No White Knight

“About two hundred thousand,” I say—and before he can start in, I raise a hand. “I know. I know it’s a lot. Construction gear isn’t cheap, and I’ve got to start off leasing to own all over again. I already traded in my car for the cash to sign my crew’s checks, and the insurance company’s going to cut me a pittance in maybe a week, maybe a year. Thing is, I have to replace my supplies and break ground now, so I can’t wait that long.”

He thins his lips, musing.

I want to be mad at him, but right now he doesn’t seem like a bad sort.

Sure, he works for a bank that’s after Libby’s land.

I’m not too fond of him, but if he deals me fair…

“I can’t guarantee approval. However, what I can do is submit the loan for that amount, and then negotiate to find out how much I can get you. Can you work with that?” he asks.

I tilt my head, then give him a firm nod.

I don’t have a choice.

And once I find out what my budget will be, I can start making plans from there.

“Excellent.” Reid pulls his desk drawer open and, without even having to rummage, plucks out a stack of blank paperwork. “If you’ll fill out the application, I’ll get it submitted for review and be in touch shortly.”

He slides the stack over and sets a pen on top of it, then promptly ignores me to turn back to his laptop, continuing to tap away at a speed that turns his fingers into a blur.

I raise a brow.

Guess our conversation’s done.

It doesn’t take me long to fill out the loan paperwork. Dot my I’s, cross my T’s, and then sign away my life for however goddamn long it takes me to pay this back.

Too bad I gave up on the mall contract, even if I haven’t informed the city yet.

That payout would’ve solved a lot of my problems.

I can’t believe I’m being this stupid over a woman again, jeopardizing my entire livelihood.

Well, sometimes dumb don’t learn.

And Libby Potter makes me triple dumb.

While Reid takes a look over my paperwork to make sure I didn’t fuck it up, I take another look around the room.

“Where’s your boy, Declan?” I ask. “Out harassing more ranchers while there’s still daylight?”

Reid glances up from my paperwork with a puzzled frown. “Declan?”

“Eckhard,” I snap. “You know?”

His frown only deepens.

I cock my head, staring at him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone at this branch or in the main Chicago office by that name,” he says. “Are you certain you’re remembering it right?”

“I’m sure,” I say, and that sense of unease I’ve gotten time and time again becomes a stabbing under my skin. “Well, maybe I’m confused.”

“I should hope so.” Reid sounds almost offended. “Declan Eckhard may be someone from corporate, but I should think if corporate assigned someone to work over me in the Potter case, they would at least have the courtesy to let me know.”

“Rude,” I agree, but keep the rest to myself. “I’m probably just misremembering. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“I,” Reid says coolly, “do not wear panties.”

“More than I needed to know, my man.” I chuckle, rising to my feet. “Anything else you need from me?”

“No,” he says absently, lowering his eyes to skim the pages again. “Thank you. I’ll call you within forty-eight hours about your loan approval, Mr. Silverton. Thank you for doing business with us.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Our parting handshake confirms my problem isn’t here.

Not with Cherish or Confederated Bank.

It’s with a damn liar with an agenda, who suddenly seems more dangerous than I thought.

* * *

I narrowly make it back into my room at the Charming Inn without getting caught by Ms. Wilma.

I’m just lucky it’s late, and she’s in her kitchen at the big house harassing Warren and Haley and the kids over dinner.

I love her just as much as anyone else in Heart’s Edge adores her, but I don’t want to find out just how much she’s heard about me mooning around Libby and doing stupid stuff for that woman.

I get enough crap from Alaska and Blake.

Libby’s on my mind right now as I tuck myself into the cozy two-room suite overlooking the daffodil-filled inner courtyard of the main house, settled at the window with my laptop.

Looking up Declan Eckhard doesn’t give me much.

I have that scrap of paper with the license plate on his semi tucked into my pocket. I dig it out and search.

Finally, some serious pay dirt.

Forum posts, all by long-haul truckers. Looks like there’s an online community for everything—in this case, multiple communities.

All of them send the same message: watch out for these plates, he’ll fuck you over.

Dozens of stories.

Everyone saying the trucker with those plates is a big time gambler, a swindler, and a con artist who’ll cheat a man out of his money and then take the next job that gets him on the road, ahead of any pissed-off people who want their cash back.