No Gentle Giant by Nicole Snow

Preview: No White Knight

Wild Horses (Libby)

Give a girl three wishes, and I’ll tell you two of them right now.

I should’ve listened to Dad.

And I should’ve stayed away.

That’s the only thought rattling around in my head as I do a slow blink, staring around at this terrible scene covered in dust.

I can’t let anyone find this place.

I wish someone did little old me the same favor.

But there’s barely time to breathe, to walk away, to force a painful grin and just pretend I never saw it.

Thank God my arms and legs still know what to do while my brain’s turned into a rock.

Close that gate.

Lock it.

Guard it with my life.

Then I turn tail and run, taking off to swing myself back into the saddle and get out of Dodge like a pack of angry hounds are hot on my heels.

I’m alone.

No one saw me here. No one could have.

But I feel like the vacant eyes of death back there are following me anyway.

You know what? Screw wishes.

I’ve lived enough to know they don’t come true.

Holding on for dear life to my horse’s reins and leaning hard into his hoof-pounding gait, I make a new wish on the fly.

No one ever finds out what’s at the end of Nowhere Lane.

For my father’s sake.

For the farm’s sake.

And for my own.

Everybody’s got their own intuition.

Some people swear by a spidey sense. Some people’s ears burn when they get a close friend in their head, lighting up their thoughts enough to worry. Some people even claim they’ve got ESP, a sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.

Me?

I’ve just got a nose for trouble.

When it tells me something smells rotten, I listen.

That dust cloud coming down the highway toward my ranch, catching up the dry summer earth and turning it into a mini reddish-yellow storm churning my way, let me tell you...

My nose does a whole lot more than itch.

It’s on fire, ’cause I smell trouble with a capital S for Sierra.

Sure enough.

A minute later, an old Ford Taurus—clean, but its white finish yellowed to a dull shine—sweeps up the drive outside my fence. I’m in for more trouble on top of calamity.

I haven’t seen her for years, but I still instantly recognize the woman behind the wheel.

She’s my sister, after all.

And wherever Sierra Potter shows up, trouble’s soon to follow.

I fold my arms on the fence, leaning against the sun-warmed wood and watching her as she parks the car and gets out.

Sis doesn’t see me yet. It’s pretty obvious from the self-conscious way she fusses and pats at her clothes like there’s no one here to watch her.

She’s dressed like all fancy-schmancy. Of course she is.

But if she’s fancy, she’s Goodwill fancy.

I know a secondhand dress like the back of my hand. That bright-pink sheath thing doesn’t do much for her complexion or her dirty-blonde hair.

Blue-eyed blondes in eye-melting pink usually do it a bit better, but...well, she’s trying.

The thing is, I don’t trust why.

When my sister’s trying this hard, she wants something.

For a second, I bite my lip and blink longer than I should.

Hoping she’s grown up.

Hoping there’s no ulterior motive.

Hoping I’m dealing with a different woman than the one who ran off and stole my trust with her.

While I’m busy hoping my butt off, a warm, velvety nose bumps my shoulder. I turn my head just in time to get a whiff of hay breath.

Frost’s snowy dappled head nudges me with a whiny nicker. I’d ridden the Gypsy Vanner out to check the fences and dismounted long enough to leave him restless.

I smile faintly, cupping his cheek and running my fingers along the strong line of his jaw.

“I don’t like it either, big guy. Let’s go see what she wants, eh?” I murmur. “Then we’ll send her packing.”

Cruel? Hardly.

If you knew Sierra like I do, you’d chase her off your property, too.

Sometimes blood don’t mean a thing—it sure as hell never did to her.

Frost snorts, tossing his head hard enough to nearly bump my hat off.

Guess he agrees.

“Good boy,” I whisper with one last pat to his cheek. I swing myself back up into the gelding’s saddle, settling into his comfortable bulk as he plods us forward.

There’s a lot to love about Vanners. Not only are they gorgeous with their long, shaggy manes and tufts of flowing hair around their hooves, but they’re smaller beasts while still being pretty freaking strong.

A girl with a similar build can relate.

We circle the barn, coming into plain sight of the gate. The instant we emerge, my sister turns quickly, perking up with a smile as bright and plasticky as bubblegum and just as obnoxiously pink as that dress.

Cringe.

She’s always tried to dress like she knows what big city looks like. Too bad neither of us ever spent time in the cities growing up, and I’d be surprised if that’s changed judging by her wardrobe.

You’d think she’d never seen a horse in her life, either.

The way she eyeballs Frost like he’s gonna lunge right out from under me and bite her as I guide the horse up to the fence steams my blood.

We stop right there, waiting.

I ain’t getting down until she gives me good reason to.

And I ain’t crossing that fence or opening that gate for her.

Maybe this is her ranch, too, technically.

But it’s my home and Frost’s space.

Not hers.

Later, I’ll regret that thought like some kinda godawful prophecy.

For now, Sierra idles, clearly expecting me to get down and welcome her with a big hug. Whatever siblings who don’t want to tear each other’s throats out usually do.

But the longer the silence runs on, the more her smile droops until she’s pouting, folding her arms across her chest.

“Really, Libby? You haven’t seen me in eight years,” she says, “and you’re still mad at me?”

“Reckon I’ll stay mad,” I say, resting my hand on my thigh, right next to the saddle holster for the sawed-off shotgun I keep around to scare off predators. “You got a reason for showing your face here, or are you just doing it to torture me?”

“I live here,” she huffs out.

“The hell you do.”

“Dad’s will says I do.” Her smile’s back then, triumphant, and dread pools in my stomach like thick mud. “My name’s on it too, Liberty Jane Potter. And I’m here for my half of our ranch.”

This is where I get conflicted.

See, part of me wants to bust out cussing bloody murder.

The rest of me won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me go nuclear.

It’s so predictable it’s sad.

I should’ve damn well known.

Sierra couldn’t bother coming home for Dad’s funeral eight months ago, but when she needs a little scratch?

Why, of course she’s hauling her fake-ass plastic smile out here in her crappy little car, blowing in from wherever she marched off to years ago.

All because there’s some sweet green vitamin M on the line.

A mosquito heading for a naked rat couldn’t move faster than Sierra does with money.

“The ranch ain’t yours,” I grind out. “You’re looking at the lady who’s been keeping it afloat for years. Same girl who kept up looking after Dad when he was sick. I don’t care what the will says. You’re so not breaking up my home.”

“Don’t be like that, Libby.” She sighs, fluttering her lashes. She’s got that wilting daisy act down; I’ll give her that. “I came here to help you, too. You know the lien on the ranch is public record, right? You haven’t been able to pay the property taxes for years, and—”

“And I’ll figure that shit out,” I snap.

She blinks. What else was she expecting?

God. My neck feels hot, and my temper’s up, meaner than a cornered rattlesnake. “If I have to, fine, let’s make it legal. I’ll buy out your half of the ranch. But you’re not selling off my land and making my horses homeless.”

“Our land,” she corrects.

Holy hell.

I swear if I was less of a lady—a lady in cutoff jeans and cowboy boots, a lady dirty from wrestling in the hay all day, but still a lady—I’d get right off this horse and slug her in the face.

We’ve always been like this.

Oil and water.

It’s like entire years never passed, and we’re teenagers again, bickering over who got the last stinking Pop-Tart. Only, the stakes are a whole lot higher than pastries now.

She gives me that phony smile again, resting her hands on her hips.

“The bank’s gonna take it from you once the tax man crawls up their butt. But before they do, they’ll try to buy it for pennies on the dollar,” she says. “Now for the good news—I’ve found us a buyer who’s willing to pay a hell of a lot more, and he’ll even take on full responsibility for the lien.”

I fight the urge to check whether or not I have steam shooting out my ears.

Of all the presumptuous, insane, low-down crap—this doesn’t just take the cake.

It chucks it into the dumpster.

“I don’t care. Screw you and screw your buyer, Sierra,” I snarl.

“Oh, you’ll care when the bank comes calling, Libby.”

My hand twitches.

Her gaze strays to my hip, and she sniffs.

“Don’t even think about it,” she says, holding up a finger too close to my face. “I’ve got my copy of the will. I’m not trespassing on my own land. You shoot at me, you wind up in jail, and then you can’t do anything to stop me from selling.”

I hate that she’s right.

I’d rather be hog-tied than admit it out loud.

Narrowing my eyes at her, I send up a prayer for a bottomless pit to open up under her feet, but don’t say anything.

Something isn’t right here, and it’s not just her usual greed.

Sierra’s not the type to scour whatever they post liens in.

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.

Yeah.

He looks like money.

And those sly, confident, snaky golden-brown eyes look like a big fat screw you to any chances of this day having a happy ending.

He comes closer. His face is downright sculpted, graceful angles and sloping, sharp edges, so precise he’s almost beautiful.

Fun fact: Fallen angels were pretty, too.

They say Lucifer himself was once the finest creature ever made.

And watching this hulk stuffed in a suit looking over my land like it’s already his, his dark, sly brows shadowing a possessive gaze...

I can believe it.

But I won’t fall for his lies.

I’m already set to get rough and tumble if I have to, swinging off Frost’s back and vaulting over the fence, not even bothering with the gate.

I want Mr. Slick Dick out of here like yesterday.

No, I’m not here to sample whatever pretty sprinkles he puts on my crap sandwich.

That’s how men like him get you, but I know a thing or two about making deals with the devil. And the first rule is real easy to remember.

Don’t.

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