No White Knight

“I wish he hadn’t.” She bites her lip. “Oh God—what if it’s radioactive? What if his cancer—”

I’m out of my chair in an instant, rounding to hers, dropping to my knees so I can gather her close.

“Stop right there. The rock didn’t curse him,” I say firmly, rubbing my hands against her back. “And it didn’t give him cancer. If it was radioactive, those people at the lab place would’ve said something in their letter. And he wouldn’t have had it in the house with his girls all these years.”

She makes a soft, whimpering sound and buries her face against my neck.

“Okay. I’m being ridiculous. But how is it you have less doubt about my dad than I do?” she asks with a half-hearted laugh.

“I don’t have a horse in that race, honey,” I tell her. “Your old man and his memory mean so damn much to you that you can’t even look at stuff head-on to parse it. I can. What I’m looking at tells me he wasn’t a bad guy, and if we had all the facts, we’d see there was an explanation for everything.”

“I hope you’re right,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I hope we find answers in time to save the ranch.”

I smile then, tracing her jaw nice and slow.

She never had any intention of hiding Bostrom’s body. We both know it’s not the right thing to do.

I just wish I knew what the right thing was.

Because that clock keeps ticking, and our little break in paradise hasn’t slowed it down one bit. With half the summer gone, we’re down to a couple weeks at most in Reid Cherish’s tax countdown.

Time waits for no one.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I stiffen.

Even though it’s Sunday, it’s the ringtone I set for work calls.

Libby and I both groan before she laughs, shoving at my chest.

“Go on,” she says, smiling sweetly. “Answer it. Duty calls, Mr. Builder.”

“You come first,” I remind her.

I’m rewarded with a sugary smile that does my insides in before I reluctantly fish my phone out and check the name.

Alaska.

My mouth turns down at the corners.

Dammit, he wouldn’t call unless there was something important. I’d trusted him to handle some deliveries coming in today, too.

I swipe the call and lift the phone to my ear. “Silverton.”

“Hey, boss,” he says. Normally slow-talking and blunt, right now Alaska sounds ready to strangle someone, a harsh edge in his voice. “Can you get down to the site? I’ve got a trucker here with an entire semi full of our shit—won’t sign off on delivery because it’s marked COD, like any damn body would ship out this much rebar COD. It’s already paid, but he ain’t listening.”

Cash on Delivery? Is he joking?

“The fuck?” I growl, frowning and already standing, then grasping Libby’s hand for one more squeeze. “I’ll be there in a few. Don’t let him leave with our rebar.”

I hang up quickly, pocketing my phone.

Before I can say anything, Libby smiles and rests her cheek to my hand, her soft skin so warm.

“Gotta go be an adult, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” I grunt but let myself smile just for her, resting my knuckles against the high crest of her delicate cheekbones. “I shouldn’t be gone long. Some invoicing and supply crap, probably. Alaska needs me to come be an asshole with authority over contracts instead of just an asshole in general.”

Libby lifts both brows mock-innocently.

“Hey, when you’ve got natural talents—”

“Don’t you even start.” Chuckling, I lean down and steal a quick kiss, then disentangle myself and head for the door.

“Back soon,” I throw at her.

But I’m not sure I will be.

Something smells fishy about this.

That trouble that’s been brewing like a far off thunderhead?

It might be about to break and rain down hell.

* * *

I was right to be suspicious.

Funny how this tough-talking trucker was giving Alaska hell, but when I show up he’s all contrition. Some kind of mix-up in the paperwork, everything’s fine, here’s your rebar.

I’ve never seen the man before in my life, but he looks at me like he’s seen a ghost.

I can’t help lingering on the faded bruises peppering his burly forearms.

Sure, bruises aren’t much reason to accuse anyone of anything.

Being a trucker is rough work, and they get banged up all the time.

Still, something seems weird about it, especially when he avoids my eyes and practically hides in his truck while my crew offloads everything. Most truckers would help so they can get back on the road quicker.

All those stories about Declan swindling other truckers into doing his dirty work…

Nah.

They can’t be dumb enough to try something like this, right?

Scamming me out of money with a fake-ass invoice mess?

By the time it’s over, I’ve got a headache from working in the glare of the hot Montana sun. Once we’ve got everything secured, I send the guys home to enjoy the last of their weekend and head back into town myself.