No White Knight

by Nicole Snow

He needs to keep Ms. Wilma from asking questions that might make her connect why we’re asking about Ursa.

  Never mind why we’re asking about a man who’s long disappeared.

  Holt jumps a little and gives me an odd look before his expression clears with understanding. He switches his gaze back to Ms. Wilma.

  “So that’s it then?” he asks. “Were they just straight up having some strange religious sect up there in the mountains?”

  “Oh, I really doubt it was as much as all that,” she says, waving a hand. “Honestly, I think the prophecies and their blood stone were just an excuse. These were unclean people, my dears. Bandits, killers, and men so desperate they’d do anything. They merely wanted an excuse to plunder as they pleased. Danny claimed his blood stone was meant to guide them to riches hidden in Heart’s Edge and gave them a mandate to murder.”

  “Hell.” Holt’s dark brows lift rather sharply. “That’s pretty creepy.”

  “People do terrible things when they can find a reason,” Ms. Wilma says with a sigh. “Granny said they’d ride in during these terrible night raids. Come swooping down from the mountains on horseback and pillage the town, slaughtering and stealing loads of silver, claiming it was theirs by right. They’d take over the road into the town, too, so no one could ever follow them back. It came to be that just speaking the name ‘Ursa’ or mentioning Danny made folks tremble, fearing they were summoning another raid, so no one ever did.”

  “A local superstition,” I fill in. I’ve had a few moments to breathe. I’m feeling a bit clearer-headed. “That’s why nobody talks about it. Sooner or later, people died and the raids stopped, but everybody kinda forgets Ursa existed. It just fell off the map.”

  “Not quite.” Ms. Wilma smiles again, and there’s a touch of pride there. “You see, someone actually put a stop to Danny’s reign of terror. I’m proud to say my own great-great-uncle Jubal Ford—partnered up with the great grandfather of our own esteemed Sheriff Langley.”

  “Langley?” I choke on the next sip of my lemonade and cough, thumping my chest. “No way.”

  Holt smirks. “You’re telling me this town used to have a competent police chief?”

  “Holt Silverton, you watch that devil’s tongue,” Ms. Wilma chides with a repressed laugh. “Poor Sheriff Langley puts up with quite a bit for us.”

  “Ever so sorry, Ms. Wilma.” Holt clears his throat, putting on his best good-schoolboy smile.

  “Hardly, you devil of a boy. You never have been,” she says fondly, shaking her head. “But yes, back then those two men decided to play hero. They gathered up the strongest men in Heart’s Edge and rode out to Ursa. It was a twilight duel, they say, between Uncle Jubal and Danny himself. The whole nest of snakes scattered after my ancestor shot the rattlesnake prophet. But the superstition held on long after Ursa didn’t. You’re right about that, Libby. Perhaps people feared the ghost of Danny long after everything else was forgotten. I do believe it’s somewhere north in the mountains, if any part of it still exists—not so far outside of town.”

  No, not so far indeed.

  Holt and I exchange another heavy glance.

  Then he asks, “You know anything about what the numbers ‘eighteen-thirty-one to eighteen-sixty-nine’ might mean?”

  “Sounds like a grave marker, dearie, don’t you think?” Ms. Wilma asks. “And, well, I do believe eighteen sixty-nine was the year Danny would’ve died in the shootout. If my grandmother’s stories happened just as she said.”

  I think they did.

  And I think we’ve already said too much.

  Especially when Ms. Wilma gives me one of those mild looks that says she sees a lot more than anyone would want her to.

  “Tell me, why this sudden interest in old legends?” she asks.

  “We just found some old books in the library, and we were curious,” I say quickly. “Notes in the historical zoning records and stuff like that. Figured it couldn’t hurt to know a bit more about local history.”

  “Is that so?” she says shrewdly.

  Yeah.

  For now, it’ll have to be.

  There’s a little more small talk, and we don’t leave without her pressing some more cookies on us, still warm and wrapped up in a plate covered in a paisley cloth.

  We’re both quiet on the drive back to my ranch.

  There’s a lot to think through here.

  All those weird stories aren’t just guesses and half-truths anymore.

  They’re real.

  There’s a history in this town I never knew about.

  That history is sobering as hell, but it’s also the one chance I have at saving the only place I’ve ever called home.

  I just have to prove it and whip up enough interest to earn heritage protection status.

  Danny’s weird reputation might be enough to satisfy any historians, along with the freakishly well-preserved scraps of ghost town.

  Now I just have to figure out Gerald Bostrom.

  Having Holt here helps me feel grounded, like I’m not alone.

  We both settle into the evening routine of maintaining stuff around the ranch like we’ve been doing this together for years. He’s not even half as clumsy as when he first started.

  Looks like there was a cowboy underneath the big-time real estate boy after all.

  Later, when we’re done, we saddle up and head out.

  We don’t even need to say a word to know where we’re going.

  Where we have to go.

  Ursa’s waiting, and so is that dead man.

  In other circumstances, it’d be a lovely ride.

  We take it slow, letting the horses find their way in the dark with instincts we don’t have, trusting them not to trip as we amble along beneath the stars.

  As I look up at the sky, I finger my necklace and let the rhythm of Frost’s plodding steps lull me into peace.

  Now and then, I catch a glint of whiskey-gold as Holt glances over at me.

  I don’t know what to say.

  I just know I’m glad he’s here.

  The town—Ursa, Ursa, I feel like knowing it for sure is a curse—isn’t any different when we get there, but something feels off.

  Like there’s this dark cloud hovering over the place.

  This specter of an outlaw prophet, promising there’s more pain around the bend, just waiting to stir up all the sleeping ghosts here.

  I stand inside the door of the saloon and peer inside, watching that unmoving skeleton. It’s worse in the shadows, like he’s fixing to jump up and come after me.

  I shiver, folding my arms around my sides.

  “You holding up all right?” Holt says, his hand falling to rest on my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just wondering what we do next.”

  “I have an idea, but it’s probably not legal. I dunno, it might be. I mean, technically you own this land, yeah?”

  “It’s part of the acreage my grandfather passed down since the old homestead days, so yes.” I smile grimly. “Feels a little weird to say I own mountains.”

  “Better than it being public land, ’cause that means whatever’s on this property is yours by right.” He shrugs. “I hate to say it, but that Declan asshole might’ve had the right idea.”

  I eye him suspiciously.

  Anything involving Declan and right idea is instantly suspect.

  “Uh, how?” I whisper.

  “Quit giving me the stink eye. I’m just saying, there’s a lot of stuff here that may be valuable. Sell it off bit by bit in auctions, assess the antiques one at a time...”

  “Nickel-and-diming won’t beat the bank’s countdown, Holt. Dad was way behind in taxes thanks to his medical bills stacking up.” I shake my head. “And we’re up against the same problem selling stuff off piecemeal. Anything from here won’t be worth much unless we can verify its authenticity, and that means experts.”

  “Which means letting people on this land.”

  “And letting people find Bostrom�
�s body.”

  “Shit, yeah.” Holt narrows his eyes. “You know what I don’t get?”

  “What?”

  “Declan giving up with his tail between his legs. I know his type.” He shakes his head. “Why hasn’t he used that dead body against you yet?”

  I sigh. “There’s no way he can pin this on me in a way that’ll get me in trouble. Only compromise the land with a crime scene. You can’t call me an accessory for not reporting it. Really, Declan’s got more to lose by going to the police and having to explain why he was snooping around on someone else’s turf. Plus, I bet I’d need more hands than I’ve got to count the number of warrants that man has out for his arrest.”

  If it were just Dad’s reputation and no risk of losing everything, this would be my too-stupid-to-live moment.

  All of this is about more than keeping my home and happy pastures for my horses.

  It’s about me not wanting to let go of the memory of the man I loved, the man who raised me.

  Shaking my head, I step back from the door.

  “Let’s go,” I say, turning away. “I gotta think.”

  We barely step off the saloon’s rickety porch before there’s a loud buzzing in Holt’s back pocket and a square of light glows under his flannel.

  He frowns, fishing his phone out and squinting down at the screen to read the texts.

  In the night he’s all shadows in his black jacket, man-shaped darkness in graceful slashes and angles fit together, centered by those animal-gold eyes. But even on a moonless night, it’s not hard to see how he goes pale.

  “It’s Blake,” he says, a harsh edge in his voice. “He says somebody broke into The Nest.”

  “What? Oh my God.” My heart stumbles. “Is Felicity okay?”

  “Seems like it.” He glares fiercely at his phone. “Dunno. May or may not be connected to this mess, but—”

  “We have to check it out! She’s my friend.”

  “Right.” He shoves his phone in his pocket, turning his head, scanning over the horses tied to a post, then beyond, checking the perimeter. For a moment, I can see the soldier in him, in his alert posture, the sharp tension in the set of his jaw, the clarity of his gaze. “Let’s move. I’ll scope things out, see what I can find.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Together we mount up fast, untangling the horses’ reins from the post and sending them jostling toward the trail.

  As we pass the old church, I pause.

  I can’t help lingering on those little graves, stone and wood standing the test of time.

  1831-1869.

  If those are dates, someone’s life...

  Maybe I’ll find a name on those worn markers.

  Maybe I’ll catch a slam dunk piece of historical interest like the psycho Rattlesnake’s final resting spot.

  But there’s no time to check now.

  Holt’s already moving.

  Felicity might need me.

  I only hope my crap hasn’t wound up on her doorstep.

  With one last look at the church, I nudge Frost around to follow Holt.

  Felicity’s had plenty of straight up rotten luck.

  I still remember back when that mess was starting to heat up with the Galentron company that used to have a secret lab around here. She got in the thick of it with her cousin, Ember, and wound up with her life on the line.

  She’s always kinda taken things in stride. Fel’s just got this way about her.

  Sweet and kind and open, but she’s kinda sad, too. Like she’s seen too much and nothing surprises her anymore.

  Probably no wonder, then, that I’m more freaked out than Felicity is when Holt and I pull into the parking lot of The Nest.

  She’s standing outside talking to Sheriff Langley, her expression almost dead in the light of his police car. Her eyes are empty. Off somewhere, maybe, either far away or long ago.

  I don’t know.

  Something’s up with Felicity, but I learned a long time ago, ever since we got to be friends, that she doesn’t talk about herself all that much, and always finds a way to talk around the questions people ask.

  But if I were her, I’d be fighting mad at what those assholes did to the café.

  The whole front and side windows are smashed, floor to ceiling, so it’s like no walls left on two sides.

  Glass everywhere, inside and out.

  They ripped a couple booths out of the back wall, leaving the stucco exposed to show the wiring and underneath.

  Chairs kicked over.

  Glass display cases with the bakery stuff shattered.

  Equipment crumpled in like it’d been hit with a big old sledgehammer—and we’re talking that expensive commercial stuff, too.

  Metal all dented up like crunchy aluminum foil.

  Like a sick joke, they left the glass door intact.

  I’m gonna fucking kill them if she doesn’t.

  I’m already steaming as I push out of the truck and beeline right for Felicity.

  Blake’s here, too. I guess doing the whole fire chief’s job of inspecting the damage and making sure the building’s not an active danger, but I don’t pay a bit of attention to him—or Holt, who heads straight for his brother.

  I just cannonball myself into Felicity, cutting her off mid-sentence and hugging her tight.

  “Oof!” She doesn’t even tense up, though she does flail her arms a little awkwardly before settling them around me with a tired laugh. “Hi to you too, Libby. Sorry, Sheriff.”

  “It’s all right, Feli—er, Miss Randall,” Langley says. “But, say, if you could finish describing the assailants? You said that you were cleaning when they broke in?”

  I pry myself halfway off Fel but still lean against her side, listening while she nods and continues. “I was in the back when I heard a big crash. Just looked out in time to see what was happening before I locked myself in the storeroom.” Her brows knit, and she tucks a lock of her dark hair back. “They didn’t even try to get in. They totaled the place, emptied the register, and left.”

  “It’s likely they didn’t realize you were there,” Langley says. “If the register was the target and not you, it was just a smash and grab. No time to go lookin’ around for anything else.”

  My temper flashes hot, and I squeeze Felicity tighter. “They sure took their sweet time beating up the place! It’s a goddamn mess. That had to take like half an hour or so.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Fel whispers. “I was counting.”

  “Did you get a look at any of them?” Langley asks.

  Felicity nods. “Won’t help much, though. Just a quick glimpse. There were four of them, all men, all of them wearing black with ski masks. I think they had crowbars.”

  I go still.

  Wearing black with ski masks.

  That sounds too familiar.

  But I keep my mouth shut, letting Fel talk. Blake and Holt walk by, heads together and deep in conversation. I catch Holt’s eye.

  He slows, lifting his head, glancing toward my friend.

  “Most of them just seemed ordinary, but the one in charge, or at least I think he was...he was big,” Felicity says. “Real huge. This brick of a build, even had a square head.”

  I stare at Holt.

  Jesus. I don’t want to say anything out loud here, but...

  Who the hell do we know that’s built like a tank and prone to violence?

  He’s giving me the same look.

  Declan Eckhard.

  But why would he target Felicity to get at me?

  Or was it not about me at all, and he was just looking for another way to get some dirty cash?

  If those other truckers were getting impatient, ready to kick his ass...he could’ve muscled them into helping with a break-in. Felicity wouldn’t have had a fortune in the register, but probably a couple thousand or so after a solid day’s work.

  All gone now.

  Along with the hellish amount of work she put into keeping this place afloat, from f
undraisers to bake sales to anything and everything else she could ever think of.

  It makes me so stinkin’ mad.

  When I find that prick, I’m gonna make him eat a mouthful of my fist as an appetizer for the teeth I’ll shove down his throat.

  I just hang on to Fel while she gives Langley a few more details.

  I can’t help but notice how tense she gets when Langley looks at her again.

  “Can you think of anyone who might’ve had a motive to do this, instead of just a crime of greed or opportunity?” Langley asks.

  Remember how I said Felicity never gets shaken by anything?

  She looks pretty damn shook right now.

  It’s just for a second.

  Her face goes blank, her eyes dull.

  Hugging her is like hugging a steel mannequin.

  Then she just shrugs it off like nothing and smiles, tucking her hair back again. “Unless I ever served a cup of coffee that bad, no, not really.”

  Langley gives a little chuckle, scribbling something else down in his notepad, then flips it closed and tucks it in his breast pocket.

  “All right then,” he says. “I’ll get some police tape up to cordon this place off, and in the morning we’ll take some photos once we’ve got better light. You gonna want them for insurance purposes?”

  “Yes, please.” Felicity flashes him a grateful smile. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

  “Not tonight.” He shakes his head, hooking his thumbs in his belt and hitching it up a little. “You should go on home, get some rest. If you don’t feel safe, call a friend. If you remember anything else, you know how to reach me.”

  “Only one who ever answers 9-1-1,” Felicity teases, earning another laugh—more of a guffaw—from him.

  She’s the only girl I know who could keep laughing in a situation like this.

  Langley shakes her hand, then drops into the driver’s seat of his patrol car, immediately picking up the radio on the dash and muttering into it.

  I let out a long sigh.

  Our town’s so small we don’t even have a proper dispatch officer. But we sure do have our fair share of trouble.

  I look up at Felicity. She’s looking over my head, her eyes misty as she stares at the wreckage of her coffee shop.