No White Knight

She sure as hell wouldn’t be squatting on the papers watching for our property.

This girl ran away from home when she was seventeen.

Stole the last things I had to remember our mama by, her priceless collection of Tiffany glass, and then ran off with some guy who drove one of those vans. The kind that smells like old lube and cheap weed and stale cheesy puffs inside.

So it doesn’t shock me that she’s come back looking for a quick buck.

What’s got me suspicious is her showing up now.

Right while I’m backed into a corner.

The ranch wasn’t doing that great when Dad was still alive and it’s only getting worse.

It’s been getting harder to keep things afloat with the little scraps I get from teaching horseback riding classes and renting out space in my stables to the good folks of Heart’s Edge.

I didn’t even know about the years of unpaid property taxes until Dad was already gone, and I got that letter from a bank representing the county Department of Revenue.

Nasty surprise.

Almost as nasty as Sierra showing her face again.

“Listen,” she says slyly, leaning against the hood of her car, resting her weight on her hands. “My boyfriend works with the bank—”

“Nope. You can shove it right there, lady,” I spit. “Your boyfriends are nothing but trouble and always have been. Why am I not surprised you shacked up with one of those vultures?”

“He’s not a vulture!” Her eyes flare. “He wants to help us—”

“What? Help line his boss’ pockets?” I blow out a hot breath. “Dammit, Sierra, don’t you care that this is home?”

Her expression ices over, answering my question before the words even leave her mouth.

“Maybe for you,” she says. “It’s never been home for me.”

I’ve honestly got nothing to say to that.

She’s not wrong.

If our ranch was ever a home to her, then she’d get why I can’t ever let it go. Plus, the bigger reason I can’t ever let it fall into anyone else’s hands.

She’d know the stomach-turning secret at the end of our property.

This isn’t just about me and the horses.

Some things are best left to rest, and if I have to stand sentinel here till the day I die…

So be it.

For Dad, if for nobody else.

Frost stamps his foot and snorts, offering his sympathy. He can probably feel the fury bleeding off me.

“I’ve heard enough crap for one day. Time for you to get!” I say, resting my hand on the hilt of the shotgun lightly. “I may not be psycho enough to shoot my own sister, but I’ll blow your stinking tires out and leave you walking back to town.”

She wrinkles her nose at me. “You’re so uncivilized.”

“You’re right. I—”

I break off as the distant sound of an engine yanks my attention away from her.

Heck of a time for company.

Looking up, I see another vehicle powering down the road—and this one’s a lot nicer-looking than that used-car-lot piece of crap Sierra’s driving.

It’s black, a glossy Mercedes-Benz so slick it’s like the dust can’t even stick to it, sliding right off.

I hiss through my teeth. My thighs tighten enough to make Frost snort again underneath me with an agitated little side step.

So help me God, my hand tightens on the shotgun hilt.

“You called the bank out here?”

“Not the bank,” Sierra says. “Our buyer. He’s just coming to take a look and talk, Libby. C’mon, at least hear him out.”

“You had no right!” I shake my head.

Seriously.

I don’t know why I even bother feeling betrayed.

This is peak Sierra.

And I’m practically spitting nails while the slick Benz comes cruising up to a halt next to my sister’s Taurus, making her car look even rattier next to a beast that screams money, power, bossypants.

Just the kind of bull that attracts Sierra and chases me away.

Disgust wells in the back of my throat like the morning after a bad bender. But I just can’t peel my eyes off the shiny black car.

The door opens, and a man who’s absolutely everything I expect steps out, adjusting the lapels of his finely pressed double-breasted suit.

Oh, yeah.

I know his type.

Swarthy. Strong jawline. Neat, almost razor-sharp trimmed beard.

Hair black as sin, of course, everything smooth, raked back in a classy sweep.

At least he’s big and must hit the gym. He looks like the kind of brute who’s too big for the kind of suit he wears, but it’s been tailored so perfectly that it sits on his body like he was made to wear it. Like he carries his bulk and solid, trim muscle with more grace and elegance than the usual white-collar hooligan.

Perfectly knotted tie.

Pewter freaking cufflinks.

Nice nails, but his hands are square and worn and work-weathered, like maybe, just maybe, he knows what the business end of a hammer actually does, but I doubt it. He probably got those calluses sailing his yacht around or something.