by Nicole Snow
I’ve had enough of cowards for a lifetime.
But I’m not thinking about that right now.
Even if I’m tired as hell out here in my pajama shirt and ripped up jeans; even if it’s after midnight...
I can’t help but stop and stare at the stars, resting in the saddle with Frost’s solid bulk warm and comforting beneath me, anchoring me to Earth.
It shouldn’t hurt like it still does.
Tilting my head up to the sky, I look for the North Star first, just like Dad always taught me.
Find true north to orient yourself, and from there, everything else just sorts itself out.
From the North Star to the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Aquila. Cygnus. Sagittarius.
I know them.
He engraved them on my heart and made them so important to me because they were important to him.
It was hard after Mama died and Sierra ran away.
Somehow, in a short space of time, we went from a family of four to just two lonely people sitting out here with no freaking clue how to make it work.
Falling apart.
Until one night, Dad took me outside, and we sat on the back porch and charted the night sky together.
It was something we’d done ever since I was a little girl, but that night was special.
It helped put our world back in place and reminded us we were more than our sadness.
That we weren’t just two lonely people banging around inside a ranch house that was too big for us.
That out there were millions, billions, countless stars shining down.
And as long as we could reach up and spread our fingers to sift through the sky and name those lights, we weren’t lonely.
We were gonna be okay.
Well, I’m not okay now.
I’m so not okay, gazing up at the sky and pressing my lips together to keep from crying. I clutch my Aries pendant like it can hold me together when I’m almost crushing the fragile silver threads.
No, I’m not gonna break. Not gonna lose my mind.
But I feel damn close right now, searching the sky for Aries even though it won’t be visible until late fall.
I just want to see it so I won’t be alone.
So I’ll feel like Dad’s with me, across space and time.
My eyes are still burning when something drifts into my vision. I squint harder.
Yep. There’s a shape out there by the entrance to Nowhere Lane.
I sure as hell ain’t imagining that dark silhouette moving through the brush like they’re trying to be cute and not get spotted.
My pulse picks up.
I haven’t spent half my life tracking cougars and vultures and God only knows what else for nothing. I can spot a grown-ass man under a bright, starry night sky.
My teeth pinch together.
Whoever he is, he’s about to get himself a butt full of buckshot.
It’s got to be Declan or Reid Cherish, I think, poking around where they don’t belong. Acting like this land is already theirs.
Might even be prowlers with worse intentions.
Word gets around in this little town.
Some opportunists might be scoping the place out, looking to see if they want to buy once the bank’s put it up for grabs, but knowing I’d run them off in broad daylight.
With my teeth bared, I tap Frost’s side.
The Vanner perks his head up, shaking his mane like he’s gearing up for battle.
That’s my boy.
Even though I woke him up from a dead sleep to do the rounds, he’s spry as he arcs forward in long, stretching leaps, his neck out. I pull my shotgun from the saddle holster, finger light on the trigger.
Frost picks up speed, thundering to a gallop, leaping the fence agilely and coming down hard on the other side, smart and quick enough to not even come near plowing into the ditch.
We go careening up the narrow strip between the fence and the ditch, surging toward that fleeing silhouette.
I swear, I’ll run Mister Intruder right down.
“Stop right there!” I shout. “I can see you, and you ain’t gonna scurry faster than a horse can run, you rat!”
The shadow stops.
Turns.
And devil-gold eyes shine right at me.
“You’ve called me a lot of things, but 'rat?' That’s a new one, honey,” a familiar, rumbling voice throws back.
It can’t be!
Oh, but it is.
I pull back hard on Frost’s reins, pulling him up short, almost trampling the man looking at me flatly with his arms crossed and a dusty briefcase dangling from his gloved hands.
Holt flipping Silverton.
And he’s been down Nowhere Lane.
Crap!
I don’t know how I got him back to the house without having a panic attack.
Or killing him in cold blood.
I’d been ready to tear his stupid head off, erupting off Frost’s back, demanding to know what right he has, what the hell he thought he was doing.
He’s fucking lucky I didn’t shoot him—that part scares me almost as much as knowing he’s been down there.
That I’d almost shot him for real and hurt him bad.
It shouldn’t bother me when a handsome intruder’s still an intruder just the same. Of course it does, though.
One more reason on my long list of nearly a thousand to hate Holt Silverton.
I despise him for being the snake he is, angling to get in my good graces just for another attempt to buy me out.
For everything he’s done to remind me he’s nothing but a conniving asshole who’s just a little nicer about wanting my land than the rest of ’em.
For making me start to trust him...and then betraying it.
Freaking twice now, with him sneaking onto my property and going exactly where I never wanted him to.
I should be glad to shoot his face off.
Not scared out of my wits that I could’ve done him harm.
But I can’t deal with these conflicting feelings, anyway.
Not when he’s standing across from me on the other side of my kitchen table, a scratched-up, annoyingly sexy-rugged mess.
Leaves in his hair and sweat and grime on his tanned, toned neck. A familiar briefcase resting on the table between us like the Ark of the Covenant, waiting to melt our faces off if we dare open it.
I sure as hell haven’t ever worked up the lady-balls to touch it.
I wasn’t gonna leave my prints on that thing for the police to find.
I left well enough alone.
But if Holt’s got the briefcase...that means Holt’s seen the body.
Seeing that briefcase in his hand got me quiet when I’d been ready to slap his face right off his skull.
He just stood there looking up at me and babbling all kinds of excited crap I couldn’t make heads or tails of.
Something about bandits, and historical sites, and Ursa—like the constellation?
I’m officially lost.
I just know I couldn’t be standing out there with him waving that briefcase around where anyone could see. Maybe a dumb thing to be worried about at two in the morning, but when Holt Silverton comes stumbling out of the bushes in the middle of the night, seems like any dumb thing can and will happen.
Best not to take my chances.
Folding my arms over my chest, I cast a withering glare at him.
“You’ve got one minute to explain,” I bite off. “Did I not tell you to back the hell off? Did I not tell you to stay off my land? You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on the spot for trespassing. I’m still half tempted, Holt.”
He raises both hands. “Libby, hold up. I was trying to help.”
I narrow my eyes. “Explain to me how trespassing and,” I pause, gesturing toward the briefcase, “whatever that is could possibly be helping.”
“Still figuring that part out.” He’s breathless, his eyes too intense, glittering, deep and li
quid as the finest whiskey, that color so ridiculously compelling it’s too easy to want to believe anything he says—especially in his rumbling, earnest voice. “There’s a whole ghost town at the end of that trail. You never knew about it?”
“Dad said it was dangerous to go down there, so I never went,” I lie.
Oh, I know.
I know all about the damn ghost town.
And I know about the skeleton that was holding that briefcase, too.
But I’m waiting to see what Holt says before I show my hand. I can’t let him spread that crap around. Not to Sheriff Langley or the rest of Heart’s Edge.
I can’t have him bringing people here who might figure things out.
“About the only thing dangerous down there is tetanus from all the rusty nails lying around,” he says dryly. “There’s a dead guy, but whoever shot him is long gone.”
I arch a brow. “A dead guy. So, what, you just took his briefcase? And why are you so happy about it?”
“It’s not the dead guy I’m happy about!” Holt fires back. “It’s the ghost town, lady. You know the stories, right? From elementary school?”
I roll my eyes. “Old shoot ’em up crap like Louis L’Amour, yeah. I know. You don’t actually believe in it, do you?”
“Look, it’s silly, but all those wild outlaw stories are based on real legends. Some of those guys were real, historically documented and everything.” Holt leans in urgently, planting his hands on the table next to the briefcase and watching me with his eyes alight. “What if that place is the lost town of Ursa where they say all these bandits set up camp?”
“So what if it is?” I shrug, glaring, hating wherever he’s trying to lead me.
“Ursa might be your ace in the hole, Libby. A place with just enough historical significance to protect your ranch and get this place out of the bank’s hands for good.”
Oh, crap.
That’s when I know I’m absolutely screwed.
Holt Silverton might actually be onto something.
My legs go out from under me. I drop down into one of the kitchen chairs hard enough to make it slide back with a loud scrape against the wood floor.
Then I just bury my face in my hands.
Jesus.
Salvation right there at the end of Nowhere Lane. It was there all along, and I can’t have it.
Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap.
There ain’t even enough craps in the world for the irony.
I don’t know if I want to cry or start laughing hysterically.
Of course, the answer has to be right there, but if I let anyone into that town, if I let anyone down Nowhere Lane...
They’re gonna find out my father murdered a man in cold blood.
They’ll confirm something I’ve avoided staring directly in the face ever since Dad died.
I’ve always made excuses for him. Or excuses for myself, maybe, because I didn’t want to believe it.
I always thought there had to be a good reason for that body, the briefcase, the words on Dad’s deathbed. And that the man I loved, relied on, watched die with my heart breaking was still a good man. Not a liar hiding behind a smile just like everybody else.
I’m still just as trapped, but it’s starting to feel like I’m cornered.
One way or another, people are gonna find that body as surely as Holt did tonight.
“Libby?” Holt asks. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I scrub my hands against my face, then against my tight, aching throat. “Not one word. Don’t you say one word to anybody about that ghost town, Holt Silverton.”
He sinks down in the chair opposite me.
That briefcase is still propped up between us, cursed as ever, but he’s watching me with his brows knit together.
“Why?” he asks—then saves me the trouble of lying again by taking a wild guess. “Oh, shit. There’s a lot of antique stuff out there, I’d bet. Looters would have a field day if they knew it was there.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. I feel so tired all of a sudden, so defeated, but I can’t give up. “Look, this might help, I gotta look some things up, but...it still doesn’t explain what in the Sam Hill you were doing out there, Holt. You fucking snuck behind my back.”
Holt ducks his head. There’s that scorned little boy act, though the dimming in his eyes doesn’t seem like it.
So maybe the devil can actually feel shame.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry as hell, Libby. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up with false promises. Not till I knew there was something out there. So I thought I’d scope it out, and if I didn’t find anything, you didn’t have to be let down. But if I did—”
“That’s still sneaky, you ass,” I snarl, holding up a finger.
I’m looking right at him to avoid the briefcase.
But it’s just as dangerous when he looks so sincere. Every time those golden-brown eyes lock with mine, it’s this hot bolt right through me.
It knocks the angst and misery out of me and makes my toes curl and my palms sweat hot.
I jerk my gaze away, staring out the window, where it’s gone so dark the sky’s just a deep blanket of velvety blue-black.
“Even if your heart was in the right place...I still don’t like it.”
“I know,” he growls—softer this time, his voice as dark as the night sky.
I try so hard to ignore the shivers when that electric feeling I get around him is what makes me ignore the common sense that says not to trust him any farther than I can throw him.
He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “I get it if you hate me, honey. It’s okay. I just hope you can use this to do something good.”
I let out a long, defeated sigh.
There’s no ignoring the elephant in the room.
I can’t let Holt go charging off doing something insane that will jeopardize everything I’ve worked so hard to protect.
Sighing, I gesture at the briefcase.
“That town’s probably a crime scene.” I have to phrase everything carefully. “That briefcase isn’t a hundred and fifty years old, Holt. It’s maybe twenty, thirty years old at the most. So what if the cops just declare my land a crime scene and shove me off it? Hell, what if the FBI gets involved?”
“That won’t happen. We don’t know what went on with the body or who was involved. They might just clean it up and file it shut. Cold case. But there’s one way we can try to guess.” His eyes glint. “We can see what’s inside this thing.”
“Holt, don’t—”
Too late.
He reaches for the table and pops the case open, the snaps unlatching as easily as if they were brand new, the two halves of the smooth brown leather casing coming loose along the seams and the top side lifting a little.
My heart pounds.
I’m terrified of what’s inside.
Especially when Holt lifts the lid with his gloved fingers, peering in, before the weirdest expression crosses his face.
“Libby?”
My mouth goes dry. I lick my lips.
I can’t speak, but after a second I manage to croak, “Y-yeah?”
“Looks like a note.”
He flips the case open fully, turning it sideways so he can lay it out flat with that piece of paper inside, curled with two creases like it’d been folded inside an envelope.
“It’s got your dad’s name on it,” Holt says.
There it is. The whole world’s just been yanked out from under me.
There’s no floor anymore, no ground.
Just total free fall, and I’m plummeting when I haven’t even moved off the chair.
I stare at the note.
It’s handwritten, elegant and almost old-fashioned, but there’s no mistaking that opening line even if my vision kind of willfully blurs on the rest.
To the esteemed Dr. Potter.
“I...I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Why would a dead man have a note f
or my father?”
“Let’s see what it says.” Holt watches me with those bourbon eyes dark with concern.
He plucks it out gingerly, handling it like fragile evidence and unfolding it with his thumb, smoothing it out.
Yeah.
Evidence my dad is guilty of murder.
Slowly, Holt reads it out loud.
“To the esteemed Dr. Potter,” he reads. “You’ll be pleased to know that the information is all here. I’ve spoken to the appraisers and can confirm total authenticity. This is indeed a rare find, and I’d be happy to work with you to find a buyer; this could well be the auction of the century! Please let me know how you’d like to proceed. We could finalize the deal tonight. I’d be delighted to pay you a deposit in advance of bidding. I’ll be waiting to speak with you in the usual place. Yours truly and with utmost regards, Gerald Bostrom. He’s signed it August 14th, 1992.” Holt stops, then, lowering the time-yellowed, thin paper. “Who the hell’s Gerald Bostrom?”
“No clue,” I say numbly, clapping a hand over my mouth.
I’m gonna be sick, and I can barely hold it in.
From the sound of that letter, Gerald Bostrom must be the dead guy.
That shotgun shell probably came from my dad’s favorite rifle, hung over the freaking sofa on the wall rack even now.
Dad killed a man over money.
Money.
My eyes prickle.
No. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.
He wasn’t that kind of man.
There has to be something more to this story.
I lift my head, setting my jaw. I won’t cry in front of Holt. I swear to God, I won’t.
Instead, I glare at the briefcase.
The empty briefcase.
“The letter says the information’s all here,” I say. “But there’s nothing else. You didn’t open it and take any other documents out?”
Holt shakes his head sharply. “Nope. So if there was something else in there, it came out before we ever had a chance to see it.” He frowns, setting the letter down and stroking his thumb and forefinger over the neatly trimmed line of his beard, tracing down to the firm peak of his chin again and again. “I’m guessing Gerald Bostrom’s our skeleton man.”
Way to go, Sherlock.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I—look, I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got to think about the ranch, and...and...”
