“That?” I finish. “That was my thanks for this morning, beautiful. I like having you around. See you for supper. Don’t forget to keep the doors locked and call if you need anything. I’ll have Warren or Leo drive by a couple times to make sure everything’s cool here.”
I have to go.
Right the hell now before this turns into a conversation I don’t have the time or clarity for.
So I charge out before she catches her breath, heading off to work.
* * *
It’s a pretty long drive to the Potter place.
Heart’s Edge is the kind of town where the population gets deceptive. You just don’t know how many people are really living wild out in the hills on their homesteads and ranches and little logging cabins.
The Potters have a ranch way out on the other side of the valley, off the main road and down a long, desolate dirt road snaking across the valley floor. It’s past the ruins of the Paradise Hotel and the boarded-up entrance to the silver mine that once was a secret Galentron facility.
Well, technically it’s just one Potter now.
Liberty, Mark’s daughter. He was a real smart scientist back in the day who called this place home forever before he passed away last year.
She’s light on extra hands to help out and it seems like money, too. Old Mark wasn’t a rich man, even if he was drawing a NASA pension, and I think he just inherited this place way back from his old man.
I give her a friendly smile, say hello to her horses, trade a few words about her dad—light stuff so I don’t rub her grief raw—and get to work.
So, considering how deep in the wilds of rural Montana I am, working my blowtorch, helping Libby haul shit and set up scaffolding, I don’t expect visitors.
Imagine my surprise when I step out of the barn and see a familiar truck parked next to my Jeep on the dirt-packed front drive.
Warren.
He’s just climbing out of his truck as I pull my gloves and welding mask off, frowning.
Dude looks grim.
Shit.
Something must’ve happened.
My mind flicks instantly to Peace, the house, and my gut sucks in. Had he been by?
Goddamn, I never should’ve left her alone today.
Gathering my courage, I step forward casually and say, “Hey, man. What drags you out here?”
“Take a look.” He beckons to me, and then gestures fiercely into the back of his truck, so angry that his movements are jerky, pulling his jacket tight against his big straining arms. “This fuckery—I just—Leo told me about that fucking note. If someone’s trying to endanger my kids…”
I don’t understand. Not till I look in the back of the truck.
Then I start swearing up a blue streak.
Because there’s no doubt what I’m looking at.
A crumpled, half-empty gas can and a bunch of bundled twigs and branches. They’re tied up in a very specific way to make sure they’ll catch fast, catch hard, and burn long.
Dry shit. The sort of material that’ll suck up a flame and burst into a fireball in a hot second.
Goddammit.
I spit out a few more curses, then drag my hand over my face. “What happened?”
“Somebody tried to start a fire by your girl’s cabin,” he snarls.
I almost want to spit back She’s not my girl, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.
Like the fact that I was right to keep her with me.
“Peace caught somebody setting fires up in the hills yesterday,” I say. “She didn’t get a good ID on him, but he must’ve been worried she did.”
“Yeah, well, this bastard got unlucky. He propped it up in a snow dune and the melt put the fire out,” Warren growls, his eyes flashing. “And he almost got a face full of Grandma’s cookware. Wilma caught a prowler trying to light up the dry azaleas in the back garden and chased him off with a fork and a pot.”
I can’t help a laugh, imagining Wilma Ford up in arms, though it’s brief, bitter, tired.
Angry.
Someone tried to hurt Peace.
Tried to hurt my friends and Charming Inn.
This is way beyond a stupid kid’s prank.
I don’t even know the half of it.
“That’s not the end.” Jaw tight, Warren fishes in his back pocket, then pulls out a crumpled bit of blue paper with singed edges, thrusting it at me. “I also found this at Jenna’s grave.”
Another note.
Christ.
My stomach sinks, deep and hard.
Sighing, I smooth it out with my thumb, reading the jerky handwriting. It’s the same as the other letter—almost like there’s hate etched into every letter.
Jenna was the real hero, Warren.
And you can’t even protect her memory.
The feeling inside me returns, black and thunderous.
What kind of sick, callous fuck would say something so cruel to War about his dead sis?
My dead friend.
Who died when Clark Patten was just a toddler.
What? This doesn’t make any fucking sense.