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  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.

  Libby’s a busy gal. She might be up to her elbows in shearing sheep right now, or God only knows what else.

  Maybe she’s just ghosting me right back for spite, but hell.

  With the stakes here, you’d think telling her I found important stuff would get a response.

  Snarling, I try calling again.

  It rings a good seven times before it goes to voicemail.

  So she didn’t deliberately shunt me, unless she let it ring out.

  I sigh.

  Goddamn my meddling and my paranoia, too.

  I need to know she’s okay.

  Because Declan’s the snake who burned down my construction site, and next he might just go gunning for Libby with more than threats.

  I barely keep it together enough to get ready.

  Then I haul myself up, make sure my Colt is tucked under my shirt, and go barreling into the dead of night.

  Tell me I’m being stupid again.

  Whatever.

  I’d rather be dumber than hell than be right about this.

  13

  Making Hay (Libby)

  If everybody could stop making my life difficult for one freaking day, I’d never ask for anything else.

  I’ve got ten voicemails from Reid Cherish. Every last one asking the same thing in his robotic monotone: Please call me at your earliest convenience.

  Holt Silverton has vanished off the face of the Earth.

  Oh, I’m not done with him. Not until I can rip him a new asshole.

  If he thinks I’m gonna let him treat me the way he treats every conquest, he’s got another thing coming. It’s shaped a lot like a searing slap to the face.

  The cherry on top must be Sierra refusing to answer her texts.

  I know she’s guilty.

  She was the one who drove out to Ursa with Declan, I’m sure, and helped him navigate.

  Worst part is, I can’t even legally get her for trespassing because it’s her property, too.

  Needless to say, I’ve had it.

  When my phone buzzes while I’m making a late dinner, I whip it out of my pocket, ready to yell at Sierra. But it’s not her.

  It’s King Idiot himself.

  Holt, yammering on about how he found something and it’s oh-so-important and I—I just can’t.

  Maybe later, but for now?

  I’ll keep stabbing this spoon into my big old pot of pot roast stew until it’s ready to eat and I can finally sink my teeth into something that doesn’t taste like rage and disappointment. The savory smell of meat so tender it’s falling apart is a nice distraction.

  Then I hear a noise outside.

  A clatter.

  A barn door swinging, squealing on its hinges.

  Not the kind of noises a coyote makes.

  One day.

  All I ever asked for was one flipping day of peace.

  I grab my sawed-off shotgun and make sure it’s loaded with a good scatter of buckshot, but just in case, I tuck a few proper slugs into my pocket if I need ‘em.

  Shotgun propped on my shoulder, I kick the porch door open and stomp out.

  The motion sensor lights by the barn are on.

  That alone tells me something ain’t right. They’re calibrated and sensitive enough not to go on from the movements inside the stalls, only outside.

  Creeping closer, I catch a shape moving in front of the lights, silhouetted.

  “Hey!” I shout, slinging the gun down and jacking it sharply. “You’re gonna want to come out real slow. Hands up. I’ve got no chill tonight and a barrel full of buckshot.”

  Nothing. The silhouette disappears, and I creep closer, wary and on my guard and definitely pissed off.

  There’s no one in the barn, though the horses are restless, unsettled.

  But one of the stall doors is open—and Plath isn’t inside.

  Crap!

  I don’t know if it’s horse thieves or vandals, but you never, ever touch my mare.

  There’s a flash of motion again just outside the barn door. I make sure I’ve got a firm grip on my shotgun and go darting out.

  I’m not letting these freaks get away.

  I’m not expecting to walk into an ambush, either.

  I’m ready for one or two half drunk kids from town daring each other to do something stupid—but suddenly I see how wrong I am.

  My heart climbs into my throat.

  Roughly ten tall men in black with masks all come charging, slamming me up against the barn wall.

  I manage to get one good shot off, sending buckshot spraying.

  One of them howls and staggers away, clutching at his arm and his face with a muffled cry.

  I hope I made ground beef out of something on that guy.

  But I’m horribly outnumbered. The others grab my wrist, overwhelming me and slamming my hands up over my head.

  The shotgun slips out of my hand. I hear someone else grab it and toss it away.

  Oh, God.

  I know how screwed I am, but if I’m going down, it’ll be kicking and screaming.

  Making it hard to keep a grip on me, I shove one foot out and hurl a boot right in one of those fucker’s guts, slamming him back.

  He doubles over with a roar.

  Then I whip my head to the side and crack another intruder in the skull. Makes my head ring, but my daddy didn’t call me hardheaded for no reason.

  Even with my vision blurring from the blow, I manage to drive an elbow into someone else’s face before they get me.

  Ten against one, and I knocked out three.

  Not bad, but...

  I think they’re ready to even the score.

  Suddenly I’ve got brutal hands on my arms, pinning them to the barn wall. Another hand on my neck, men all crushed in on me so I can’t move my legs.

  Cowards.

  If they really had balls, they’d show their faces when they came to beef with me.

  I don’t recognize any of the eyes scowling at me through the masks.

  Which means I don’t get quite as much satisfaction when I haul back, wet my mouth, and spit right in the closest one’s face.

  I’m half expecting him to go the cliché movie villain route and backhand me for my efforts. I’m braced for it, even.

  But all he does is wipe his face, growling, his mouth moving beneath the mask.

  “Can’t blame you for that, bitch,” he sneers. “You fight real good. But listen, I got nothing against you. I’m just here for the treasure. You talk, and this doesn’t have to get any uglier than it already is.”

  I stare at him, blinking slowly.

  His voice doesn’t sound familiar, and I definitely don’t know those blue eyes staring at me.

  But I realize there’s some big blocky shapes silhouetted past my fence, on the road. And they sure as hell look like big rig semi-trucks to me.

  “Treasure?” I’m not bluffing when I say I’m lost. “What fricking treasure are you on about?”

  “Don’t play dumb!”

  Now he starts the movie villain crap, squeezing my windpipe because I gave the wrong answer.

  Only, the dumbass is wearing thick padded workman’s gloves.

  And he’s not very experienced at this because he’s not squeezing the right place to smother me.

  All I really feel is a dull pressure that doesn’t do much but make me uncomfortable.

  “You suck at this,” I
say.

  He blinks. “What the fuck?”

  “You can’t even choke me like a man. You’re out here about to give yourselves heat stroke in winter gear and ski masks on a hot summer night. How dumb. And you’re supposed to be scaring me into giving up some treasure?”

  One of the boys in the back snickers.

  It’s a small relief these aren’t real dangerous people. But it’s a bigger worry that things could get reckless real fast.

  Seriously.

  Treasure?

  When did pirates invade Heart’s Edge, looking for their flipping booty—

  “Enough!” he roars.

  Crack!

  There it is.

  Finally.

  The rough backhand snapping across my face.

  That whiplash jerk of pain twists my neck, my head slamming to the side, my whole skull ringing. I taste blood and feel the burn where my teeth cut the inside of my mouth.

  “Ow,” I rasp out.

  Those blue eyes go stone-cold.

  “Am I doing better now?” he mocks.

  “B plus for effort,” I slur around my swelling lower lip. “But I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What treasure? Someone forget to tell you Talk Like a Pirate Day is in September?”

  From the back of the cluster, that snicker comes again. “Think you hit her too hard. She’s talking crazy.”

  “You’re talking crazy,” I spit back, thrashing against the hands holding me down, squirming my body against the barn wall. “Look at you. Ten men against one little girl, and you’ve got me pinned down while you yack about some treasure? You call yourselves adults?”

  I know.

  I know.

  My smart mouth is about to get me killed, probably.

  Never let it be said I didn’t go out brutally defiant.

  These losers don’t scare me.

  Not until Blue Eyes stares at me flatly and says, “I’m done playing games. You know what we’re talking about, girl. You know about the ghost town. You know about the antiques. We know about the dead fuckin’ body.” I can see his mouth moving under the mask in an ugly sneer. “So unless you want an anonymous tip to the cops about a real nasty murder...you might want to start talking.”

  The sarcastic retort on my tongue just dies.

  Holy hell.

  I’m about to be sick, but I’m still not petrified by these devils.

  I muster up a smile, baring my bloody teeth, and spit as hard as I can.

  Right in old Blue Eyes’ face again.

  He was nice enough to get my mouth all messy, so he’ll reap the rewards.

  This time I hit him right in the opening of the mask. He jerks back, closing his eyes, and takes a deep breath. For a minute his hand loosens on my neck.

  Time to risk a concussion.

  I snap my head forward, ramming my temple into his like a bowling ball.

  If he wants whatever he’s after, he’s gonna hurt for it, and hurt good.

  Roaring, he staggers back, clutching his head and letting me go.

  The other men jerk in surprise, enough that their hold weakens, and I start kicking and thrashing again, squirming, dropping down into a tangle of legs.

  For a split second, I think I actually see sweet freedom.

  The tiniest sliver of space between their milling bodies.

  I dive for it.

  Only for that blue-eyed dick to shoulder me to the ground, hitting me in the gut so hard I’m instantly winded.

  He slams me down like a rock. Pain rattles through my bones as I hit the ground with bruising force, and he tumbles down on top of me.

  “You wanna play rough, dummy?” he snarls. “Because I can get real rough and real ugly, if you don’t want to start talki—”

  An engine noise cuts him off.

  Headlights sweep over us a second later.

  His head jerks up just as a gunshot rips through the air, loud and deadly and sharp.

  I manage to get a glimpse of a truck I don’t recognize, or maybe it just doesn’t look like a truck to me when I’m seeing double and triple and a few colors I don’t think actually exist in the visible light spectrum.

  I recognize the man standing next to it, though.

  I’d know Holt Silverton anywhere.

  Even in the dark, even with a probable concussion and the wind knocked out of me, I see him.

  Colt held high, his jaw set tight, and absolute murder in those devil-yellow eyes.

  If there was ever a spitting image of a modern knight, it’s here, him glowing like a savage ghost under the moonlight.

  “You’re gonna want to think real fuckin’ hard about what you’re doing right now, boys,” Holt drawls, that Heart’s Edge country twang coming out in his voice hard when he’s angry. “’Cause I don’t see a single guy here with a gun but me.”

  He grins, then dips to pick something up off the ground.

  My shotgun.

  So now he’s double-armed, smirking like the cocky fiend he is.

  “Now I’ve got two. Who wants to play?”

  Oh. My. God.

  I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life.

  I must be the only one.

  Those creeps scatter like panicked chickens.

  Leaving me groaning alone on the ground—and covering my head when Holt fires one more warning shot.

  You never know where that bullet’s coming down.

  I guess they’re thinking the same thing. They get moving quick, shouting at each other to go go go and suddenly I hear truck doors slamming and engines grinding and tires screeching, kicking up mud.

  Two against ten doesn’t seem like fair odds anymore.

  And when Holt fires a parting shot after them, scattering buckshot from my rifle, that gets them moving even faster—and I think I hear a tire puncture, too.

  Good!

  Holt stands tall until the last of them peels away. Then he holsters his Colt with a sharp look over his shoulder, vaulting the fence to race to my side.

  He drops down on one knee, setting the shotgun down and touching my cheek, concern darkening his features. “Fuck, Libby, what’d they do to you?”

  “Nothing they didn’t bleed for,” I mutter, closing my eyes with a wince. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Bit my cheek. That’s all the blood. I’m just dizzy. Help me up, would ya?”

  I’m expecting him to slip an arm behind my shoulders and lift me a little.

  I’m not expecting him to give me a fierce look, then pick up my shotgun, crack it open to activate the trigger block, and set it on my stomach.

  Right before he scoops his arms under me, lifts me up, and draws me into his warmth, his strength, his overprotective growl.

  I can’t help it.

  I yelp.

  The world’s already spinning, and Holt’s way tall.

  For a minute, I think I might almost dump my pride and pass out. I grab at him, wrapping my arms around his neck with a gasp.

  Only to freeze, shoulders hunching as he looks down at me with those hazel-fire eyes so lit and his brows drawn together.

  “You okay?” he growls.

  “Y-yeah,” I breathe. “Just hit my head a few times.”

  Holt frowns. “They threw you against the barn that hard?”

  “Nahhh. I sorta smashed my head on theirs.” I smile weakly. “Dad always said I was stubborn and hardheaded as a goat. Thought I’d try a little ram action.”

  “Libby.” He chuckles. “Let’s get you inside and patched up, honey.”

  “No, wait!” I kick a little. “They...they let Plath out, I need to—”

  “You need to sit still. If you fight with me, I’ll take you to the hospital,” Holt says, already turning to carry me toward the house. “I’ll find Plath.”

  Sigh.

  I hate that he knows me well enough to know that’ll make me hold still.

  I’m not a fan of hospitals. Don’t need a bunch of nurses nannying me half to death.

&
nbsp; So I make myself relax and hold still.

  And maybe, just maybe, I lean against him a little.

  He’s so warm, a kinder heat than the sticky summer air. His arms feel solid, safe. They lock out the pain throbbing through me until all I can feel is Holt.

  His heartbeat, too, seeming to tick to the rhythm of his steps as he hauls me inside.

  He elbows the door to the house open and, once we’re inside, makes a beeline for the big ratty sofa that’s been in our living room for as long as I can remember.

  It’s been patched a few times and covered in quilts to hide how ugly it is. But that just makes it that much softer when he sets me down on it.

  Kneeling in front of me, he smiles, tucking my hair back behind my ear.

  “Hold still for a few,” he says. “I’ll get Plath so you won’t worry, and then I’ll come back and take care of you. Just do me a favor and don’t close your eyes. Not till we’re sure you don’t have a concussion. You get tired, you call me, okay?”

  Maybe it’s the head injury.

  Maybe it’s him being soft and gentle and asking me these things.

  Maybe it’s me spending all my anger on those bumbling idiots who attacked me, and I don’t have any left for him.

  But all I can manage is a nod and one meek word.

  “Okay,” I whisper, scrubbing the back of my hand against my mouth to wipe some of the blood away. “You’ve got three minutes before I start doctoring myself.”

  That just makes him grin.

  “Challenge accepted.” He braces his hands against his thighs and pushes himself up in a fluid movement.

  I watch until he’s gone.

  Then curl up in the corner of the couch and let myself hurt.

  When I take stock, it’s not too bad.

  Bruised stomach, lower lip’s a little swollen, but not even split. It’s just that cut on my inner cheek, metallic and a little pulpy. It stings like a hornet when I probe it with my tongue.

  Probably got a few other bruises, but I’ve had worse falling off a horse.

  Bashing my head against two guys, though?

  Yeah.

  I should probably be worried about that. The lights still have halos around them and everything’s still got a double edge.

  I don’t know how long Holt’s gone.

  He’s back faster than I expect, shouldering the door open and walking inside. I push myself up against the arm of the couch, frowning.