No White Knight

The land around the buildings looks nice enough. Heart’s Edge can get pretty dry and dusty out on the outskirts of the mountain valley, but she’s managed to cultivate some impressive grazing grounds—places where horses and even several sheep move under the lazy summer sun, chewing away peacefully.

There’s a hint of an old, overgrown road breaking off from a trail circling the fences just outside a long irrigation ditch running the length of the property.

I barely get a glance at it, keeping my eyes trained on her, noticing the gun on her hip.

Let’s hope she’s not that pissed.

Shame to ruin the quiet here by blowing my head to kingdom come.

All in all, it’s a pretty nice place. Cozy. Everything a cowgirl could want.

I see why she doesn’t want to give it up.

Too bad this is prime real estate. And I can’t help but see the business opportunity in every sprawling inch of these gorgeous assets.

Gorgeous assets.

Yeah.

I need to keep thinking about the property, not her.

So I focus on the pastures, dredging up every bit of patience.

Then, as pleasantly as I can, I say, “I can tell you’ve put a lot of love into this place. Never seen horses shine like that.”

“Oh, so you remember what horses are?” she throws back. “As old as you are and as long as you’ve been away, I’d thought maybe you’d forgotten.”

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Keep calm.

“Think I can tell a horse from anything else that’s been between your thighs, woman.” I’m just as surprised at how it falls out of my mouth.

She sucks in a breath so loud it’s almost a rasp, echoed by Sierra’s choked laugh.

Fuck me sideways.

I’m screwing myself over.

I risk glancing back at Libby, but she’s got her mouth twisted up in something that’s part smirk, part frown, like she wants to laugh at my stupid mouth but she’s just too mad.

“What gets between my legs ain’t any of your business, Silverton,” she whispers. She’s got a little of that small-town twang going, just enough to give her voice this alluring, husky lilt. “But I can promise you, mister, it’ll never be you in ten lifetimes.”

“You think I was offering? Maybe I prefer thoroughbreds to draft horses.”

Her nostrils flare.

“See, the problem with you,” she says pleasantly—suddenly all sweetness hiding incoming venom, “is I don’t know if you meant that literally or not. Considering I’ve heard you’ll take anything on two or four legs…I guess that overdone suit’s compensating for something.” Her gaze drifts over me slowly from head to toe. “Maybe you should stick to two legs. I don’t think you’ve got enough to handle a horse.”

Goddamn, this girl hits below the belt.

Literally.

That’s one area, though, where I’m never insecure. I’m actually grinning.

There’s a fire in her, and frankly, I respect her more for calling me the douchebag I am for coming out here and sizing up her land without even a how-do-you-do?

“Don’t even try it,” I say. “I grew up around here. I know how to handle horses.”

“I hope you mean riding. Wouldn’t know it just looking at you.” Another once-over, like my suit’s some kind of scarlet letter branding me an outsider. “You look like New York. Tell you what—you ever want your country edge back, I’ll break you in until you’re raw around the edges and leave you begging.”

I arch both brows. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you meant that to come out the way it did,” I say, biting back a bigger grin.

Libby makes a disgusted huff, rolling her eyes so hard they go white.

“Keep it in your pants, cowboy.”

“Again,” I point out, “you seem to be putting a whole lot of thought into what’s in my trousers. You been missing me, Libby? Had a little crush I never knew about and now we’re all grown up and you want to play?”

I step closer to her.

I can’t help it.

Women look at me like I’m dinner. Sure, they hear the stories.

I’m bad news, but the kind of bad news you want to hear to learn a few dirty tricks.

Everybody wants a ride.

Nobody ever tries to buck me off.

Not like Libby.

And that just makes me want to get under her skin and live there. I smile slowly, leaning down toward her, close enough to purr in her ear.

“You want to play house,” I say, “you gotta call me Daddy.”

Her eyes go wider than the moon.

She makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat.

That hot-pink flush in her cheeks turns brilliant red, and there’s no mistaking the fury.

Her mouth thins to a tight line.

The only warning I get is Sierra shouting.

“Oh, no, Libby, don’t—”

Too late. Libby plants her hands square on my chest and pushes me.

I mean, hell.

It’s a miracle she catches me off kilter, considering she barely comes up to my collar.

But I’m thinking less about being impressed and more about the sky spinning and the world whirling by as I topple backward.