No White Knight Page 6

  Now they carry an uncomfortable truth.

  If people ever find out what’s down there, I don’t know where I’ll be.

  I might even lose this land no matter what I do, but this place could take it away a lot faster.

  I don’t think they let you keep your ranch when it’s been seized by the police as a crime scene, all assets forfeited when your father gets posthumously convicted.

  Maybe it can’t happen.

  Maybe it can.

  With the way my life is spiraling nose down right now, I’d believe just about anything.

  But I’m going to find a way to save this place, one way or another.

  I’ll make sure of it.

  I’ve always made sure of it.

  Everything’s going to be okay.

  I swear.

  Months Ago

  I can’t believe it’s gonna end like this.

  Dad’s the smartest man I know.

  He’s the kinda smart that finds new planets and can tell you what atmosphere they have from thousands of light years away. All by tiny flickers in light on photographs that aren’t much more than grainy spots of black and white taken with a high-powered telescope.

  That’s what NASA used to pay him to do.

  Find new stars and planets.

  Reach out across the universe and touch galaxies that might not even be there anymore, full of all those beautiful lights we see up in the sky every night.

  But now it’s like there’s nothing left of that amazing brain that used to be full of so much life.

  Just riding with him was like being in school.

  He’d tell me about how all the mountains here are full of metal that came from stars, carried by asteroids that crashed into the Earth eons ago.

  He’d tell me about navigating by constellations.

  He’d tell me what the names of the constellations meant, everything from my own Aries to Ares—the God of War, ruled by Mars—to the much-ignored Ophiuchus that kind of got kicked out as the bastard child of the zodiac.

  He’d tell me about moons where it rained titanium and shores of liquid helium oceans made of crushed black diamonds. I’d look up at the shining night sky and wonder how he could learn all that just from the color and brightness of those twinkling lights.

  Now? He can’t even talk.

  He’s almost a vegetable, his body wasted away, his tendons ropy and his mouth hanging slack, a bit of drool building in the corner. His eyes are glazed, empty.

  He never told me about the cancer, either.

  He’s always been like that, holding back bad news.

  And the thing with cancer is, it can go slow for the longest time, and no one can tell.

  But when it decides it means business, it doesn’t mess around.

  I didn’t want to put him in hospice. It wouldn’t have made things any easier for him when the doctors already gave us an in-home morphine drip.

  I don’t want it to be even harder with him surrounded by impersonal caretakers instead of the people who love him.

  Not that Sierra’s here for this, here to change his feeding tube and wash him down every day, here to sit by his bedside and hold his hand and try not to squeeze it tight enough to hurt him while I struggle not to sob until I’m just a dried-out, mindless husk of who I used to be, too.

  Like father, like daughter.

  But I know it won’t be long.

  It started in his pancreas, but now it’s in his lungs, his liver, even in his brain.

  Eating him alive.

  No one wanted to say it when the doctors sent him home.

  We all knew they were sending him home to die.

  And I’m here wondering who my father really was, after what I saw this morning.

  But he’s not here to tell me anymore.

  His heart may be beating, his hand may twitch feebly in mine as I clutch it softly at his bedside, looking down at him with his white hair spilled across the sweat-soaked pillow.

  There’s nothing in those eyes.

  Until they abruptly snap open.

  I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes widening. I almost recoil from him as a stark, wide blue stare locks on me for dear life.

  His hand tightens on mine like a vise. The sticks of his fingers are so thin they dig in with surprising strength, and I let out a little hiss of pain, but I don’t let go.

  “D-Dad?”

  He stares at me. Suddenly everything I know as Dad flashes in those eyes like he’s an empty vessel and was poured back into himself.

  He works his dry, gummy lips, his voice a hollow rasp in the back of his throat before he coughs, his thin body shaking, his nostrils flaring around the breathing tubes.

  “Libby. Y-you...you have t-to...”

  I lean in close. His voice is weak and thready, so hard to hear, but I’m trying, listening with everything, holding fast to his shaking hand.

  “L-Libby, you have to f-find it. I can’t...I c-can’t take back. What I did, I...y-you. The rock! You need...”

  “What?” I whisper, frozen, not comprehending.

  His gaze darts away from me then, almost afraid, flicking around the room wildly.

  “Th-the gun. Where?”

  “Which gun, Dad?” We’ve got tons of guns. Kinda necessary when you run a ranch this size, everything from his favorite rifle to my sawed-off shotgun that almost never leaves my saddle when I’m out for a ride. “My gun?”

  “His gun!” he flares, starting to sit upright only to collapse again, wheezing. “Have...h-have to hide...his gun...”

  That’s when I realize.

  He’s not actually here with me.

  He’s living in the past.

  He’s down Nowhere Lane.

  And this horrible dread sinks in.

  Dad knows exactly what’s down there.

  Oh, Jesus.

  He knows, and he’s the one who...

  “Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my free hand, my eyes hot with tears—afraid for him, afraid of him, afraid of the truth. “Dad? Dad, what did you do?”

  But he only sinks down into the bed, that distant gaze never leaving me. His brows knit together.

  “The rock, Libby,” he whispers. His voice is oddly clear, almost eerie. “It was all for the damn rock.”

  Then his eyes close, his head sagging to one side.

  His hand goes limp in mine.

  And those wheezing breaths that were background noise for weeks of my life, constant and steady and loud, just stop.

  So does my heart.

  He’s gone.

  I clutch at him, pressing my fingers to his pulse, to his chest, over his mouth.

  Useless. Even though his flesh is still warm through that parchment-thin skin, there’s no air against my palm, no flutter against my fingertips.

  A loud cry bellows up from the bottom of my shattered heart as I fling myself against him and gather him up.

  “Dad!”

  Present

  It hasn’t been so long that remembering that day doesn’t still make my eyes burn.

  I can tell myself it’s the midday sun or the dust in the air all I want.

  It’d be a lie.

  I still miss him.

  Even if I’m afraid to know the truth.

  The love he gave me—gave both of us, Sierra included—was real, no matter who else he may have been.

  I’ve just got to hang on to that with all my heart and soul.

  Rubbing at my eye, I reach up to touch my necklace with its constellation spelled out in little red stars, and feel a touch of warmth welling up inside me.

  Still, I feel heavy as I turn away from the gate and the fence, guiding Frost in a light trot across the even ground.

  Out here, it isn’t as well-tended as the pastures visitors see. But it’s still got that tended feel to it that says a long time ago, my family grew crops. Way back when farmstead living was the only way of living if you weren’t a miner or a money changer or a straight-up outlaw.


  Frost barely makes it a few steps, though, before I realize I’ve got company.

  I’m a little surprised Reid Cherish, Mr. Suit and Tie Robot himself, drives a dusty old decommissioned military Jeep.

  But I’m even more surprised to see him this far out on my property, standing on the other side of the fence on the barely-there dirt lane ringing my land, crisp and cool in his suit even under the high yellow sun.

  Here comes emotional ping-pong again.

  Only this time it’s flinging me between pure rage and terror.

  He saw me through the gate.

  Odds are he’ll have questions about that glimpse of road in the scrub just beyond it, vanishing into the mountain pass.

  I don’t know if I should act casual to throw him off the trail or go all wolverine to chase him off.

  So I just settle for not acting like I’m as heart-thumpingly scared as I am and send Frost kicking forward, scowling at Reid.

  He doesn’t react.

  Yeah, that’s gonna get annoying.

  But what’s annoying me now is the way he looks at me from the other side of the fence. On Frost’s back I’ve got height on him, bulk on him, but he still carries himself like he’s the one in charge here.

  And he looks at me like he knows something’s up.

  Like he knows everything.

  “What the hell do you want?” I growl at him. “Who said you could go traipsing around my place?”

  He smiles thinly. “Traipsing. Hmm. Never heard a girl your age say that.” He cocks his head to one side while I bristle. “Technically, I’m not on your property, Miss Potter. I’m on the other side of the fence.”

  “Except,” I say, narrowing my eyes and letting my hand fall to the shotgun in its saddle holster, “we built the fences a little in so we could run irrigation ditches. Better check your property map before you figure out where it’s safe to stand without getting shot for trespassing.”

  His eyebrow ticks up a tiny bit. “You’d have to properly warn me first in order to legally shoot me for infringing on your property line.”

  I thumb the hammer on the shotgun, eyes narrowing, but don’t pull it out of the holster just yet. “Pretty sure I just gave you fair warning.”

  Reid’s sigh is long-suffering, slow, as if he’s just not the slightest bit worried about the angry chick with a gun big enough to roar like a bear.

  “I only came to talk, as promised,” he says. “I saw your truck pulled up past the fence, and when you didn’t answer the door, I thought it might be prudent to seek you out.”

  I roll my eyes. “Everybody’s always showing up on my doorstep. Haven’t you or your little buddy ever heard of phone calls?”

  “My buddy?” He looks puzzled, then dismisses it with a flick of his fingers along his sleeve, before he adjusts the cuff of his shirt. “If I called, would you actually pick up the phone?”

  I snort. “Nope.”

  “There you have it.” He smooths his sleeve against his wrist, then tucks his glasses up his nose with his middle finger—and I don’t think it’s pointed, but it damn well might be. “May I please ask you to come to my office for a meeting next week? We can still negotiate something.”

  “Like what?”

  “If you put a reverse equity mortgage on your—”

  “Fuck no.”

  That’s when the shotgun’s out of the holster and across my saddle, resting on the horn.

  I won’t actually shoot him, no.

  Sadly, I’m a big old softie under this temper and this mouth.

  But he doesn’t need to know it.

  He just needs to think I might be as psycho as I’m trying to look.

  “Mortgaging my house to pay taxes is the same as letting the bank own my place outright. This place is mine, paid off for generations, and it’s staying mine.”

  I try not to sigh. Dad wasn’t bad with money, but between mounting medical bills and the endless upkeep on a place this size...he fell farther behind. Down a debt hole that still has me plummeting.

  “This ‘place,’ as you put it,” Reid says coldly, “is only partially yours, ma’am. Think carefully. If you continue down this path...soon you’ll lose this land. A tragic end for a place that’s been Potter ground for over a century.”

  I’ll give him one thing—it takes balls to say that to a woman threatening you with a sawed-off shotgun.

  I guess it also takes balls to freaking bow to her, before turning your back like you aren’t just giving her a perfect target.

  For a second, I’m sorely tempted.

  So tempted I can suddenly understand my father doing something awful in a moment of anger and desperation, adrenaline hot and fear even hotter in the back of his mind.

  For a second, my hand tightens on the hilt of the shotgun.

  I relax it when Reid Cherish slinks back to his Jeep and calmly backs out, reversing into the little dirt lane.

  Leaving me alone with just Frost and the sickly fear pooling in the pit of my stomach.

  I don’t know if Reid Cherish and Confederated Bank know what my father did or know what’s back there.

  I just know they’re dangerous.

  And I’ve got to figure out how to outwit them.

  4

  Mustang Sally (Holt)

  What can I say? A man can change.

  This is the first time in my life I’ve ever dressed down to impress a chick.

  Usually it’s all suit and tie, or at least a nice expensive designer shirt and a pair of slacks, rarely jeans.

  Back in the Big Apple, I did the whole 'dress for the job you want' thing. The job I wanted then was being the most coveted man in New York, both in the construction business and in everyone’s bed.

  I guess I’m still doing it here.

  The job I want now is being somebody Libby trusts so we can find a way to make everything work.

  I think I might actually have a soft spot for that little firecracker.

  Nah, let’s be real.

  A hard spot, too.

  I can’t dwell on how much I’d like to let another part of my anatomy talk with her instead.

  I’m hardly dressed like a gentleman today as I pull up in my Benz and find her waiting for me with two horses tied up to the fence at her side.

  I’m in jeans and an A-shirt with another light flannel shirt unbuttoned over it just to ward off dust and flies. I don’t want to sweat half to death. Though it’s barely mid-morning, I’ve already got the sleeves cuffed and rolled up to let me breathe.

  She’s wearing significantly less.

  A tight tank top so close-fit and low-slung that those thin spaghetti straps look like they’re about to break free, snapping under the weight of her tits from the sheer strain on the dark rose-colored fabric.

  Her cutoffs that might as well be panties with how high she’s cuffed them.

  Fuck.

  She’s still in those cowboy boots, too, highlighting her shapely, tanned mile-long legs.

  Today she’s even got on a cowboy hat, too, shading her eyes and the loose tumble of windswept golden curls.

  I can’t quite make out the expression on her face under it or what she thinks of me as I slam the car door shut and mosey up the little drive. I cross over the plating bridging the ditch nimbly this time, thank you very much.

  She tips the brim of her hat with a little curl of her lip. One bright, glowing blue eye rakes over me.

  “Did you come to walk the grounds or wrangle cattle?” she mocks as soon as I draw into earshot.

  I grin.

  “I mean, if you need a little help around the ranch...”

  “I don’t.”

  She goes cold on me in an instant.

  It’s not hard to see she’s got an independent streak a yard wide.

  Lucky I’m not here to fuss with her today.

  I’m trying to play nice.

  So I hold my tongue while she turns away, swinging up onto one of the horses—a gorgeous Gypsy Vanner with a sol
id, graceful build.

  The other horse is larger. I can’t quite tell the breed but the coat’s a glossy shade of brownish black that shines almost purple under the sun. The meat in the legs tells me there’s some Arab lines in there somewhere, maybe Barbary.

  She settles on the Vanner with an easy grace. The horse’s broad body stretches her thighs apart and draws my eye instantly.

  Straight down to where the denim molds up into the creases where her thighs meet her hips.

  Goddamn, I think I’m helpless around this woman.

  Everything about her has this hot, feral magnetism that makes me painfully aware of her, of her body, of her raw aggression that could turn into a roaring passion if a man pushed the right buttons.

  Maybe I can’t keep my eyes off her.

  But I’ll damn sure keep my hands to myself.

  No matter what my reputation says about me, I’m over it.

  So I drag my eyes back to her face—and find her watching me with her face set stone-cold, unreadable.

  I smile anyway.

  “Well,” I say, leaning against the fence and holding out my hand to the darker horse to let her have a sniff and get a feel for me. “Since this girl’s already saddled up, I’m guessing she’s my transportation?”

  “Unless you think your Benz can handle the dirt,” she says sweetly, even if her expression never changes. “I’d hate to see your poor engine get caked up with all that crud, though.”

  “You’d be surprised what a Benz is built to handle.”

  Honestly, I’ve been pondering selling it soon.

  I need something for utility in this town, not show.

  But I’m distracted now, and I smile as the dark mare lowers her nose to my palm.

  It’s warm and velvety, breaths soft against my skin. I stifle a grin. This brings back memories of other summers, back when me and Blake were just kids and we’d borrow Mr. Potter’s horses to go galloping along the trails.

  I give her a slow look. “What books did he name these two after?”

  Libby blinks, actually jerking up in the saddle to make her Vanner prance with a little whinny before settling down. “Books? You know about that?”

  “Damn right. Back before Blake and I got into our shit-fight, back when we were barely big as foals ourselves, your old man would let us ride. Sierra was just a little thing back then, and you were practically a toddler, so you wouldn’t remember us.” I grin, stroking my fingers over the mare’s nose. “Two knock-kneed little boys clambering up on these horses that were like mountains to us. My favorite was War. Blake always rode Peace.”