No White Knight Page 7

  “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.”

  Some things never change considering he married a Peace, too. I chuckle quietly to myself.

  Then Libby lets out a choked, soft sound I’m not expecting, rough with hurt.

  She looks away sharply, covering her mouth.

  I lift my head, looking at her intensely, but she’s avoiding my eyes. Just staring out over the ranch with her gaze narrowed and that hand hiding most of her expression.

  “You okay?” I ask softly. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m fine,” she says thickly. “It’s fine, I just—” She takes a shaky breath. “I forget how much this town loved him and how many people he knew. So for someone else to remember how Dad went through his Tolstoy phase naming horses...”

  I smile faintly and reach out to rest my hand against the Vanner’s muscular shoulder, near her knee.

  “I didn’t know Mark that well, Libby, but he was always good to me and Blake. A real kind guy. He’d give us fresh lemonade when we’d come in all hot and sweaty from the trails. And he’d always tell us weird shit, too.” I laugh. “Like the molecular composition of silver, and how it’s extracted from...from fuck, I can’t remember.”

  “Galena,” she fills in. “Yeah. He always knew the weirdest stuff, and he never hesitated to tell anyone. A big nerd to his dying day.”

  It’s almost ridiculous how hard it hits me when she swipes a finger at her eye, trying not to cry.

  The urge to pull her down off that horse and hug the fuck out of her.

  Until she can enjoy the good memories of Mark Potter without the pain.

  “Sorry,” I say softly, restraining that impulse to offer some physical comfort when I don’t want to upset her, and she might just take my hand off for trying. “I know it hasn’t been that long since it happened.”

  “Yeah. Almost a year.” With a fierce, almost irritated sniffle, she rubs at her nose, taking in a shaky breath. “But, well, life happens.”

  She’s suddenly matter-of-fact, shoving her feelings down, and she jerks her chin at the mare.

  “That’s Plath,” she says and then rests her hand to the Vanner’s mane. “This is Frost.”

  I grin. “Authors this time instead of novels? Sylvia Plath and Robert Frost?”

  “Nice knowing you can read. He liked to change things up a little.”

  She smiles back at me then.

  Small and distant and careful, but damn, it’s there.

  I’m glad she’s slinging barbs again.

  The thump that shakes my whole chest tells me my stupid cock isn’t the only reason why I can’t seem to look away from her.

  Plath gives me a good distraction, bumping my hand imperiously. I realize I’d stopped petting her, and I carefully trace my hand up Plath’s nose and jaw.

  “Not ignoring you, girl,” I murmur, glancing at Libby. “So you think she’ll take me all right? I still remember how to ride. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “She should,” Libby says blandly. “Just in case, she’s the horse I usually give to beginners.” Her brows arch under the brim of the hat. “Usually when they’re in the five to seven-year-old range.”

  I burst out a snort of laughter.

  Shit, at least she keeps me on my toes.

  I think I’ve still got a good feel for a horse, even if it’s been a long time and all the horsepower I’ve been handling has been under the hood.

  I vault over the fence, and under Libby’s critical eye, give Plath’s reins and saddle a once-over.

  Never let someone else prepare your tack without checking it yourself.

  I make a minor adjustment to Plath’s girth strap before putting my foot in the stirrup and swinging myself up in the saddle.

  Not gonna lie, I forgot just how high up a horse’s back is, and it’s a little dizzying.

  I remember this.

  The feeling of a horse, the solid movement of our bodies, the saddle keeping me balanced while the animal moves in swaying rhythm. Plath sidesteps a little before settling as she adjusts to my weight.

  If I’m not wrong, I think there’s a little glint in Libby’s eyes that says she just might approve.

  Though she doesn’t say one word, just takes up Frost’s reins and steers the Vanner away.

  I lean over, unlooping Plath from the fence, and follow.

  It takes me a few minutes to get back into the rhythm—to remember how to let myself move with the mare’s body instead of tensing up against her gait, and how to guide her with my knees and heels while going gentle on that bit in her soft mouth.

  It’s like knowing how to ride a bike.

  You never forget.

  Before long, Libby and I are riding side by side, moving at a light walk that’ll let us cover ground pretty easy without lathering the horses in the morning heat, which is only getting worse.

  Seasons in Heart’s Edge go to extremes. We get buried in snow in winter, tossed in red-gold bursts of leaves in autumn, lashed by storms in spring with gorgeous bursts of flowers.

  And in summer?

  We sweat half to death, worshiping the gods of air conditioning and oscillating fans.

  I can already feel sweat trickling down my spine by the time we pass the barns, heading across the property.

  Even with the heat, it’s nice out—and nicer with the company, the bright gorgeous sky, the smell of horseflesh and the feeling of settling back into this town like I belong.

  Hell, maybe I really do.

  And if I don’t yet, then maybe I could.

  Even though I’ve seen the survey files, I never quite realized just how much land out here the Potters owned.

  We’re not talking a few scrappy acres of farmstead.

  It’s miles upon miles of space, most of it left to go to scrub brush out here, with only Libby to manage.

  From the property lines I’ve seen, their acreage even extends into the mountains, though the maps made it look like that area was pretty much impassible, dead land—except for a single mountain pass carving a channel through it.

  Depending on the final site for the mall, that pass might be our roadway.

  Only one problem, I think, as I scan the land with an assessing eye.

  We’d likely have to run straight through Libby’s ranch to get to that road, instead of skirting the edges of it.

  Damn.

  I’ll table that for later, though, knowing she’ll never buy it, and explore other options first.

  “What’s the plan if you get to keep your ranch?” I ask her, breaking a silence between us that hasn’t been easy, but hasn’t been hard, either.

  Her shoulders stiffen. They’re tanned to such a gorgeous shade of gold, gleaming beneath the sun. Her little white tan lines say she puts those tank tops to the test pretty damn often.

  I catch myself following the lines of the tank strap down to where the neckline dips.

  There, I can see where paler skin arcs up over the edge of the cloth, promising a mouthwatering contrast of tanned skin against white flesh crossing over the swells of her sweet tits.

  She’s wearing some kind of strapless bra underneath, just a flash of saucy red and tight-stretched cloth keeping her girls from bouncing with the horse’s sway.

  But hell, that doesn’t mean they don’t sway just enough to keep me hypnotized and make me forget what I was thinking.

  “Don’t even say it. There’s no ‘if,’ mister. I’m keeping my ranch. Period and end of story.”

  “Sorry.” Thank hell she doesn’t seem to notice my wandering eyes, her gaze fixed between her horse’s ears. “Slip of the tongue.”<
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  I force my eyes on her face. Not on her chest and definitely not on the way her hips roll with the horse’s stride in teasing waves.

  Her knowing sidelong glance, part amused and part disgusted, tells me I’m not nearly as subtle as I think I am.

  She knows damn well I’ve been staring at her all this time.

  “We’re not having any slips of your tongue today,” she says, and I smirk.

  “My tongue doesn’t slip, usually. Slides, glides, twists, thrusts...now all that, yeah, it’s practically an expert. Slipping isn’t usually in its repertoire.”

  She flicks me a wide-eyed look before snorting.

  Her mouth twitches with repressed laughter. “You trying to convince me to sell—or trying to convince me to dump your body out here and leave you for the coyotes?”

  “You keep threatening to hurt me like you think I won’t enjoy it,” I growl, and she smirks, flashing white teeth in an easy smile.

  “You keep pointing that out like you think I won’t enjoy hurting you.”

  I can’t help laughing along with her.

  I like a girl with a splash of confidence.

  I’d probably let her hurt me a little if she wanted to.

  Hell, I wouldn’t mind her nails scratching up my back. Digging in hard, just like the little tiger she is.

  Fuck, I gotta stop thinking like this.

  Trouble is, riding with your dick harder than steel and bouncing around the saddle isn’t a pleasant experience.

  “You still haven’t answered the question,” I say, conjuring up a sorely needed diversion. “Besides having plenty of places to bury my damn body when you murder me, are you going to do anything with the ranch? Or do you just like having tons of space with no neighbors to chase off your lawn?”

  There’s something odd about the way she reacts to a flippant comment about her murdering me.

  I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  Her mouth thins, her eyes go strange and wide and fixed, her brow furrowing up.

  Then her face smooths again to the stone-faced neutrality you’d expect out of a cowgirl who can talk as much trash as her.

  Libby doesn’t answer for a bit, just riding along silently with the jingle of tack and the clop of the horses’ hooves on dry earth between us.

  Finally, she says, “I kinda want to build an observatory.”

  I raise both brows.

  Even knowing who her old man was, that’s not the answer I expected.

  “Good place for it,” I say. “No light pollution. Perfect view of the night sky.”

  Her lips curve bitterly. “But you’re aiming to fix that, right? With a nice, brightly lit shopping mall and all the bells and whistles that go with it. Highway lights, parking lots, cars out the wazoo...”

  I wince. “Now, c’mon. It usually takes a whole big city’s worth of lights for the kind of light pollution that blocks out the stars.”

  “Sometimes all it takes is just one light bright enough, and the sky never looks the same.” She takes a deep breath, reaching up to adjust her hat. “I don’t know. I don’t need more than an acre of land for that. The rest, well...the water table’s shifted so the land’s dried up. I’d like to get it irrigated and growing things again someday. At least enough hay and feed so I don’t have to keep buying it.”

  “That’s not a bad plan to boost your income,” I agree, and watch her sidelong as we ride. I’d known she was smart from the moment she opened her mouth, but it’s impressive to hear her talk about her plans. “What’s stopping you?”

  “Money.” Just one word, hissed harshly. “Always money.”

  Her hands tighten where they rest against the saddle horn with the reins knotted around her fingers. “Even with machinery, I can’t work that many rotating fields of crops by myself. I’d need to hire more than the few part-timers I manage to keep on now, and I can’t. Not to mention there’re miles of land that need proper irrigation before it can grow anything, and irrigation systems don’t pay for themselves.”

  I hold my fire. Don’t point out how she could easily afford all that if she just sold a fraction of her land to me.

  “Not that there’s any point. Sierra’s either gonna cut the whole thing in half so there’s not enough left to run a sustainable crop cycle, or she’ll make sure I lose the whole thing out of spite.” She growls under her breath, teeth clenching, sharp blue eyes flashing in the shadow of her hat. “Why is she even doing this? I can’t believe she’s pulling this crap. It’s like...like Dad never meant anything to her at all.”

  There’s rawness in her voice under all the anger.

  Yeah, I get it.

  She talks like she hates Sierra, but it’s not hard to see she feels betrayed by someone she loves, no matter what went sour.

  “Hey,” I say. “Maybe you can still talk some sense into Sierra’s head. It’s not impossible that she’ll come around. Hell, Blake and I used to not get along, either. We’re talking brawls in the streets, pissed off, mortal enemies. He tried to kick me out of town when I came back.”

  “I heard the rumors,” she whispers.

  “You heard right, lady. He hated me so much he was willing to believe I was the idiot out there setting fires, burning places down just so I’d get the jobs to rebuild them.”

  She lets out one of her sharp, quick laughs. “Yeahhh, that sounds like the kinda crackpot theory Blake would come up with. Do you listen to his radio show? I swear he’s the dumbest smart guy I’ve ever met, but plenty brave, too.”

  “That’s Blake for you. He’s my brother, though. We worked things out in the end.” I shrug, idly running my fingers through Plath’s mane. “So maybe there’s a chance you and Sierra can, too.”

  “Maybe.” But she doesn’t sound like she really believes it. And I can tell she’s deflecting, diverting, when she glances at me and asks, “How come I didn’t see you around more growing up? You’re not that many centuries older than me.”

  “Shit. I’m only forty.”

  She smirks, lofting both brows. “And I’m twenty-seven. So get those dirty ideas out of your head.”

  I splutter. “We’re not that far apart!”

  That just makes her smirk widen.

  “So you just confirmed you have been having dirty ideas.”

  “Sweetheart,” I growl, “I’m not the one fixated on my crotch.”

  “No, but you haven’t stopped staring at my chest ever since we set out.”

  I grin, practically baring my teeth. “What can I say? I’ve got a thing for color contrasts.”

  She blinks, looking puzzled, then looks down at her own cleavage, the tan lines.

  Libby lets out a flustered gasp and glares daggers at me. “Asshole, will you just answer the question?”

  That’s enough to slap the dirt out of my head.

  I grimace. “Ma moved us to Coeur d’Alene after Blake went into the army.”

  It’s hard to keep going. I don’t like thinking about Ma much. She wasn’t right in the head, made this huge rift between me and Blake just for the hell of it, to feel like she was in control of something.

  “And?” Libby spits.

  “And then she got sick, and we needed healthcare. I signed up for the Air Force myself to help pay the bills.”

  That’s all I feel like giving.

  She just watches me discerningly under her hat, those ice-blue eyes seeming to see far more than I want them to.

  “Is your mother okay?” she asks after a few tentative moments, and I wince.

  “Nah. It was a couple of years ago, but...you know.”

  I shrug.

  No need to finish.

  Let’s just say I know too damn well how she feels, even if my ma wasn’t as sainted and well respected as her daddy and things were a lot more complicated.

  You don’t have to be sure how you feel about your ma for it to hurt when she dies.

  “So what happened then?” she prompts gently.

  I’m grateful for the
chance to move on.

  Tilting my head back, I squint up at the clear blue summer sky, just letting myself remember, nice and slow.

  “I wandered around Spokane after the military for a while, looking for something to do for a big boy career. Tried my hand at construction management, found out I liked it, started up my own gig,” I say, letting a touch of pride creep into my voice. “Then I took that gig to New York City.”

  “But you didn’t stay?” That’s all she asks, thank fuck.

  “My family’s been out here for as long as I can remember. Plus, the market’s more competitive there, too. After hearing about all the craziness going down in Heart’s Edge, I decided to head home and help rebuild, reconnecting with kin along the way.”

  Libby half-smiles. “Tell the truth. You couldn’t handle the city, could you?”

  “Sweetheart, the city couldn’t handle me,” I shoot back, smirking. “I turned New York City on its head, drained it dry, and then left for greener pastures.”

  “Uh-huh. Sounds like the pastures here were already sour on you a long time ago,” she says mildly. “What’s this I hear about married women?”

  Oh, fuck.

  “Listen.” I make a guttural sound in the back of my throat. “That was a long time ago. I was practically a kid. Only two of them were married. And I didn’t know they were married when we went at it because they sure as shit didn’t tell me!”

  “How do you come from Heart’s Edge and not know who’s married to who, who everyone’s second cousin is twice removed, and who touched whose hand too long at the checkout counter?” she mocks, and I laugh.

  “To be honest, I never paid attention to all that. I was too busy making business for other people to mind.”

  “Guess you did leave behind a legacy. A couple of effed up marriages, a bad reputation...”

  “I’m not back to live up to my fucking reputation,” I snap, harsher than I intend. “I’m just here to try to be a good uncle, a good brother. Only girl I’m spending my downtime with lately is my sixteen-year-old niece.”

  “Andrea? No wonder you get along,” she says archly. “You’re at about the same maturity level.”