by Snow, Nicole
“So what’s your big idea?” There’s a spark of hope when Sierra folds her arms over her chest, eyeing me skeptically.
“I’m not sure yet.” I shake my head. “I was hoping you’d have some thoughts. My biggest hope, right now, is that if I negotiate some kind of payment plan with the bank, I can buy a little time and do something to pull in enough business to make this work.”
Sierra scoffs. “What business? Trotting kids around on toy ponies?”
I narrow my eyes. “Look, this could be a full-on cattle ranch and crop farm if we had the money to invest in the right stuff and extra hands on deck. But since the only way to get that money is to sell the ranch, it’s a damn conundrum, ain’t it?”
She sniffs. “Conundrum, ooh. Big word for someone who never went to college.”
I rip the oven mitts off, flinging them down on the counter, glowering at her. “And them’s fighting words for someone who ran away before she even graduated high school—”
“Libby,” Declan cuts in. He’s all ingratiating but talking so loud it’s like trying to talk over a brick wall. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. The bank’s not in a position to offer you a payment plan on a lien.”
I eye him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why the hell not? Reid Cherish said—”
“That’s just not how it works.” There’s an odd look on his face, and he clears his throat.
“Oh, yeah? Seems like that’s exactly how it works to me.” I jab a finger in his direction. “I owe money for back taxes, and since I ain’t paid, they put a lien on my ranch. So if I sell, the tax man gets a cut of the property to pay off what I owe, the bank gets their service fee, and everybody’s happy. If I don’t sell, they get to use your bank to legally pressure me into a damn foreclosure. Now why the hell wouldn’t the bank be in a position to take the money I owe? Especially if it means they get the full amount plus interest on a payment plan?”
He draws himself up with his shoulders squared, looking down his nose at me. “I’m afraid it’s too intricate. If you’ll let me—”
“Don’t get snooty with me. Just ’cause I ain’t a college girl doesn’t mean I didn’t learn how this whole ball of wax works the second I got the letter in the mail.” I plant my hands on my hips, narrowing my eyes and raking him with an up and down look. “Don’t talk down to me ’cause I know your job better than you do.”
Declan splutters, and for a second his face scares me.
It’s just this mask of pure red-faced hate because I stepped on his dick.
There’s violence brewing in his eyes—violence and unrestrained loathing.
I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen a look like that on any banker’s face.
Something about this man stinks to high heaven.
But try telling my sister that when she thrusts herself between us, right in front of Declan like she’ll protect him from little old me.
Whatever, maybe she’s got a point.
If he makes any rash moves, I’ll knee him square in the nuts.
Sierra glares at me, her lower lip thrust out. “Is this why you asked us here, Libby? To insult us?”
“No. I wanted to try and actually figure something out!” I huff. “Look, I’m trying to be civil, sis, but this asshole can’t even keep his shit straight about the bank—”
“You said you weren’t having him here for the bank,” she says a bit smugly, lifting her chin. “So what does that matter?”
“Don’t you try to run that mess on me, Sierra Potter.”
“Excuse you, you’re not Mom. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a little girl!”
That makes us both stop.
When you lose not one, but two parents to cancer...
Sometimes just mentioning them freezes your heart.
We stare down each other for several seconds.
Then she looks away with a pissy little sound, though her shoulders sag, the wind knocked out of her.
“So what if you can get a payment plan? What then? Where are you even gonna get the money?” Sierra folds her arms over her chest.
“I...I don’t know yet,” I growl. “There’s a lot of idle farm equipment sitting around here. Some of it’s real pricey stuff. Dad had four tractors, most of ’em in good condition. I could probably take inventory and sell off excess junk for a decent chunk.”
Then an idea hits me on the head.
“You know what? You want money for the land, I’ll sell off those big old combines tomorrow and buy you out. If we ever get this place going for crops again, I’ll find another way. That sound fair?”
Sierra opens her mouth to spit something at me—but stops when Declan lays an almost proprietary hand on her arm.
He pulls her away.
I watch suspiciously as he bends down to murmur in her ear. She listens attentively, nods, and casts me a slit-eyed, almost triumphant look.
God, I don’t like the look of that at all.
Especially when she straightens and lifts her chin, eyeing me into the floor.
“I might consider it if the money’s good enough,” she says. “But why should I when I can take you to court and get the whole ranch for myself?”
“You don’t even want the ranch,” I say, throwing it out with heat born from pure frustration. “You don’t care about this place! You don’t care that Dad wanted us to stay here—and he wanted us to keep folks off our land!”
Sierra blinks, her smugness fading to leave blank-eyed confusion, her brows wrinkling, then smoothing as it clicks for her.
“Oh, what? You mean that old road he was always telling weird stories about? The one we weren’t allowed to go down?” The look she gives me is almost pitying. “Seriously, Libby. Don’t tell me this stubbornness is all over an old man’s ghost stories. Did you actually believe all that crap?”
I’m paralyzed.
I can’t say anything.
Whatever falls out of my mouth right now might send Sierra hunting down that road just to piss me off. Straight into places she has no business being and secrets I can’t trust her to keep.
She doesn’t care about protecting this family.
I’ve known it ever since she sold Mama’s things and took away our last memories of her.
Ever since she didn’t come home for Dad’s funeral.
So why would I think she’d give a single damn about my efforts to protect his name and legacy?
I only shake my head, my lips mute, my mouth dry.
Declan looks at me weirdly, something ugly in his flat granite chips of eyes.
“What road?” he asks.
“It’s nothing,” I bite off. “Hasn’t been a real road for over a century. It’s just an old mountain cut, and Sierra, if you think that’s the only reason I want to keep our home, then you were never part of this family to start with.”
I don’t mean to be so cruel. But I’m panicking, my palms sweaty, my heart racing, and I...
I’m hurt, too.
Just as hurt as the stricken look on Sierra’s face before I turn away sharply, giving them my back.
“We’re done here,” I say. “Screw lunch and get out. I guess if I see y’all again, it’ll be in court.”
There’s a huff.
A growling mutter from Declan and a rattled whisper from Sierra.
Then nothing but the door slamming shut.
I’m alone with that stupid shepherd’s pie, and we’re both steaming hot enough to melt through the wall.
Guess I’ll be eating alone today.
* * *
I’m tired, I need a drink, and I really need advice from someone who understands land deals.
Here comes my next big mistake of the day.
I checked around, and we’ve got no pro bono lawyers in Heart’s Edge right now.
Holt Silverton’s the closest thing I’ve got.
I sit on a barstool at Brody’s, nursing a can of beer and waiting, listening to the ruckus and the noise. I never really got to be part of t
he regulars who’d hang out here throwing darts and shooting the breeze.
Growing up, I was too busy already for drunken nights, keeping a ranch operational while minding Dad’s declining health.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like.
To just get to be a kid, reckless and irresponsible and free.
I guess that’s part of why I can’t stay mad at Sierra.
She saw her chance to get out, to live without all this responsibility crushing her, so she did.
Trouble with her is, she never grew up at all.
I’m lost in my thoughts—and nearly jump out of my skin when a tall frame slides onto the stool next to mine, body heat rushing against me like a hot gust of summer breeze.
Crap.
It’s Holt.
He sits there in a pair of jeans that love his thighs a little too much, his hips slouched forward, an open flannel over one of those clingy undershirts that look damn near obscene on him.
The white ribbed cotton is so thin I can practically make out his pores under it, muscle for days, his swarthy skin changing the color of the material.
“Libby,” he says. I don’t even have to look to hear the smugness in his growling voice. “My eyes are up here.”
Holy Toledo.
I’m sorely tempted to chuck my beer right in his leering face.
“Don’t even start, you—” I jerk my gaze up to those hot amber eyes and stop mid-curse.
They’re charmingly weird. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes his shade.
Almost like whiskey, deep and gold and liquid, but when they catch the light they glow like mellow gold.
It’s easy to get caught up staring at them, wondering just how the hell any man can have eyes like his.
Easy to get tricked, too.
There’s a reason they call it fool’s gold.
“All right, all right.” He props his knuckles against his temples, leaning on the bar—and speaking of fools, he’s sure grinning like one. “Did you ask me out to ogle me, or is this just a garden-variety date?”
“This ain’t a date in any way, shape, or form,” I hiss, fingers clenched against my beer hard enough to make the metal can dent. “God, do you have to be a dick about everything?”
“Force of habit. Possibly genetic. I can try to find my off switch, if you want.”
“Pretty sure I can find a punch with your name on it if you don’t,” I mutter, and he laughs, loud and full and free enough to cut over the noise of the bar.
“You’re never satisfied till you get to punch someone, are you?”
“So I got a little aggression to work out. So what?” I shrug stiffly.
“Mm-hmm.” He subsides into a chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, back in New York there was this fad that was all the rage for a while—smash rooms. Can’t remember if that’s what they’re officially called, but basically you pay up to spend half an hour in a room full of marble busts and a lot of other breakable things. It’s just you, a baseball bat, and all the rage you’d want to vent.”
I perk up. “Yeah? I could use some of that right now. I’m gonna die of a stress headache, I swear.”
“I take it that means your sister’s been giving you trouble?”
“Doesn’t she always?” I mutter grimly and sigh. “Listen, I was hoping you could give me a little advice. Since you know what it’s like to get testy with your family over inheritance crap, I mean...”
He cocks his head, musing. “I can try, but I was practically chasing Blake around trying to throw money at him while he was just trying to shove me away.”
I eye him. “I’m sensing a theme of people not wanting you around much.”
“Yeah?” he says mildly. “I thought I was the coveted man-whore, master playboy of Heart’s Edge, women trailing helplessly in my wake like the pied piper of pussy. Which one is it?”
I snort—but I’m trying not to grin, my mouth twitching.
“Both. They chase you, then they find out what a prick you are and shove you away. Though you’ve already dropped them by then, I reckon, so you don’t have to care, right?”
Something odd flickers across his face.
His smile fades, and there’s just...something like regret?
Whatever it is, it darkens those eyes to brass.
“Fair guess” he says a little too easily. “Can’t say I haven’t earned every bit of my reputation..”
I frown, folding my arms on the bar and leaning on them.
“Why are you like that, though? I mean, what happened?” I ask. “Did some pretty girl break your heart way back when or something? That kind of old story?”
He’s silent, his gaze drifting away from me, skimming over the bottles lined up behind the bar. He’s got this distant look that says he’s somewhere else, seeing places I probably can’t even imagine.
“Not way back when,” he finally whispers. “Thing is, once you break a wild stallion, he’s busted for good. You can set him free, but he’ll never quite go back to being wild again.”
I shouldn’t be feeling for him.
For that odd melancholy roughness in his voice.
But for all that he acts like this dirty-minded charmer with a silver tongue and flaming filth in every word...there’s a real man under there, too.
And somebody hurt that man.
Maybe not too long ago.
He’s been nice enough for me to go poking more than I need to.
But before I can think of anything to say, to offer even a word of sympathy, he smiles and shakes his head, raising a hand to signal the bartender.
“So,” Holt diverts. “You wanted to ask me about the ranch and the dispute with Sierra?”
I wait while he orders a beer on tap—I’m one of the few heathens who’d order a can at Brody’s—before I nod.
“Yeah. We got into it pretty bad earlier. I tried to talk about payment plans and selling off some of the old farming equipment for a little liquid cash to make that work, maybe even see if I could make a dent in buying her out.” I shake my head. “But it got crappy real fast. I think at this point she’s gonna sue just to spite me.”
He whistles softly under his breath. “We need to find a way around that.”
“How?” I whisper.
Isn’t that the million-dollar question?
“Libby, first I’ve got to ask. The only solutions I can think of would make sure that land can’t ever belong to Sierra, and half of it’s rightfully hers. You okay with that?”
I turn my head slowly, dragging a look over him.
“She’s part of what I’m trying to protect it from.” I grind my teeth. “She’d probably dump it in a short sale for half of what it’s worth. Or else sell it to people who won’t do anything but use it for a landfill or something. She doesn’t care about the land, the ranch, our home. She just wants money. So I’ll make sure she gets plenty of cash for her trouble, one way or another.”
It’s always been about money.
The taxes, the bank, my sister.
It’s all anyone ever wants from me.
“Home means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Holt watches me discerningly, curiosity glinting in his eyes.
The question catches me off guard, enough that it feels like he’s struck me in the chest with it, hard and hurtful.
I hesitate, breathing shallowly, then admit, “Home doesn’t leave you.”
My throat hurts. I stare down at the open mouth of my beer can.
“People leave. Home stays with you as long as you stay with it,” I say.
“Just like your ma left,” Holt tells me, his voice gentle with understanding. With warmth. “Then Sierra...then your old man.”
Damnation.
How can he see through me like that?
I grit my teeth.
There’s a hot anger burning through me—what else is new?—but for once it’s not at him.
It’s aimed at me.
For letting myself get so hung up on my feelings th
at I’m not focusing on the problem, and now this man’s pitying me for all my regrets over things that never were and never could be.
I clear my throat, forcing a smile.
“Maybe,” I say neutrally. “What’s your idea for saving the land, though?”
Holt looks at me with those knowing eyes that say he knows I’m deflecting.
Bless his infuriating butt, he lets me.
He takes a slow pull off his beer. “There’s always the option of having the entire place declared a protected site.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, sure. I’ll just ask the state real nicely to put a rubber stamp on it.”
He chuckles. “Hear me out. If we can find some reason your place has any historical significance either in American history or the history of Heart’s Edge, we just might be able to get the city council to sign off on protected land status. Then we can use that to petition the higher levels of government. Even if it doesn’t work...it ties shit up in the legal pipeline. It buys a lot of time.”
Hmm. So maybe it’s not as ridiculous as it sounds.
“That kind of petition takes forever to go through. We’re talking years,” he continues. “Years where the bank can’t touch it while you figure out your next step. The only other way to get the land legally declared off-limits is if it’s considered a toxic HAZMAT site, but then they’ll force you to move. I don’t think that’s an option.”
“You’re damn right it’s not. Dad never let any of those crazy Galentron bastards on our property, anyway, to mess things up like that,” I say. “But tell me more about this protected land thing. What kind of historical significance are we talkin’?”
“I’d have to look into it more. It’s not something I’ve dealt with much in the past, mostly heard stories from other developers. It hit me on the way over here.” He turns away from me as the bartender slings a fresh beer down for Holt, dark and foaming and nearly spilling over the mug.
Holt spares a thankful nod, then takes a slow sip, his brows setting in a stormy line.
“Give me ideas,” I tell him. “And I’ll let you know if it’s already hopeless.”
“Anything, honey. Finding an old Native village, something that could be an archaeology dig. One of the old silver mines, even. With the silver industry here being big in the olden days, and the stuff tied into the gold rush, you never know. I bet there’s a lot of old equipment hanging around that has historical value. It’s just got to be important enough to preserve the site for study.”
