the mirror every morning. The ones our mother once said could make innocent people confess to crimes they didn’t commit.

But Cade’s expression is flat, while Boone’s wearing a smile like a welcome mat in front of a locked door.

And me? I’m expected to know what comes next.

I was born first by four whole minutes, and our family never let me forget it. The Army hadn’t either.

I take another drink of beer, mostly to buy time.

Cade thinks Harlan Turner, who owns Elk Run Outfitters, is deliberately trying to choke our business out of the high-country routes by consistently undercutting our rates. Boone thinks Cade’s seeing patterns because that’s what Cade does.

I think they’re both right, but I don’t say it out loud, because that would mean deciding what to do about it. Right now, I don’t have an answer that doesn’t involve risk and money we can’t afford to lose.

I turn my mug a quarter circle in its puddle of condensation, as I half-listen to Boone say things liketemporary rate adjustmentandclient retention strategy.

“We lower by fifteen percent,” Boone says, tipping his beer toward me. “Make it clear it’s for repeat clients only.”

Cade doesn’t look up from the water ring he’s tracing with his thumb. “Turner will undercut that, too.”

“He might,” Boone says.