No White Knight

“Buy yourself a couple rounds on me,” he says, looking over his spectacles. “My patients can’t show the same gratitude, but it’s the least I can do from all of us.”

I thank him, give him a crisp salute, and head out to my car.

Honestly, Doc’s orders don’t sound half bad after the day I’ve had.

I’m still riding high on giddy accomplishment when I dust myself off and head over to Brody’s an hour later. My fool brother’s already staked down a table at the joint.

Imagine a Hooters Lite crossed with an old timey mountain bar and built out of weathered wood. That’s our local watering hole. The place where every kid sneaks his first beer and every grizzled old man in Heart’s Edge glugs down his last.

I’ve kept a lot of memories here, playing pool with girls who bent over the tables just that way to throw me off my game, or watching from afar while my older brother and his friends hung out and played darts.

It hasn’t changed much.

Still the same loud jukebox music, waitresses in denim skirts and short-shorts that wouldn’t pass muster, the smell of thick burgers and beer-battered onion rings, noisy college kids and even noisier high schoolers hoping they won’t get put out for being too young.

This place is so timeless it feels like I’m the one who’s changed.

Not Brody’s. Not the town.

But if I’ve changed, then so has Blake, finally the happily married man he swore he’d never be.

He’s quieter now, this big blockhead of a man with russet-brown hair and a silver-flecked beard. Truth be told, we don’t look much alike, but after his old man was history, some nameless devil in a moment of reckless passion gave our mama me.

Maybe my wandering hands and roving ways are genetic.

I’ll never know.

I never had a dad growing up.

Just an older brother who was half my only friend, half my worst enemy, and one hundred percent someone I’d never admit I looked up to.

There’s no hint of our old squabbles now.

Blake catches sight of me and lifts his hand, gesturing toward the seat opposite him and the foaming glass mug of beer just waiting.

“Ordered for you,” he says, taking a swig from his own mug. “From what I’ve heard, you seem like you need it.”

“Shit, you know?” I groan, sinking down on the wooden seat—and wincing. Goddamn, I really did land hard on my ass. “Word travels that fast?”

“Small town. It’s like some kind of invisible telephone tree. Anything that happens, everybody knows in ten minutes around here.” He grins at me slyly. “So ya had a little fun with the Potter sisters, huh?”

“You make it sound like a night on the town. Not what actually happened,” I mutter.

“Look, I’m not surprised you walked face-first into trouble, man. Libby’s lived on that big ol’ ranch her whole life. She’s not gonna take kindly to strangers trying to buy it out from under her nose, no matter what money troubles she’s got.”

I shake my head, lifting my beer and taking a swig, letting the mellow taste soothe me.

“I don’t know how she keeps that place running if she’s so far behind on property taxes. We’ve got no water out here, and yet she’s running irrigation ditches? Where does the cash come from?”

“Mostly, stable rentals and riding lessons, I think. Though I bet she also sells off some wool from those sheep.” Blake grimaces. “But I think the Feds will wind up grabbing her land in the end. Real sad. She’s got her daddy’s energy keeping the place up.”

“That’s what I don’t get about her being so damn stubborn,” I say, and I’m not going to lie, it comes out a little heated. Hours later, a successful job behind me, and that girl’s still got me riled, fire blazing under my collar. “Wouldn’t it be better to sell off a little sliver of your land rather than lose the whole wad out of pride?”

“Pride’s a powerful SOB,” Blake says pointedly, jabbing a finger at me. “Remember, dumb pride was what had us nearly ripping each other’s jugulars out just a few months ago. People get stupid over stuff they’re attached to. You know how it is.”

I take a long pull of my beer, hating how he’s right.

No wonder every night owl in Heart’s Edge tunes into his goofy love-line show on the radio—all the more reason now with his wife, Peace, playing her pretty music sometimes.

“So if you really want to help Libby, you try to get how she feels,” Blake says. “Might help her see reason. Then you get your contract and she keeps her farm. Easy peasy.”

“It’s a thought,” I admit grudgingly, though right now I think trying to reason with Libby Potter would be like a snake trying to talk with a mongoose—and I promise you I’m the snake, and she’s gonna chomp me right in half. “Part of me gets where she’s coming from. Run a major road down the edge of your property, and suddenly you’re a scenic attraction. Shoppers and tourists acting like you’re part of the mall.”