No White Knight

1

Wild Horses (Libby)

Give a girl three wishes, and I’ll tell you two of them right now.

I should’ve listened to Dad.

And I should’ve stayed away.

That’s the only thought rattling around in my head as I do a slow blink, staring around at this terrible scene covered in dust.

I can’t let anyone find this place.

I wish someone did little old me the same favor.

But there’s barely time to breathe, to walk away, to force a painful grin and just pretend I never saw it.

Thank God my arms and legs still know what to do while my brain’s turned into a rock.

Close that gate.

Lock it.

Guard it with my life.

Then I turn tail and run, taking off to swing myself back into the saddle and get out of Dodge like a pack of angry hounds are hot on my heels.

I’m alone.

No one saw me here. No one could have.

But I feel like the vacant eyes of death back there are following me anyway.

You know what? Screw wishes.

I’ve lived enough to know they don’t come true.

Holding on for dear life to my horse’s reins and leaning hard into his hoof-pounding gait, I make a new wish on the fly.

No one ever finds out what’s at the end of Nowhere Lane.

For my father’s sake.

For the farm’s sake.

And for my own.

* * *

Everybody’s got their own intuition.

Some people swear by a spidey sense. Some people’s ears burn when they get a close friend in their head, lighting up their thoughts enough to worry. Some people even claim they’ve got ESP, a sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.

Me?

I’ve just got a nose for trouble.

When it tells me something smells rotten, I listen.

That dust cloud coming down the highway toward my ranch, catching up the dry summer earth and turning it into a mini reddish-yellow storm churning my way, let me tell you…

My nose does a whole lot more than itch.

It’s on fire, ’cause I smell trouble with a capital S for Sierra.

Sure enough.

A minute later, an old Ford Taurus—clean, but its white finish yellowed to a dull shine—sweeps up the drive outside my fence. I’m in for more trouble on top of calamity.

I haven’t seen her for years, but I still instantly recognize the woman behind the wheel.

She’s my sister, after all.

And wherever Sierra Potter shows up, trouble’s soon to follow.

I fold my arms on the fence, leaning against the sun-warmed wood and watching her as she parks the car and gets out.

Sis doesn’t see me yet. It’s pretty obvious from the self-conscious way she fusses and pats at her clothes like there’s no one here to watch her.

She’s dressed like all fancy-schmancy. Of course she is.

But if she’s fancy, she’s Goodwill fancy.

I know a secondhand dress like the back of my hand. That bright-pink sheath thing doesn’t do much for her complexion or her dirty-blonde hair.

Blue-eyed blondes in eye-melting pink usually do it a bit better, but…well, she’s trying.

The thing is, I don’t trust why.

When my sister’s trying this hard, she wants something.

For a second, I bite my lip and blink longer than I should.

Hoping she’s grown up.

Hoping there’s no ulterior motive.

Hoping I’m dealing with a different woman than the one who ran off and stole my trust with her.

While I’m busy hoping my butt off, a warm, velvety nose bumps my shoulder. I turn my head just in time to get a whiff of hay breath.

Frost’s snowy dappled head nudges me with a whiny nicker. I’d ridden the Gypsy Vanner out to check the fences and dismounted long enough to leave him restless.

I smile faintly, cupping his cheek and running my fingers along the strong line of his jaw.

“I don’t like it either, big guy. Let’s go see what she wants, eh?” I murmur. “Then we’ll send her packing.”

Cruel? Hardly.

If you knew Sierra like I do, you’d chase her off your property, too.

Sometimes blood don’t mean a thing—it sure as hell never did to her.

Frost snorts, tossing his head hard enough to nearly bump my hat off.

Guess he agrees.

“Good boy,” I whisper with one last pat to his cheek. I swing myself back up into the gelding’s saddle, settling into his comfortable bulk as he plods us forward.

There’s a lot to love about Vanners. Not only are they gorgeous with their long, shaggy manes and tufts of flowing hair around their hooves, but they’re smaller beasts while still being pretty freaking strong.

A girl with a similar build can relate.

We circle the barn, coming into plain sight of the gate. The instant we emerge, my sister turns quickly, perking up with a smile as bright and plasticky as bubblegum and just as obnoxiously pink as that dress.

Cringe.

She’s always tried to dress like she knows what big city looks like. Too bad neither of us ever spent time in the cities growing up, and I’d be surprised if that’s changed judging by her wardrobe.