No White Knight

“Look, it’s silly, but all those wild outlaw stories are based on real legends. Some of those guys were real, historically documented and everything.” Holt leans in urgently, planting his hands on the table next to the briefcase and watching me with his eyes alight. “What if that place is the lost town of Ursa where they say all these bandits set up camp?”

“So what if it is?” I shrug, glaring, hating wherever he’s trying to lead me.

“Ursa might be your ace in the hole, Libby. A place with just enough historical significance to protect your ranch and get this place out of the bank’s hands for good.”

Oh, crap.

That’s when I know I’m absolutely screwed.

Holt Silverton might actually be onto something.

My legs go out from under me. I drop down into one of the kitchen chairs hard enough to make it slide back with a loud scrape against the wood floor.

Then I just bury my face in my hands.

Jesus.

Salvation right there at the end of Nowhere Lane. It was there all along, and I can’t have it.

Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap.

There ain’t even enough craps in the world for the irony.

I don’t know if I want to cry or start laughing hysterically.

Of course, the answer has to be right there, but if I let anyone into that town, if I let anyone down Nowhere Lane…

They’re gonna find out my father murdered a man in cold blood.

They’ll confirm something I’ve avoided staring directly in the face ever since Dad died.

I’ve always made excuses for him. Or excuses for myself, maybe, because I didn’t want to believe it.

I always thought there had to be a good reason for that body, the briefcase, the words on Dad’s deathbed. And that the man I loved, relied on, watched die with my heart breaking was still a good man. Not a liar hiding behind a smile just like everybody else.

I’m still just as trapped, but it’s starting to feel like I’m cornered.

One way or another, people are gonna find that body as surely as Holt did tonight.

“Libby?” Holt asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I scrub my hands against my face, then against my tight, aching throat. “Not one word. Don’t you say one word to anybody about that ghost town, Holt Silverton.”

He sinks down in the chair opposite me.

That briefcase is still propped up between us, cursed as ever, but he’s watching me with his brows knit together.

“Why?” he asks—then saves me the trouble of lying again by taking a wild guess. “Oh, shit. There’s a lot of antique stuff out there, I’d bet. Looters would have a field day if they knew it was there.”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. I feel so tired all of a sudden, so defeated, but I can’t give up. “Look, this might help, I gotta look some things up, but…it still doesn’t explain what in the Sam Hill you were doing out there, Holt. You fucking snuck behind my back.”

Holt ducks his head. There’s that scorned little boy act, though the dimming in his eyes doesn’t seem like it.

So maybe the devil can actually feel shame.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry as hell, Libby. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up with false promises. Not till I knew there was something out there. So I thought I’d scope it out, and if I didn’t find anything, you didn’t have to be let down. But if I did—”

“That’s still sneaky, you ass,” I snarl, holding up a finger.

I’m looking right at him to avoid the briefcase.

But it’s just as dangerous when he looks so sincere. Every time those golden-brown eyes lock with mine, it’s this hot bolt right through me.

It knocks the angst and misery out of me and makes my toes curl and my palms sweat hot.

I jerk my gaze away, staring out the window, where it’s gone so dark the sky’s just a deep blanket of velvety blue-black.

“Even if your heart was in the right place…I still don’t like it.”

“I know,” he growls—softer this time, his voice as dark as the night sky.

I try so hard to ignore the shivers when that electric feeling I get around him is what makes me ignore the common sense that says not to trust him any farther than I can throw him.

He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “I get it if you hate me, honey. It’s okay. I just hope you can use this to do something good.”

I let out a long, defeated sigh.

There’s no ignoring the elephant in the room.

I can’t let Holt go charging off doing something insane that will jeopardize everything I’ve worked so hard to protect.

Sighing, I gesture at the briefcase.

“That town’s probably a crime scene.” I have to phrase everything carefully. “That briefcase isn’t a hundred and fifty years old, Holt. It’s maybe twenty, thirty years old at the most. So what if the cops just declare my land a crime scene and shove me off it? Hell, what if the FBI gets involved?”