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We’re both quiet on the drive back to my ranch.
There’s a lot to think through here.
All those weird stories aren’t just guesses and half-truths anymore.
They’re real.
There’s a history in this town I never knew about.
That history is sobering as hell, but it’s also the one chance I have at saving the only place I’ve ever called home.
I just have to prove it and whip up enough interest to earn heritage protection status.
Danny’s weird reputation might be enough to satisfy any historians, along with the freakishly well-preserved scraps of ghost town.
Now I just have to figure out Gerald Bostrom.
Having Holt here helps me feel grounded, like I’m not alone.
We both settle into the evening routine of maintaining stuff around the ranch like we’ve been doing this together for years. He’s not even half as clumsy as when he first started.
Looks like there was a cowboy underneath the big-time real estate boy after all.
Later, when we’re done, we saddle up and head out.
We don’t even need to say a word to know where we’re going.
Where we have to go.
Ursa’s waiting, and so is that dead man.
* * *
In other circumstances, it’d be a lovely ride.
We take it slow, letting the horses find their way in the dark with instincts we don’t have, trusting them not to trip as we amble along beneath the stars.
As I look up at the sky, I finger my necklace and let the rhythm of Frost’s plodding steps lull me into peace.
Now and then, I catch a glint of whiskey-gold as Holt glances over at me.
I don’t know what to say.
I just know I’m glad he’s here.
The town—Ursa, Ursa, I feel like knowing it for sure is a curse—isn’t any different when we get there, but something feels off.
Like there’s this dark cloud hovering over the place.
This specter of an outlaw prophet, promising there’s more pain around the bend, just waiting to stir up all the sleeping ghosts here.
I stand inside the door of the saloon and peer inside, watching that unmoving skeleton. It’s worse in the shadows, like he’s fixing to jump up and come after me.
I shiver, folding my arms around my sides.
“You holding up all right?” Holt says, his hand falling to rest on my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just wondering what we do next.”
“I have an idea, but it’s probably not legal. I dunno, it might be. I mean, technically you own this land, yeah?”
“It’s part of the acreage my grandfather passed down since the old homestead days, so yes.” I smile grimly. “Feels a little weird to say I own mountains.”
“Better than it being public land, ’cause that means whatever’s on this property is yours by right.” He shrugs. “I hate to say it, but that Declan asshole might’ve had the right idea.”
I eye him suspiciously.
Anything involving Declan and right idea is instantly suspect.
“Uh, how?” I whisper.
“Quit giving me the stink eye. I’m just saying, there’s a lot of stuff here that may be valuable. Sell it off bit by bit in auctions, assess the antiques one at a time…”
“Nickel-and-diming won’t beat the bank’s countdown, Holt. Dad was way behind in taxes thanks to his medical bills stacking up.” I shake my head. “And we’re up against the same problem selling stuff off piecemeal. Anything from here won’t be worth much unless we can verify its authenticity, and that means experts.”
“Which means letting people on this land.”
“And letting people find Bostrom’s body.”
“Shit, yeah.” Holt narrows his eyes. “You know what I don’t get?”
“What?”
“Declan giving up with his tail between his legs. I know his type.” He shakes his head. “Why hasn’t he used that dead body against you yet?”
I sigh. “There’s no way he can pin this on me in a way that’ll get me in trouble. Only compromise the land with a crime scene. You can’t call me an accessory for not reporting it. Really, Declan’s got more to lose by going to the police and having to explain why he was snooping around on someone else’s turf. Plus, I bet I’d need more hands than I’ve got to count the number of warrants that man has out for his arrest.”
If it were just Dad’s reputation and no risk of losing everything, this would be my too-stupid-to-live moment.
All of this is about more than keeping my home and happy pastures for my horses.
It’s about me not wanting to let go of the memory of the man I loved, the man who raised me.
Shaking my head, I step back from the door.
“Let’s go,” I say, turning away. “I gotta think.”
We barely step off the saloon’s rickety porch before there’s a loud buzzing in Holt’s back pocket and a square of light glows under his flannel.
He frowns, fishing his phone out and squinting down at the screen to read the texts.
In the night he’s all shadows in his black jacket, man-shaped darkness in graceful slashes and angles fit together, centered by those animal-gold eyes. But even on a moonless night, it’s not hard to see how he goes pale.
