by Nicole Snow
If anything, it only sinks in deeper.
I feel like I’m being pulled around by Dad’s ghost.
Like he wants me to find something, but I just don’t know what.
Maybe I’m just carrying his guilt for him now that he’s not here to carry it himself.
It’s haunting as Frost takes one slow step at a time into the ruins. He heads toward the saloon like he knows.
The poor boy feels my tension, probably. I swear this place looks much creepier at night.
Like that dead man could jump up anytime and make me pay for my father’s sins.
My heart thuds, my palms sweat.
I dismount and tie Frost up to a hitching post so old the Vanner would probably pull it out of the ground with one good tug.
But he’s good—he always is—and only nudges my shoulder with his warm, velvety nose like he’s reminding me he’s always here for me.
I step through the creaking double doors, their scream too loud, too hollow, a terrible lament of the dead.
It’s almost like the cry comes from the wide-open mouth of the skeleton slouched in the chair like he’s been waiting just for me.
I know his name now.
Gerald Bostrom.
It just makes this worse.
I take a few tentative steps closer, but there’s no sudden motion, no jump scare, nothing paranormal.
Just my own footsteps on brittle floorboards, which is bad enough.
My breathing thins.
When I look at the skeleton up close, he doesn’t scare me.
He just makes me sad.
Sitting there with so many unanswered questions, haunting my life.
Dad told me to find his gun, but I throw my flashlight around everywhere and don’t see it. There’s nothing behind the bar but debris, a few fallen chairs around the tables, and an ancient piano in the corner.
Nothing catches the light but a spent shell casing I know too well.
Every gun’s got its own kind of shell casing, and Dad’s rifle...
Yeah.
I leave it where it is. I guess the bullet itself probably fell out of the mummified remains of Bostrom and might be hanging around inside that suit somewhere.
God, what gun? Where the hell is it?
I don’t know.
I’m not thinking straight.
There’s got to be something here that’s key to burying this mess.
After taking a couple more long, nervous rounds, it’s all I can stand. I head back outside and mount up.
Frost seems as eager to get the hell out of Dodge as I am, but just in case, I make one more run through the town.
I never really explored here much the last time I came, but there’s a sort of quiet fascination to this place.
It really is a straight-up Wild West town like something right out of a movie set.
Just not sure if that movie’s a western or a thriller flick.
It’s eerie how it looks like the people just stopped what they were doing and left.
Plates are still on tables when I peer through windows. Tools left lying around, half-finished horseshoes next to a dead forge at the blacksmith’s, ledgers left open at the bank, though from what I can see the weather’s gotten in the windows enough to make the ink illegible.
One day soon I’ll pick through every building until I find something, anything, just one scrap of paper that says this place is Ursa.
As I get to the far side of town, though, I’m caught by the church.
It’s as run-down as everything else. Sturdy and standing, but dirty and with some shingles torn out. There’s a small graveyard beyond it, mostly wood markers crumbled into bits of kindling and a few brave stones still standing.
Was this Father Matthew’s church?
Could this be the key, linking this church with that journal?
Another thing catches my eye as I start turning Frost away, though.
And it chills my bones more than any skeletons or spiderweb-clogged churches ever could.
Tire tracks. They’re there on the road leading out the far side, toward the exit of the mountain pass.
Fresh ones.
Someone found where the road lets out and the pass opens up on the other side of the mountains. They came in from the opposite direction so I wouldn’t catch them skulking around and chase them off for trespassing.
Despite the melting heat of the summer night, I’m frozen with dread.
Just staring at those tracks.
Frost picks up on my unease and prances restlessly under me.
Someone else knows about the ghost town, now.
Someone besides me and Holt.
Which also means...
Oh, no.
Someone knows about Gerald Bostrom, too.
Shit.
12
Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth (Holt)
Gotta say, it’s a lot easier to track an arsonist down when he’s conveniently spewing fire everywhere.
That’s what happened the last time things blew up in Heart’s Edge.
Turns out, it’s a whole lot harder when all I have is guesswork about who might be pissed off at me, plus a little detective help from my brother.
Whoever set the blaze knew what they were doing. It’s easy enough to rule out any random jealous boyfriends, husbands, or lovers, or angry ex-lovers themselves.
I’m good, but I’m not worth burning six figures in equipment and inventory good, and possibly going to prison.
Rival contractors?
Nah. Most everyone in town with any construction experience is an independent contractor.
Before I came back to town, they’d form a small crew to raise a barn or take on odd jobs. Now I’ve got ninety percent of the local guys employed on my crew, and they’re happy for the work.
So that knocks competitors off the list.
Which means my chief suspect is somebody furious at me for getting in the way.
One guess.
A good old banker like Declan Eckhard wouldn’t stoop to arson, would he?
He’d besmirch his company’s good name.
Still, nothing else adds up, even if Eckhard seems tricky to pin down.
And I’ve got more shit to worry about than whodunnit. I’ve also got to pick up the pieces, pay my crew, and start over.
I’ve already filed my insurance claim, but that’ll only cover part of it. They’re going to want to investigate and make sure I didn’t set fire to my own stuff so I could take the money and bolt from a failing business.
I don’t have time to wait for that.
Looks like I’m selling the Benz sooner.
Which is how I find myself in Spokane for the day.
There’s a car dealership in Heart’s Edge, but not one big enough to pony up the kind of cash I want for a Mercedes-Benz that’s less than a year old and has less than ten thousand miles on it.
I think I might’ve bamboozled the car dealer in Spokane with a little slick talk, though.
I walk away with a decent five-figure chunk of cash, plus a trade-in on one of those sturdy old Ford pickups that doesn’t ever die even when you try to kill it.
Good for hauling shit around.
Not a bad deal, and now I can pay my crew.
Replacing my equipment on the fly, though...that’s harder.
Time to bite the bullet.
I wince, pulling into Confederated Bank & Credit Union.
I don’t want to be here.
As far as I’m concerned, between Declan and Reid harassing Libby, these people are the goddamn enemy. But I need a small business loan, and maybe if I play nice, I can coax them into taking some heat off her.
I won’t lie.
I’m also curious about Declan and hoping to get a glimpse of him in his natural habitat and see if I can figure him out.
There’s no sign of the rat when I push the glass doors open and step into the tidy little space.
It’s an open floor. There used to be an ic
e cream shop here, and funny thing is it’s right next door to the Menagerie.
The place actually got fixed up before the vet practice did, though I didn’t know who’d be buying it out and moving in once we were done with our repair.
The place looks patched together, redecorated, but serviceable.
Bright, too.
Somebody put some big ass bulbs in overhead.
I’m squinting after coming in from the natural sunlight outside. Not so much that I don’t recognize Reid Cherish behind one of the desks. He taps away diligently at a laptop with his posture so straight I think he’s got a yardstick shoved down the back of his pants.
When he sees me, his lips turn down at the corners.
Hello to you, too, pal.
I guess the best customer service smile he can manage is forcing them back up into a flat, neutral line as he stands to intercept me, stretching out one hand.
“Mr. Silverton,” he says smoothly. “What can I do for you today? Are you here to insult me again?”
I grind my teeth.
Yeah.
This stings like a cigarette burn to the nipple, swallowing my pride to ask this guy for a loan.
I glance at the other desks, but the people behind them suddenly seem extremely interested in what they’re doing—and not in meeting my eyes.
Goddammit.
Sighing, I shake Reid’s hand.
“I’m here on business today, not busting your balls.” I say. “Relax. Looks like you’re working, so how about we keep it professional?”
“Certainly,” he says, like it’s perfectly natural, and gestures toward the chair opposite his desk as he takes his seat again. “Please, sit. Tell me what I can do for you today.”
I settle down in the chair and tell myself to relax.
We can do this real friendly-like, and then I can get the fuck out.
For a second, I hesitate, but there’s no use in prolonging my torture.
“I’m here about a small business loan,” I grind out.
Reid studies me, his eyes half-hidden behind the overhead lights reflecting off his glasses. “I assume this has to do with the recent fire damage to your worksite and equipment. Pity, that.”
I smile, though it feels bitter. “Hardly here a month and you’re already tuned in to the town gossip mill, huh?”
“Word about disasters gets around.” His brows knit together. “Rather often in Heart’s Edge, it seems. This town has broken quite a few mirrors.”
“You don’t seem like the type to believe in superstitions.” I can’t help barking out a laugh.
“We all have our foibles.” He adjusts his glasses. “How much are you looking for?”
“About two hundred thousand,” I say—and before he can start in, I raise a hand. “I know. I know it’s a lot. Construction gear isn’t cheap, and I’ve got to start off leasing to own all over again. I already traded in my car for the cash to sign my crew’s checks, and the insurance company’s going to cut me a pittance in maybe a week, maybe a year. Thing is, I have to replace my supplies and break ground now, so I can’t wait that long.”
He thins his lips, musing.
I want to be mad at him, but right now he doesn’t seem like a bad sort.
Sure, he works for a bank that’s after Libby’s land.
I’m not too fond of him, but if he deals me fair...
“I can’t guarantee approval. However, what I can do is submit the loan for that amount, and then negotiate to find out how much I can get you. Can you work with that?” he asks.
I tilt my head, then give him a firm nod.
I don’t have a choice.
And once I find out what my budget will be, I can start making plans from there.
“Excellent.” Reid pulls his desk drawer open and, without even having to rummage, plucks out a stack of blank paperwork. “If you’ll fill out the application, I’ll get it submitted for review and be in touch shortly.”
He slides the stack over and sets a pen on top of it, then promptly ignores me to turn back to his laptop, continuing to tap away at a speed that turns his fingers into a blur.
I raise a brow.
Guess our conversation’s done.
It doesn’t take me long to fill out the loan paperwork. Dot my I’s, cross my T’s, and then sign away my life for however goddamn long it takes me to pay this back.
Too bad I gave up on the mall contract, even if I haven’t informed the city yet.
That payout would’ve solved a lot of my problems.
I can’t believe I’m being this stupid over a woman again, jeopardizing my entire livelihood.
Well, sometimes dumb don’t learn.
And Libby Potter makes me triple dumb.
While Reid takes a look over my paperwork to make sure I didn’t fuck it up, I take another look around the room.
“Where’s your boy, Declan?” I ask. “Out harassing more ranchers while there’s still daylight?”
Reid glances up from my paperwork with a puzzled frown. “Declan?”
“Eckhard,” I snap. “You know?”
His frown only deepens.
I cock my head, staring at him.
“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone at this branch or in the main Chicago office by that name,” he says. “Are you certain you’re remembering it right?”
“I’m sure,” I say, and that sense of unease I’ve gotten time and time again becomes a stabbing under my skin. “Well, maybe I’m confused.”
“I should hope so.” Reid sounds almost offended. “Declan Eckhard may be someone from corporate, but I should think if corporate assigned someone to work over me in the Potter case, they would at least have the courtesy to let me know.”
“Rude,” I agree, but keep the rest to myself. “I’m probably just misremembering. No need to get your panties in a twist.”
“I,” Reid says coolly, “do not wear panties.”
“More than I needed to know, my man.” I chuckle, rising to my feet. “Anything else you need from me?”
“No,” he says absently, lowering his eyes to skim the pages again. “Thank you. I’ll call you within forty-eight hours about your loan approval, Mr. Silverton. Thank you for doing business with us.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Our parting handshake confirms my problem isn’t here.
Not with Cherish or Confederated Bank.
It’s with a damn liar with an agenda, who suddenly seems more dangerous than I thought.
I narrowly make it back into my room at the Charming Inn without getting caught by Ms. Wilma.
I’m just lucky it’s late, and she’s in her kitchen at the big house harassing Warren and Haley and the kids over dinner.
I love her just as much as anyone else in Heart’s Edge adores her, but I don’t want to find out just how much she’s heard about me mooning around Libby and doing stupid stuff for that woman.
I get enough crap from Alaska and Blake.
Libby’s on my mind right now as I tuck myself into the cozy two-room suite overlooking the daffodil-filled inner courtyard of the main house, settled at the window with my laptop.
Looking up Declan Eckhard doesn’t give me much.
I have that scrap of paper with the license plate on his semi tucked into my pocket. I dig it out and search.
Finally, some serious pay dirt.
Forum posts, all by long-haul truckers. Looks like there’s an online community for everything—in this case, multiple communities.
All of them send the same message: watch out for these plates, he’ll fuck you over.
Dozens of stories.
Everyone saying the trucker with those plates is a big time gambler, a swindler, and a con artist who’ll cheat a man out of his money and then take the next job that gets him on the road, ahead of any pissed-off people who want their cash back.
Plus a few anecdotes about towns where he’s ripped businesses off, too.
Declan’s entire history is full of
bad loans, flashy bling, and debtors on his heels.
Him using sob stories about how he got conned himself. He talks folks into being his muscle to go shake a target, only to disappear with every damn penny after getting others to do his dirty work.
They describe him like those old-school riverboat gamblers.
Fine clothes, likes nice things, puts on the illusion of refinement, but underneath it, he’s a brawler.
Dark hair. Cold eyes. Oily smile.
That’s the Declan I know, all right.
Fuck.
Sierra’s boyfriend isn’t with the bank at all.
He’s a liar and a cheat who must’ve seen the public notice about the lien and saw an opportunity to get in good and pull one over on some small-town rubes.
Only, I’ve been around real con men. Big city millionaire con men.
Declan’s a guppy.
I doubt he’s tried to pull a con job this big before, and it’s showing in how he’s getting fidgety around the edges and heavy-handed.
What if that heavy-handedness means violence?
Shit, fuck, damn.
My mind zips back to Libby in a heartbeat.
It’s been days since I heard from her, I realize.
Days since she was trying to talk to me at my trailer in a huff, but I was so focused on the fire I just breezed right past her with my heart in my throat.
It’s a miracle she hasn’t hunted me down and set my hair on fire yet.
But the silence alone tells me I’m probably in a fuckton of trouble, if she’ll even speak to me.
I pick up my phone and pull up her contact—and that’s when I notice the missed call from the day my site got torched. It must’ve come through when my phone was dead.
With the way things have been, Libby probably thought I was ghosting her.
She’s gonna shoot to kill the next time she sees me.
I know she is.
If she’s able to shoot me, and somebody hasn’t shot her first.
Hey, I text. I’m coming by to talk. Found some stuff you need to see. It’s important.
I wait a good fifteen minutes while I scroll through more stories of the nameless trucker with those plates.
No call. No cuss-filled texts. No rude emojis.
Nothing.
That shouldn’t worry me.
