by Nicole Snow
It can’t go on like this.
Boring messages. Not a damn thing about that kiss. No hints she wants me coming back to finish what I started.
She’s pissed at me, probably. And when Libby gets mad, I’m realizing sometimes you gotta fight it out with her in the heat of the moment, but sometimes you give her time to cool down until she’s ready to talk.
I’m not sure which one this is, but we need to sort this shit out.
Maybe I’m not holding back for her, though.
I’m holding back for me.
Because that hellcat turns me inside out and knocks my ass upside down.
I care what she thinks.
I want her to like me, trust me, believe in me, know she can rely on me.
That’s a lot to process.
Because I can’t do that shit again, only for her to turn around and drop me the second I slap my heart in her hands.
I’m mulling that more than wondering how I’m going to stretch a budget to cover a custom foundation adjustment to a pre-existing building when the door to my trailer rattles.
A single hard knock before it snaps open.
“Boss.” Alaska leans in, his face grim. “Just got a call on the main line. One of the fire guys, Rich.”
I frown. Blake’s the fire chief, and if there’s something I need to know, he’s usually the one to call.
“What’s up?” I ask, reaching for my phone—and realizing it’s dead.
Well, that explains it.
I start to plug it in as Alaska says, “There’s a fire at one of our sites. The clear-out and restoration at the old hotel.”
Fuck!
Looks like I’m charging my phone in the car.
“Status on the site?” I shove it in my pocket, thrusting to my feet and whipping around my desk.
“They’re putting it out now,” Alaska says, falling into stride with me. “Blake said he’ll meet you out there.”
“Got it.” I yank the door open, grim frustration rushing through me.
Damn it all.
Even with insurance, we can’t afford a major setback.
This loss might be the nail in Silverton Construction’s coffin, depending on how bad the damage is.
I start clattering down the steps.
Only to nearly stumble right over Libby Potter, who’s just charging up them.
We both freeze.
She glares at me.
She’s snapping mad. It’s not hard to tell, but I’ve got to get to my site.
“Hey,” she bites off. “I’ve had just about enough of this. You can’t even be bothered to pick up your pho—”
“Phone died,” I growl, ducking around her toward my Benz. It’s not the right time. “Got to deal with something on-site. Sorry,” I throw back over my shoulder.
She whips around to glare at me. “Can’t it wait five minutes? You’ve been treating me like—damn it, Holt!”
“It can’t wait, Libby!” I throw the door to the Benz open, sliding in, already kicking the engine up, barely waiting for Alaska to squeeze his massive bulk into the passenger seat.
I don’t hear whatever she says in response.
Because I’m already pulling out, fishtailing across the lot, and hitting the street.
Libby’s just a glimpse of hot, furious blue eyes in my rear-view mirror.
Damn, I hate turning my back on her like this.
But my whole livelihood is going up in smoke as we speak.
I’ve got to do everything I can to stop it.
By the time we get there, Blake and Rich and a few other people on the local volunteer fire crew already have the blaze under control.
It’s not soon enough.
This was the big job that was going to shore things up while I worked on landing that mega mall contract.
We were clearing out the charred ruins of the Paradise Hotel and erecting a new commemorative tourist center.
Now, it looks like some jackass decided to reenact the Paradise Hotel fire from all those years ago that wrecked the place.
Not only are the building supplies we’d had stacked up torched, but the equipment we’d staged here has been scorched to blackened husks, too.
Mother fucker.
That shit cost a fortune.
I had to take out a small business loan to even lease it all at first after my New York defeat, and it took forever to pay off the loan. Even longer to finally lease out the equipment to full ownership.
Now I’ve got to replace it all when I don’t have the cash. I’m not even sure I’ve got the time.
The insurance alone will be a nightmare and a half, if I can even get reimbursed in time before ruining myself in premium hikes.
Did I say ninety-nine problems?
More like nine fucking hundred.
Blake’s standing at the edge of the ruined site, his fireman’s coveralls pulled down and tied around his waist, his grey t-shirt covered in sweat and soot and grime. He’s a dirty mess, but he always is when he’s firefighting. It’s how you know he did his damnedest.
I appreciate that he did his damnedest for me.
His expression’s grim as I step out of the Benz and jog up to him with Alaska on my heels, taking in the smoking desecration. It’s ash and cinders everywhere.
Rich picks through it to take the hose to a few more spots that are still glimmering with orange embers.
I just stop and stare, then drag my fingers through my hair, swearing.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Blake says, growling under his breath. “That just about covers it, man. Tell me you’ve got insurance?”
“Not enough for this,” I say. “But it’ll be a start. Hopefully. What the fuck happened?”
“Smell that.” He sniffs, demonstrating. “Take a good, long whiff.”
I do—and almost choke.
At first all I get is this general burned smell, but then there’s something else behind it.
Gasoline.
“...someone did this?” I choke out, rage igniting in me hotter than any fire. “Someone burned down my fuckin’ site?”
“Unless you left any equipment running with a gas leak...”
“No,” I snarl. “Everything here was brought in by truck. None of the big stuff was even fueled up. We drain tanks when we park equipment for the long-haul, and this was a slow job. Basic safety.”
“Thought so.” Blake folds his arms over his chest, staring fiercely at the site. “Real sorry, bro. If it’s arson, it can’t be worse than the last time—”
“Don’t remind me,” I growl. Like I could ever forget how last time led to me saving Blake’s ass before he got turned into a charred mess himself.
I want to puke.
“Sorry,” Blake mutters. “Bad memories. If we’ve got another spree starting—”
“Sure hope not.” I shake my head. “Let’s hope this was something personal against me.”
“You? Who’d have a reason to set your shit on fire?”
“Uh, besides every scorned woman I’ve ever slept with in this town?” I snort. “I don’t know. I could make a list, but it’d be long. Plenty of people who don’t like me around these parts.”
“Hmm.” He goes silent for a bit, then grunts. “You find a dead body and start asking questions about it being connected to Galentron...then someone burns down your biggest construction site.”
“You think there’s a connection? Galentron’s after me?”
He sighs, then shakes his head. “Honestly, nah. Galentron’s got no stake in this. Warren and Doc couldn’t find any dude named Gerald Bostrom ever involved with that company, and they dug deep. I don’t think the stiff’s connected to them. This is something else. It’s you, Holt.”
I let my gaze drift over the twisted ruins of what was my pride and joy.
“What does that mean?” I ask, a bitter feeling sinking inside me.
“Not sure,” Blake says. “This feels personal, just like you said. Like someone wa
nts to hurt you. Punish you. Get back at you for something.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The question is, who?”
A terrible knot in my gut says there’s one good guess.
11
Off That High Horse (Libby)
Good thing I didn’t get my hopes up—or else I might’ve forgotten what a shit-stomping crapsack Holt Silverton is.
I can’t believe his nerve.
Days of texting like I’m just some kind of client or something. Right after he kissed me half stupid and set my whole world on fire.
Not one word about the kiss, about...well, anything.
So I decide I’ll take it to his doorstep. Have that talk.
Figure out why we kissed like that, and what we’re gonna do about it.
Yeah. So much for that plan.
I’m fuming away so white-hot it’s a minor miracle I don’t start a brush fire with the heat simmering off me on the drive home.
See if I ever pick up the phone for Holt again.
Hell, I even tried calling him earlier today and he just let it go to voicemail.
I get it now.
I read him loud and crystal clear.
This man plays a certain kind of game.
Shame I’m not the kinda girl who likes being toyed with.
By the time I get home, though, I’ve got another reason to be furious.
Reid Cherish’s decommissioned military Jeep is parked in my driveway.
It’s his lucky day.
My fuse is about a micron long.
He’s standing outside in one of his three-piece suits, so crisp and cool I don’t think he even sweats in this heat. Gecko man just watches me with those flinty eyes, adjusting his cuffs as I pull up.
If he pushes my buttons, there’s gonna be a second body in that ghost town.
I hop out of my truck, stink eye flying.
“The hell are you doing here?” I demand.
“Miss Potter,” he starts, and I slice a hand out, cutting him off.
“Don’t. I’m so not in the mood for your Jeeves shit today,” I snarl. “Get straight to the point, and then leave.”
He sighs. Long and slow. Like he’s drawing it out just to annoy me.
My eye twitches.
“Miss Potter, you still haven’t called to schedule a meeting about—”
“I haven’t called, and I ain’t gonna.” I stalk closer, glaring up at him. “You came out here to try that old song and dance again? I told you. I’m not interested in anything that makes it easier for y’all to get your dirty fingers all over my ranch.”
I know, I know, I’m being a banshee.
But now, more than ever, I can’t let him find out about that body.
It’s scaring me more because now Holt knows about it, too, and he’s already proven he’s willing to play games with my heart. Surely he isn’t willing to mess with my secrets, too?
“I,” Reid says primly, “am not trying to get my ‘dirty fingers’ all over anything. I’m trying to help you.”
I almost laugh at the precise, formal way he lies.
But I’m still simmering, and it’s enough to make me explode.
“Funny, I’m plain sick of you, and of every other fool barging in here trying to fix my problems,” I spit. “If it’s not you, it’s Declan, or Holt—and all y’all do is make more mess!” I point at his Jeep, glaring sternly. “You get in that Jeep right now.”
Reid actually looks pained. “Miss Potter—”
“I said git!”
I don’t know if it’s my grammar or my insistence, but his weird, strained look only deepens, like I flat-out belted him.
Don’t think I ain’t tempted.
Then he sighs his annoying freaking sigh again and nods. “Very well. However, you can’t chase away your problems forever.”
Maybe not, no.
But I can push some off a little longer.
I don’t move until he’s good and gone, backing his Jeep out around my truck and then taking off down the road. I pull my truck in and park it in the barn where it belongs, then spend a few hours working out my rage by washing stalls and lugging hay bales and doing all the chores that need doing.
I don’t have any riding classes today. Nobody stopping by to check up on their animals, so I throw myself into making my barns as spotless as can be, sweeping and mopping until my arms want to fall off and I’m soaked with sweat.
Doesn’t fix much.
Doesn’t fix anything, really.
At least I feel better.
Wiping my brow, I head inside for a shower. After it, I dig out my laptop and flop down at the kitchen table, resting my sore body and sucking down a tall, cold glass of lemonade while I get to Googling.
I can’t rely on Holt Silverton for this.
So I start researching how to apply for protected status. If that ghost town really is Ursa, I need proof.
What little record I can find online says Ursa was a town of Dutch settlers who migrated west and brought a lot of now-lost traditions with them. Could be a lot with archaeological value in studying the buildings, the tools, even the patterns on old faded blankets.
Trouble is, there’s nothing that says how to get to Ursa, or where it was—only that it was in these mountains. Just like any number of tiny forgotten towns that had their boom and then went bust.
Maybe Holt got the town’s name wrong in his memories.
No—no, I know I’ve seen it somewhere before.
I frown, thinking back to the boxes of Dad’s junk.
That trunk. There was a leather-bound journal in there, real old.
I’ve seen it before.
I faintly remember Dad reading it when I was just a little girl, sitting next to him on the sofa and poring through my picture books of constellations.
I’d look over now and then with a child’s curiosity, squinting at the lettering and tight script that my little eyes couldn’t quite make out.
Do I remember seeing Ursa scrawled in ink?
Hmm.
Pushing the laptop away, I get up to dig in the chest, searching through all the little cases and foam padding until—
There it is.
An old-timey leather travel journal. It’s all thick yellowed paper with crinkly, stiff edges wrapped up in portfolio-style binding and tied with a leather cord.
It’s so old and feels so fragile I’m afraid it’ll crumble. I peel it open carefully, undoing the leather knots and then laying the journal out on the table.
The old pages fan up stiffly, and I turn them over carefully so they don’t snap right in half, reading through the faded ink that looks like it was scratched on with a quill.
It’s the journal of a priest, I guess. That’s what it sounds like, when it talks about reading services in the small towns he passes through. I guess he’s a traveler, a wanderer...or maybe he was just on his way somewhere and doing his duty in settlements he passed through.
He signs every entry as Father Matthew, nothing else. Not even on the inside cover to say who it belonged to.
There’s a peaceful, humble quality to the writing that makes it easy to get absorbed in. I page through his ruminations on nature and the beautiful things he saw, his thoughts on finding God in the skyline, in a hunting hawk, in the smiles of the kids in the towns he passed through.
When I’m almost halfway through, I stop.
It’s a single entry dated almost a hundred and fifty years ago.
Arrived in Ursa today.
We shall see how well I settle in at my post.
I should pen letters to the Bishop at once, letting him know of my safe arrival.
He was right to send me.
There are many lost souls here in need of guidance.
Ursa, he said.
I don’t think I’ve ever cursed a priest before, but damn if I’m not ready now.
I just wish he’d mentioned more places, some landmarks that would make it clear he charted a path right to these mountains and
that ghost town.
The entries after don’t help much, either.
They’re day to day chronicles of people’s confessions, their worries, the problems of the town. People suffering in poverty, wanting for food and basic needs as the silver—and the money—started to dry up. People doing terrible things to survive and falling in with some bandit guy named Danny as their leader.
And then nothing. A bunch of pages look torn out, just ragged edges left behind, and then blank space after that.
Shame.
At least I’m clear on one thing now.
Ursa exists where I think.
I just have to prove this journal came from there.
I’ve got to go back and get rid of Bostrom’s bones.
Even if it means doing something crazy like dissolving him in lye to make sure there’s not a single trace of DNA left.
It feels questionable, yeah. My belly tightens, I don’t know if I could really do it.
Especially if an innocent man lost his life.
But is it that wrong for me to want to keep my home?
I didn’t kill anyone.
I didn’t hide it for years, though I’m hiding it now.
I just want my ranch, my horses, my life to be safe.
Why is that so wrong?
I wait until dark to saddle up and head out.
Most of the time I can be pretty sure I’m alone on my ranch, but right now that’s no guarantee.
I’ve got too many people who want a piece of it—and me. I never know who might show up and catch sight of me disappearing down Nowhere Lane.
It’s unfamiliar terrain beyond the first mile in.
It’s been almost an entire year since I came down this path. But Frost is good, and I trust him to sense any predators, potholes, or other pitfalls long before I’d notice.
We take it slow, moving under moonlight that turns the grass silver and lights up the bluffs. They almost reflect back the sky from their cragged edges.
I can vaguely make out the path Holt made when he came through.
Doesn’t seem like any fresh tracks since then, though, and that’s a relief.
I’m jittery for the whole ride, and although we get through without running into anything scary...
That feeling doesn’t fade.
