“You’ll be okay, woman. Won’t let you be anything else,” he says softly.
I close my eyes. My breathing calms. I catch myself leaning into him, melting, wanting to hide in Holt Silverton where I can pretend my problems don’t exist.
“Holt…”
“Easy. We’ll figure out a way to save your ranch. One way or another, I swear.”
I lift my head to look at him.
That’s a mistake.
Because when I do, it makes me realize how close he is.
How handsome, how caring, how perfect this devil can be.
His nose almost touches mine. I feel the warmth of every exhale from his lips, teasing against my mouth.
All I can see is him, taking up my whole vision with eyes that aren’t so snake-yellow when I look closer.
They’re the gold of a fox.
Wily, clever, gorgeous as sin.
My heart beats harder for different reasons, now.
He’s the reason why I can’t breathe, my chest seizing up. That electricity he builds up inside me goes off in these sharp zings that zip through me so hard it’s almost painful, the jolt I feel as his hands flatten against my back.
We anchor there with me trembling for what seems like forever.
He’s got to feel it too—that charge building, tension like thunder, threatening to explode any time and throw us both into the biggest mistake of our lives.
Just why?
Why is every bit of me aching to throw myself at a man I abhor?
At least, I think I still do.
Thank God he speaks.
His voice is husky, smoky, dark as he asks softly, “Better now?”
I nod slowly, but that’s a mistake, too. Because when I do…our temples lightly touch, our noses brush, and…
Ugh. It would be so easy.
So freaking easy to tilt my head and seal my mouth to his.
And he’s leaning closer, like he’s got the same idea, the same wicked impulse.
My back arches as his fingers skim up my spine with a thrill that pulls me inside out, and then his hand weaves through my hair.
My gut catches wildfire with the subtle hint of a pull against my scalp. Then he presses his rogue lips to my forehead.
Um, what?
I want to enjoy it. His mouth is hot and sensuous and full, his scruff raspy against my skin, but after that sizzling-hot buildup, it’s almost insulting that he just kisses my forehead and pulls back with a smile.
I’m about to light his ass up.
This teasing, this toying, this stinking—
But the next thing he says makes me go cold. “Give me time. I might be able to get leads on that body.”
He’s standing, pulling back from holding me, a little breathless and excited.
I’m almost pissed off that I don’t think it’s me that has him so keyed up.
But I’m more scared than before.
Worried that he’s gonna unearth things nobody in Heart’s Edge needs to know.
“You know, those Galentron bastards caused a lot of mayhem here,” he says. “They might’ve had something to do with Mr. Bostrom never making that meeting with your dad. I’ll ask my brother, see what he and the guys know since they’re the ones who dealt with that mess more than anybody.”
My eyes widen.
I just stare at him, speechless and frozen.
“I’ll text you soon,” he says, eerily calm before letting himself out, clattering down the front porch steps loud enough to wake the dead.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding in since that kiss.
He…he didn’t even make the connection.
It never even crossed his mind that my dad might be the one who made Bostrom a pile of bones.
He just instantly jumped to those Galentron pricks who brought this town so much misery in the past.
Fine. That buys me more time.
But his brother and his friends ain’t stupid. Once they rule out Galentron, they’ll start asking other questions, and they might just figure some things out.
I’ve got to figure some things out, too.
Like whether or not I have the stones to try to hide a body on my own.
And then lie about it to Holt Silverton’s face.
I stand up, reaching for the briefcase, meaning to close it up and hide it away.
But that’s when I realize, with all the blood draining from my face, leaving me dizzy, I’m absolutely shafted.
Holt took that freaking letter with him.
8
The Right Horse (Holt)
So much for hoping my brother would be any help.
I sit across from Blake in his living room while he reads the letter with his brows knit together. I’ve slotted the letter away in a plastic bag just in case there’s evidence, prints, that sort of thing. It crinkles between Blake’s fingertips as he turns the page over and squints at the blank back, then the front.
“I’ve got nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Never heard of any Gerald Bostrom livin’ around here. And I can’t imagine what Libby’s old man would be selling that Galentron would be willing to kill over.” He eyes me. “Where’d you find this thing, anyway?”