by Nicole Snow
Sierra pouts but slips her arm in his, tossing her hair and turning a vicious look over her shoulder at Libby. “You’ll regret this big time.”
Libby just looks on solemnly.
“I regret a lot of things, sis,” she says. “But not protecting our home. Get gone and don’t bring that bastard here again. I’m willing to talk things out with you, Sierra Potter, but not with him trying to talk us both down.”
“You’re psycho,” Sierra whispers, clinging to his arm, “Declan only has my best interests at heart. Unlike some people.”
For a second, just looking at her, I see someone else.
Calypso and Barry Hensworth.
That same way of clinging to a man she thinks is invincible—powerful enough that she doesn’t need to have any strength of her own.
I have an ugly feeling Declan’s going to be a rude awakening for her.
Still, I keep my mouth shut as they turn and strut out like they own the place.
I’m pretty fucking worried that one day soon, they will.
Libby’s a tense statue, standing in the middle of the kitchen, nearly vibrating.
She doesn’t move until the door slams, slumping and hanging her head with a groan.
“Sorry,” I say. “I know you hate it when I jump in and white knight—”
“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “I...this time, you actually helped. I froze up. It was stupid of me, but you came at just the right second. I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“I overheard.” I half-smile, taking a step closer. “I was trying to stop a murder.”
Wrong thing to say, given the whole dead body thing.
She gives me a haunted, tired look, then turns away, drifting to the window and looking out over the broad expanses of fields fading away into scrub-covered, dusty land. Her voice drifts quietly over her shoulder.
“You paid them a deposit for the land?”
I shrug uncomfortably. “Didn’t want someone else swooping in and grabbing that contract before me.”
The look she turns over her shoulder is strange, watching me in this way I can’t quite read, the blue fire of her eyes crackling. “You really needed that deal to keep your business going, didn’t you?”
I’m silent, reaching up to scratch my jaw.
“And now you won’t get it?”
“I wasn’t getting it anyway, Libby,” I admit. “It hinges on your land, and I told you, I’m hands off now and trying to help you save it.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t understand. You just...because I can’t let my ranch go, you’re gonna lose an awful lot, and you’re actually helping it happen. And now you just gave up more money, too?” Her brows knit together. “Why?”
I don’t have an answer because it’s just like she says.
That’s a hell of a lot to do simply because I want a chick to trust me. Even a drag-down sexy chick who electrifies my blood.
Truth be told, I don’t have a good answer.
Not one I can put into words.
I just remember how hard I clenched Barry’s hand, how I swore to that asshole and the demon harpy on his arm that I’d live with more integrity than either of them had in their pinkies.
“It’s the honest thing to do,” I tell her, the only thing that’s true. “I’m betting on the right horse for once, win or lose.”
Her lips quirk faintly, sadly. “Oh, my. The devil himself running his mouth about right and wrong...”
Those words should cut, but her tone’s too soft.
Too confused.
Shit, too trusting.
I can’t help chuckling. “I’m not Satan, honey. Old Scratch never repented.”
“So you’re mending all your wicked ways?” She lifts an eyebrow.
I take a step closer. Even when she’s pensive like this, haunted, tired, she’s magnetic.
“A man could be convinced for the right woman,” I growl.
She turns to face me, leaning her back against the windowsill, just watching with that same strange look.
She’s not dressed down for labor today. Her button-down shirt seems a little nicer, a pretty white thing with translucent sleeves that let the velvety tone of her skin shine through. Plus a pair of cutoffs that actually cover more than an inch of her thighs, the ends cuffed.
Her hair’s been brushed so it pours over one shoulder, shimmering like captured sunlight.
Sweet hell, I can’t stop myself from drinking her in, even if I’m being Captain Obvious.
Whatever her mood, whatever her worries, whatever her hate, this girl knots me right the fuck up.
She’s asking for something, too, with those bright-blue eyes.
Then she shakes her head.
“Maybe you’re not the one who needs to repent this time,” she says, leaning forward and snagging the six-pack out of my hands. “But I can’t have this conversation without a beer.”
9
Rein It In (Libby)
I can’t believe I’m actually thankful for Holt damn Silverton.
Now I can’t believe I’m about to tell him the truth. But I’ve got to, before this gets even more out of hand.
It’s bad enough that now Declan and Sierra know there’s something down Nowhere Lane.
I’d wanted to just tell Sierra, alone.
Try to trust her as my sister, make her understand why we can’t let the land go and what it could do to Dad’s legacy.
I was hoping we could come together as a family one more time.
When she showed up with that oily, smarmy ogre, I flipping lost it.
Said things I shouldn’t have.
If I don’t come clean with Holt, then it’s only gonna keep getting worse.
We sit out on the back patio, watching clouds billow across the blue sky in little white puffs. Up there, it’s cooler, and down here it’s just heat and dead air and sweat dripping down my neck.
Makes the beer taste extra good, at least.
Another reason to thank him.
After struggling for words, I say, “This whole mess put me between a rock and a hard place, Holt.”
He glances over. He’s slouched in one of the deck chairs and looking infuriatingly fine in it—those jeans make his thighs look lean and hard, muscular and perfect.
They pull, riding low on his hips.
His belt draws attention to a place I wish it didn’t.
Damn those translucent A-shirts, too.
It’s like his uniform now, ever since he dropped the city suits.
Plaid shirts unbuttoned over those obscenely tight A-shirts that don’t hide a lick of him. Somehow, it’s worse than being naked.
Especially when his gold eyes drift to mine. He can probably tell I’m not looking at his face.
Can’t blame a girl for needing the distraction.
My life, Dad’s memory, my home...
It’s all falling down around my ears.
Holt frowns. “What’d Declan say about antiques?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head, pressing my lips to the rim of my beer can, letting the cold soak in. “I was thinking about the body. I didn’t tell them, though. Not with Declan right there. So I said I thought there might be valuables. Heck, maybe there are. What do I know? Never spent enough time in that creepy place to see.”
“Yeah. Something’s off about that dude, if you ask me.” Holt’s hardly touched his beer, leaving it sitting on the patio table between us. It drips condensation on the frosted glass; he runs his fingertip around the metal rim, tracing slowly with the pad. “But why’s that leave you stuck?”
“Because you said you were gonna file for protected status,” I point out. “And now I have to, before they pull a legal gun against me to stop it. It’s gotta go through quick or they’ll block it, won’t they?”
He winces. “Me and my big damn mouth. I’ll see what I can do to push a request through the council ASAP.”
Oh, crap.
Trouble is, that isn’t really th
e problem.
I’ve gotta spit it out.
I want to believe things won’t go south.
I’ve got to believe Holt won’t do anything that would hurt me.
That beautiful idiot is practically giving up a small fortune to save my ranch.
That’s worth trusting him again, ain’t it?
I take a deep breath, nerve myself up.
Say it.
Say. It. Libby.
“You can’t,” I say, my tongue practically numb. “Because I think my dad killed Bostrom out in the ghost town.”
Holt sucks in a breath, just staring at me. “Dr. Potter? Bullshit, he was such a—”
“I know,” I say. “I know. He was like...like Einstein and Bill Nye had a weird love child. I know. I can’t see him harming a fly—he never did growing up—but still...” I hate that stinging in my eyes, shaking my head. “He told me he did it, Holt. He confessed.”
“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” Holt slides a thick hand over his face, his gaze drifting away from me across the fields. “When? How?”
It’s hard for me to say this out loud. “I always got lost down there as a kid, and then I just got so busy managing the ranch, I forgot about it for a while. But then Dad got sick, and I found out about the tax issues. I wanted to do a walk-through and take full stock of the property. That’s when I found the town...the body...and that shotgun casing I know damn well came from Dad’s gun.”
“Shit.”
“Yyyep. That just about covers it.” I need a swig of my beer to keep going, wetting my dry mouth and giving me a little more liquid courage. “He was so far gone by then, Holt. Too far gone to tell me anything clear. But right before he died, he came back a little. He told me to find the man’s gun, and something about a rock. He said he had to do it.”
Holt drops his head.
I take a shaky breath, blinking my blurring eyes again and again, hard. “I just can’t figure out why. So I’ve been trying to keep anyone else from finding out ever since.”
“He must’ve had a good reason,” Holt says. “Dr. Potter wouldn’t just shoot a dude over nothing, Libby.”
“I want to believe that so bad you don’t know how much it hurts.”
“I can guess.”
Holt’s looking at me fiercely.
I feel like he really sees me, right now.
And there’s not a hint of judgment in his eyes.
“You’ve been carrying this around since he died,” he says. “Haven’t you?”
I nod miserably. “I never thought it’d come to this. He always told us not to go down there, but I always thought he was just trying to keep us from getting lost or hurt. And then when I found out the real reason...”
“It shook your world,” he whispers. “He couldn’t even clear his own name to you, once he died. So you’d rather live with not knowing at all.”
I nod again.
It’s too hard to speak this time.
But Holt offers his hand, stretching it across the table.
“That’s not wrong, Libby,” he murmurs. It’s gentle. Sincere. Two sweet things I totally don’t associate with Holt Silverton. “We all want to remember the people we love as their best selves. What the hell good would it do changing that now, after he’s gone?”
“Y-yeah.”
Don’t take his hand, I tell myself.
Only, I need it.
My fingers slip into his, letting Holt’s warmth and the roughness of his fingers envelop mine.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just squeezes my hand gently, reminding me he’s here, grounding me.
Maybe, just maybe, reminding me that people can start off not being all that great...but they can learn to be better.
I’m still tripping over words, but his grip makes it easier.
“He had to have killed that guy before I was born, or near enough. My whole life, I’ve grown up thinking I knew who Dad was...when he was someone else.”
“Maybe he wasn’t,” Holt tells me. “Maybe he was the man you thought he was. Maybe he killed that man in self-defense or to protect somebody. Maybe someone else shot Bostrom with Mark’s gun, but he witnessed it. He could’ve had a thousand reasons, honey, and a thousand reasons more for hiding it. Sounds like he regretted it all his days.”
“Regret doesn’t undo murder,” I whisper.
“It doesn’t,” he concedes, tilting his head—but only holds my hand tighter, his thumb stroking along the back of my palm in long sweeps. “But protecting himself doesn’t make a man evil. It doesn’t change the way he loved you. You and Sierra both.”
My lips quiver.
Nope. Nada. Not gonna cry.
“But that’s just what I don’t want,” I force out. “Maybe he wasn’t some big hometown hero like your brother and his buddies...but people remember him kindly. I don’t want to ruin it. To turn that ugly. If the bank takes the ranch, or if people come out to inspect it—”
“They’re going to find out, and without all the answers, they’ll assume the worst,” he finishes.
“Yeah. That.”
With a small smile, he gives my hand another squeeze.
“We’ll just have to get to the bottom of it ourselves. Prove your old man only fired under real duress, and then this whole thing gets sorted like it should. His name stays clear, the case closes, and you can save Potter Ranch.”
I blink.
Again.
And then just one more time, like maybe if I just blink enough the world will clear up and what he just said will make sense.
“Pardon?”
He grins at me.
“Don’t you ‘pardon’ me,” he teases. “Talk like you know where you came from.”
I kick him under the table.
Not hard, but he obliges me anyway, squinting his eye up with an exaggerated “Ouch.”
Okay.
That gets a laugh.
I also realize we’re still holding hands, and the inside of my chest goes molten-hot. I pull back quickly, clearing my throat, curling my hand against my beer, hoping it can help cool me off.
“Um,” I say. “How the hell are we gonna prove anything? That shooting happened decades ago.”
“Follow the clues,” he says, shrugging like it’s just that easy. “Your dad said something about finding the guy’s gun and a rock. Right?”
“Right.” I frown. “But I mean...I didn’t see a gun in the town,” I say. “And I don’t have a clue what 'rock' he was talking about.”
“Did your dad leave behind any stuff you haven’t sorted through yet?”
“Boxes of it.” I smile faintly. “He’s kept every academic paper he’s ever written since high school. Tons of stargazing stuff, old telescopes and lunar globes. I think he’s even got a little chunk of moon rock. Probably illegal.” My frown deepens. “You don’t think that’s it, do you?”
“Probably not. eBay sells illicit moon rocks these days.” Holt snorts, then tosses his head toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s have a look and see what we can find. Maybe there’s something in his stuff.”
I arch a brow. “Are you actually volunteering to help me clear out the attic? It’s a big fat mess.”
“A little hard labor never hurt a man.” He grins. “Besides. I’m supposed to inspect another finished job on a building owned by a lady I slept with almost twenty years ago, and I think she’s still sore at me. I’d rather be here and leave that shit to my man, Alaska.”
I go flat. My eyes narrow.
“I’m gonna make you regret saying that.”
Of course I mean for the boredom and hard work of cleaning out the attic.
Of course.
I’m not one bit piqued at the reminder that every woman over thirty in Heart’s Edge had a piece of him back in the day.
Why would I care?
It doesn’t matter.
I tell myself that a few more times as I get up and knock the screen door open, leading him inside.
But I swear
it’s like he’s stalking me, amusement radiating off him with every step, his shadow falling over me as he trails behind.
It’s like he knows.
And I kinda want to whack him for it—the usual reaction around him.
I can never figure out if I want to belt him or kiss him, so I just hold myself in check and don’t do either, because both would be a bad idea.
Though they’d both feel pretty good, too, if I’m honest.
Right.
Focus on figuring out Dad’s stuff.
The attic is more of an open loft, a kind of half-floor accessible by a ladder and filled with light from the bay windows. There’s only standing room at the very center where the roof peaks, while you have to crouch down lower toward the sloping edges by the walls.
Holt’s cramped, tall man that he is, walking half bent over. I show him the stack of boxes against one wall, all labeled DAD’S STUFF.
It’s perched next to older boxes against the corner wall. They’re marked too.
MOM.
Big black Sharpie strokes.
Angry adolescent lettering.
Ink blurred by tears.
It’s old, but it’s there. Not as many boxes, but...
I have to look away.
I freaking hate this.
Hate that it’s like their lives are packed up in these sad boxes and put away.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Letting out a shaky breath, I pull down the first of the DAD’S STUFF boxes from the top of the stack and thump it down on the floor, then shove it at Holt.
“Start digging,” I say. “I hope you’re just as interested as he was in the hydrogen reactions of neutron stars.”
“I...” Holt says cheerfully, “I have no fucking idea what you just said, but I guess I’ll have fun learning something today.”
I just roll my eyes and haul down another box. Together, we pull the tape from our boxes and start rummaging.
There’s a lot in here.
A lot of things I hadn’t really known about. Dad packed some of the boxes himself long before I hauled them upstairs.
Old journals with nightly observations on the stars he watched from this very attic window, his telescope still set up and trained toward the Hercules Globular Cluster, which he’d been documenting before he got sick.
