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One of my front tires just pops right off.
And that’s the end.
I’m dropping down in a sudden twisting jolt, sparks flying and metal screeching, the truck starting to spin while my tire goes bouncing merrily away.
Hissing, swearing myself blue, I wrench the wheel and hit the brakes as hard as I can, forcing the truck to a halt with its ass fishtailing across the road.
It finally swerves to a stop, completely blocking the highway.
Up ahead, the semi’s brake lights flash neon red.
Crap crap crap crap crap.
Diving down, I grab under the seat until my hand lands on the smooth barrel of the shotgun.
Snatching it up, I kick the driver door open and tumble out, then duck down behind the bed, using it as a shield.
That semi’s coming right at me, charging like a bull.
I brace my hip against the rear wheel guard—discover one of many bruises in the process, ow—and prop the shotgun’s barrel against the edge of the truck bed, bracing as I take aim.
I still can’t quite make out the driver’s face, but I can see enough to shoot his windshield out.
And if that’s not enough to slow him down, I’ll run.
Straight down the hill, into the brush, get myself out of here.
I’m no coward, but I know when to stay smart to stay alive.
Breathing hard, every sense ratcheted up to a thousand, I lay my finger on the trigger, letting him get closer and closer…
Until I realize he’s slowing down.
Until his engine quiets, then stops, easing to a stop just a few feet away from the side of my truck.
Swallowing hard, my entire body prickles with nerves.
I hold, watching suspiciously, waiting to fire.
The semi’s driver side door swings out with a squeal.
Then that silhouetted body emerges into the light.
Big.
Bulky.
With a face as hard as stone and a smile as slick as oil, Declan Eckhard casually aims a pistol my way.
It’s one hell of a question who’ll shoot first.
I’m trained right on his heart.
He’s aiming right between my eyes.
But my finger goes numb on the trigger as he speaks, calm as you please, his voice just as slick as his smile.
“Good evening, Libby,” he growls. “If you’d ever like to see your lovely sister alive again, would you be so kind as to lower your gun?”
22
Cart Before the Horse (Holt)
Libby didn’t come home last night.
I still feel weird calling it home, but dammit, that ranch means something, almost as much as she does.
When I’d texted last night, she replied back almost instantly.
Felicity doesn’t feel safe. Staying over. See you tomorrow, champ.
Champ?
She’s never called me that before. Part of me wonders if she’s cooking up new pet names.
It’s weird, impersonal, a little mocking even for Miss Sassy herself.
Not like the way we usually are where sarcasm is half the lead-up to a fight and half foreplay.
Maybe kissing her like the ship was sinking in front of Felicity and my brother last night was a little too much, and she needed some space.
I overheard her conversation with her friend at The Nest, even if I wasn’t supposed to.
Am I really looking at her the way my brother looked at Peace?
Shit.
I remember watching them together back in the winter, marveling at how fast that redheaded hippie girl poached my brother’s heart.
If that’s how I look at Libby, can you blame a man?
And can you blame me for being in the only frigging jewelry shop in Heart’s Edge, blundering around like a moose, looking for something I can give her?
Not a ring.
It’s too early for that, even if a psycho part of me says do it.
No—I want something that’ll make her think of me when she touches it, the same way I know she thinks of her old man when she touches that little constellation necklace she always wears.
Something to remind her I picked it out just for her.
“I don’t know,” Alaska drawls at my side, rubbing at his thick, dark beard as he looks down into the jewelry case. “It’s a flower. Don’t girls like flowers?”
I eye the gaudy rhinestone orchid he’s looking at and snort.
“Alaska, I don’t know how you can be so damn smart, but this damn stupid.”
“Hey,” he grunts. “Look, I—”
“Yeah, yeah. More experience with polar bears than with women. Ain’t that always your line?”
He scowls at me. “You gotta tell the whole town that?”
From behind the counter, the clerk—Cindy Northman, another of my old high school classmates—tries not to laugh, covering her mouth politely. I’m glad she’s married off with a family, not still pining away for yours truly.
“Holt Silverton, are you really in here buying jewelry for a lady?” she asks. “For Liberty Potter?”
Sometimes it’s actually helpful having everyone in a little town knowing all your business.
Still, I make a face at her.
“Might be. You want to try being more helpful than this lunk?” I thump Alaska’s arm.
