by Nicole Snow
I clap my brother on the shoulder as I stand and head for the exit, only to pause as he calls out to me.
“Holt, wait,” he says. “The guest bedroom is still open if you ever want something fancier than the inn.”
I smirk. “What, you mean ever since your wife moved into your bed?”
“Hey, we’re not talking about my nightlife habits.” Blake snickers. He’s got that goofy thing going when he’s drunk, like a big dog, but it’s good to see it. There was a time when it was a mask over trauma, loss, grief, loneliness...but now it’s just his genuine happy self coming out, ever since he settled into married bliss. “Look, I’d have something to say if you were parading a different woman around under my daughter’s nose every night. But I don’t like the idea of you staying in a hotel room all the time when you’re family.”
Part of me wants to protest.
I’m not like that anymore.
Part of me also almost wants to take him up on the offer.
Just to feel like I’m part of something.
But it’s Blake’s family, his life, his home. He’s newly married with a teenage daughter, and it’s not my place to play third wheel.
I’ll build my own home when I’m ready.
And when I do, I need to do it with my own two hands.
I’ll prove to myself that I can actually build things, instead of wrecking hearts and my own prospects for a future. That I’m more than some dude who talks his way into good luck and better graces.
For now, that means going it alone.
Tonight, I’ll let my reputation save me.
“I’ve already got a bed and somebody waiting on me,” I lie. “The Fords aren’t so picky about my guests. I’ll come hang out some other time.” I reach over and ruffle his hair. “Tell the kiddo hi for me.”
“You bastard devil!” He swings at me playfully, but I’m already gone, spilling out into the bright lights and the dimmer glow of the parking lot.
The Milky Way overhead outshines any street lamps.
Time to get some rest for real.
Got a feeling I’ll need it to gird my goddamned loins for another confrontation with Libby Potter and the ranch holding the key to my future.
3
Hoofing It (Libby)
With my temper, caffeine probably isn’t a good idea.
But I’ve got an addiction to those mocha lattes Felicity whips together at The Nest, and she’s one of my closest friends.
I need a friend right now.
I need to be around someone I can trust.
And I shouldn’t have to feel that way around my own flipping family.
The only thing I can think, every time I see Sierra, is what do you want from me now?
Thankfully, Felicity’s easy, friendly company who doesn’t expect anything but a smile. Plus, it’s pretty sweet having a friend who always gives me free drinks with extra whip.
So that’s how, this morning, I find myself perched on a stool in front of the long polished coffee bar at The Nest, listening to her chatter faster than a bright-eyed chipmunk about...
I’m not even sure what she’s going on about, honestly.
Something about finding like, a town underneath the town?
It doesn’t make sense to me, but Felicity’s all excited. It’s an archaeological dig or something.
Apparently, towns as old as Heart’s Edge kind of build on top of themselves. Foundations of old buildings turn into new ones.
Now underneath all the crap that’s gotten blown up and burned down and torn up lately, they’re finding pieces of buildings that’ve been here since the old silver rush settler days. Old antiques, art, tools, clothing, remnants of entire lives. Western stuff.
I don’t get why she’s so into it, but everybody needs a passion, I guess.
That thought makes my hand drift to my throat, this tic I always do but don’t realize until I feel cool reassuring metal and tiny polished stones against my fingers.
It’s a necklace—shaped like the constellation Aries, the Ram.
Nine tiny major and minor stars no bigger than grains of sand. All made out of this polished red stone that’s rather matte with a pinkish shade. Never found out what it is, but those nine little pieces are strung together with silver rods as fine as thread.
Dad’s gift in more ways than one.
Thanks to him and his old NASA career, I can identify every last one of those nine stars, from Sheratan to Mesarthim, whether I’m looking at the fragile necklace in my palm or up at the night sky.
It’s the last thing he ever gave me.
The last thing I have to remember him by.
Other than whispered words I try to forget every damn day of my life. I can’t stand to think about what they might mean.
Seems to be a theme for me, lately.
Trying to forget the things men say.
Whether it’s my father’s dying words...
...or Holt Silverton, talking about using his tongue on me, thinking about what’s in his pants, all that other ridiculous, low-down, filthy—
God.
He just makes me mad.
A swaggering dumb peacock of a man, strutting in and looking me over like he’s already won when he doesn’t even know the stakes in the battle we’re fighting.
And then to hear him go and say all that dirty stuff...
Damn, did it feel good to watch him fall on his ass.
Twice.
I’m glad he muddied up his fancy outfit.
Looking at him, you couldn’t even tell he’s from here.
But I liked getting to rub his face in the dirt of Heart’s Edge.
Just a reminder that he can’t wash away who he is that easy.
“—ibby?”
It takes me a minute to realize Felicity’s still talking. Whoops.
I’d zoned out, staring at her hands while she cleaned glasses without really seeing her, or much of anything but that devil’s bourbon-gold eyes.
“Libby.”
“Huh?” I shake myself, blinking, focusing on her face. “Sorry, what’s up, Fel?”
“You’re what’s up,” she says, eyeing me. “Your face is red as a tomato. What’s on your mind?”
“Have you ever noticed,” I say, almost before she can even finish the question, “how some guys think they know everything? Like, they can’t fathom that maybe they’re wrong. Maybe they’re just not going to get their way, not with my land and not with me.”
Felicity arches a brow, an amused smile teasing at her lips, just a glint of teeth she’s trying to hide. “What man’s trying to have his way with you? ’Cause if I didn’t know better, I’d think Holt Silverton was getting under your skin.”
“Like fricking snake venom,” I spit back. “And nothing good comes from getting bit.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I can think of a lot of good things you get from biting,” she muses with mock-innocence. “A lot of long, thick, slithering thi—”
“Felicity!” Half wheezing, half laughing, I push myself up on the rungs of the stool, snatch her wet towel right out of her hands, and fling it at her face.
Giggling, she sets the mug she’d been cleaning down and grabs at the towel, pulling it down and blowing her mussed brown hair out of her face.
“And there you are. Welcome back.” She grins wickedly. “You’re blushing like a schoolgirl in denial, y’know.”
“I’m not in denial of shit.” Grumbling, I flump back down on the stool and take a long cold sip of my mocha latte, then lick a little whipped cream off the top. “Listen, if he goes missing any time in the next week, I’ll deny knowing where the body is. And you’ll back me up.”
“I mean...if you really want to kill him that bad, here’s your chance.” Felicity smirks at me knowingly, her eyes cutting over my shoulder. “Surprise. He’s been watching you for the last five minutes.”
Oh, crap. My heart stops.
“What?”
I don’t want to turn around.
I just can’t freaking help myself.
Wide-eyed, I peer over my shoulder.
Right to where Holt sits at a corner table, sprawled out, looking like pure sin in a tidy package.
Only, he ain’t that tidy at all right now.
He sure as blazes doesn’t look like the polished city suit I met the other day.
Today, he’s actually kinda filthy. I don’t think anybody’s ever made filth look this good—wearing nothing but a pair of construction coveralls in battered, dirty dark grey.
They’re unzipped at the top and rolled down with the sleeves tied around his narrow hips, the white A-shirt underneath so sweaty it might as well just paint the way the fabric clings to his mountain of muscle.
God, I can see everything.
From the dark curl of black chest hair crinkling around his pecs right down to the tiniest sculpted detail of his abs.
Mercy.
Those ripples of tight muscle wind on like waves, starting at his ribs and pouring around to his back. He’s got arms like cut steel, pure chisel and nothing else, and he’s streaked in sweat and grease and grime that just makes you want to rub up against him to get a little of his bad self all over you.
Worst of all, he’s looking dead at me.
Practically blinding me with those intense, sultry hazel devil eyes.
A grin plastered on his gorgeously red mouth says he knows exactly what I’m thinking when my eyes dip down over his chest, trailing to the way his wide-spread thighs push against the baggy coverall pants in curves of hard muscle.
“Libby,” Felicity says mildly, “put your tongue back in your mouth.”
I whip back around to face her with my cheeks lighting up like flaming cherries. “My tongue wasn’t—I didn’t—don’t bring my tongue into this!”
Oh my God.
Oh my God, I’m dead.
I can’t be having these thoughts.
Just because he’s gorgeous doesn’t change the fact that he’s bad news.
He still wants my land.
My home.
All the things Dad left me to protect.
“Lib-by,” Felicity sing-songs softly.
“No,” I snap.
“Liiiibby.”
I hunker down into my shoulders, folding my arms on the bartop and glowering down into my latte. “What?”
“I think,” she says, “our darling Holt would like to speak with you.”
“Well, too bad. I don’t wanna speak with him. Or anything else with him.”
“Never said you did.”
She’s chortling now.
Awesome.
Honestly, I’ve never heard any woman chortle before, never even knew what it sounded like, but now I do—it’s that sound when you’re trying to talk, but you’re trying not to laugh but you can’t help yourself, so these silly little hoo-hoo-hoo sounds come out around the words while you’re shaking yourself silly trying to hold it in.
Just like Felicity is right now.
If she keeps this up, I’m about to be short a friend.
After another snicker, she clears her throat. “Okay. Seriously, it looks like he’s waiting. Aren’t you at least going to talk to him? Be a little civil?”
I steal another peek over my shoulder, holding my breath, making a wish.
Nope, not granted.
He’s still watching me.
I can almost feel his gaze, and I want to kill him for it.
As our eyes meet, he arches a brow, then gestures to the chair next to him with a questioning tilt of his head.
I narrow my eyes.
Then pointedly turn back to Felicity and slide off my stool.
“I’m out,” I say. “Thanks for the drink, but I’ve got work to do and a gaggle of kids coming in for lessons this afternoon.”
Felicity eyes me. “It’s not like you to run away.”
“I’m not running away,” I seethe. “I’m just...prioritizing.”
I grab my bag and head out to my battered truck, taking the back door so I don’t have to walk by Holt and that insufferable penetrating stare that just won’t let go.
But I ain’t gonna get off that easy.
I step out into the morning light, bright enough to make me blink and squint with a little shiver as I slip from air conditioning into brewing summer heat, and it happens.
A tall, imposing frame blocks my path.
I’m so keyed up over Holt I’m ready to start calling him every bad name in the book.
Until it dawns on me it ain’t him.
Holt was all dirty and delicious. This other man standing in front of me is crisp and so clean it’s like he’s an ad for mouthwash or something.
I recognize him in a heartbeat.
Reid flipping Cherish.
The bank financier who was here even before Declan and Sierra, trying to be reasonable about talking me into selling my home and giving up everything.
He adjusts his glasses with a low sound, almost apologetic, then clears his throat.
“Ms. Potter,” he says formally.
And then he bows.
This dickhead actually bows to me right here in the parking lot of The Nest like he’s inviting me to dance cotillion. Not like he’s trying to help the tax man muscle me out of my ranch.
“Don’t you ‘Ms. Potter’ me,” I snap. “And look me in the eye when you try to sell me on your crap.”
“My apologies,” he clips out a bit stiffly but with no other response.
That’s the thing about Cherish. He doesn’t get angry, doesn’t bark back, just straightens and pushes his glasses up his nose like some kind of robot.
Yeah. I think I’d rather be arguing with Holt.
At least I know I can piss him off.
“Out of my way,” I bite off.
“I will be in just a moment. I was simply hoping we could arrange a meeting soon,” he says smoothly.
“For what? So you can try to change my mind again?”
An almost pained expression crosses his face. He looks like some kind of English Lord stuffed into a modern suit, transplanted to the Montana wilds, and left real uncomfy with it.
Good.
I want this particular weasel uncomfy.
“You understand, Ms. Potter, that legally you don’t have many options,” he says. “Unless you’re able to procure the funds to pay your back property taxes and all associated penalties and fees, you have a little less than forty-five days before your property is seized as an asset. You won’t get it back. And you’ll only lose an extensive court battle trying.”
Ever felt two emotions hit so extreme at the exact same time that you feel like a ping-pong ball bouncing between them?
That’s me right now.
On one hand, I’m almost sick enough to stagger, to pass out, with how faint I feel at hearing that countdown.
Up until now it’d been a distant one day, leaving me hope for some kind of Hail Mary pass.
On the other hand...
I’m white-hot with rage and already gearing up to smack him, my hand clenched into a fist as I stride forward, already drawing back to get the best momentum.
Perfect timing for a second oversized body to throw itself in my path.
I stumble back, barely reining in my fist, as Holt damn Silverton steps between me and Reid Cherish.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
Meanwhile, Reid says flatly, “Excuse me, sir, but this is a private discussion and—”
“Nothing private about you harassing a lady in public,” Holt growls, and there’s a different flavor to his voice.
I blink in surprise.
It’s almost like anger dampens his polished New York City crap and brings out the country boy underneath, just a little bit of twang and a little bit of holler.
“You’re gonna want to fuck right off and leave Libby alone,” he says.
“I didn’t give you permission to use my name,” I snarl. “And don’t you call me a l
ady. I don’t need your help. I can tell Mr. Cherish here to fuck off just fine all on my own.”
There’s a bristling silence.
Then Reid makes a soft, exasperated sound. “I see we’ll get nowhere with this discussion now.”
I can barely see him around Holt’s broad, grungy, tightly muscled back, but I make out him dipping his hand into his suit for something—before he leans around Holt and offers me a business card.
“If you change your mind, Ms. Potter, you know where to find me. There’s still time to do something sensible. I’m trying to help you,” he insists.
I just stare at him flatly.
I’m not taking that stupid card.
He seems to realize it when he pulls his hand back with another barely-there sigh.
“Fine. Good day to you both, then.”
Good day?
I don’t breathe a word as he turns around and walks back inside The Nest with stiff strides that do nothing to dispel the idea that he’s a machine in a human skin.
But the second the door closes and Holt turns to me with that self-satisfied look on his smug-ass face?
Yep, I lose it.
“What was that?” I snarl. “Who asked you to do that?”
Holt’s face blanks. “Uh? That’s the guy from the bank, right? He was bothering you.”
“Duh, that’s the guy from the bank. Yes, he was bothering me. No, I didn’t need you to come swooping in trying to white knight me, Holt. I had it under control.”
That actually gets me a skeptical, amused look as Holt cocks his head. “From the way I saw it, your idea of ‘under control’ involves three to five years in prison for assault. Think you wouldn’t even be able to talk old Sheriff Langley out of bringing charges.”
“They’d never convict me.” I narrow my eyes, clenching my fist. “And I really doubt anyone would take me to court over pelting your sorry ass, either.”
Holt just grins, slow and dark, his teeth white against that sinful black beard. “You gonna hit me now, Libby? Your hero?”
Holy hell. No, that did not just come out of his mouth.
“Not if you look like you’re gonna enjoy it so much!” I sputter.
He laughs, rich and full and deep.
The sun catches those strange whiskey-eyes, turning them into pure, glittering gold. “You’re a violent little pixie, aren’t you?”
