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I eye him skeptically.
I’ll probably regret these words, but…
“I’m listening. Talk,” I say.
“No denying you’re in trouble. You’re not even making enough money to keep the ranch going. Don’t—” He holds a hand up as I bristle. “Don’t tear my head off yet. That’s not your fault, and I’m not criticizing. I know what it’s like to fight like hell to keep your livelihood afloat. That’s why this could work so well for you.”
God. I don’t want to even think he could know what my life’s like.
I don’t want sympathy from him.
But I’m still listening, because now that I know what my time limit is, forty-five days…
I’ll never admit it to Holt, but that number?
It scares the bejeezus out of me.
“I don’t need your whole property,” he says. “I’ve been picking through old town records, survey maps, the works. With the lay of the land and how we’d have to route a road for easy grading to get out to the mall, it’d run along the edge of your property, not cutting through it. We could build the road up on a steep embankment with a guardrail to keep your horses from getting up there, if they get out. And plant trees alongside the road so you’ve got less noise pollution and don’t have to see all the happy shoppers going past.”
I give him the side-eye. This sounds too good to be true.
And with men like Holt, that usually means it is.
“Okay. You’re trying to sell me on what’s in it for me,” I say. “So what’s in it for you? You know you’re gonna be responsible for the lien on that acreage, right? In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“I know. I’m fine with that. Considering the size of the land, it’d be a small percentage of what’s owed overall,” he says. There’s something in his eyes, something lit up and almost enthusiastic. “But what we’d pay you for it would be plenty for you to get those property taxes done—or close enough that you can negotiate some kind of payment plan for the rest.”
I stare him down, wondering how many seconds it’d take to light his ass on fire.
Oh, but his lips are still moving.
“It’s win-win, Libby. You keep your ranch away from the bank, get out of seizure, and I get my contract.”
Right. I don’t trust it. It’s too easy.
And he’s being too freaking nice. Talking about making provisions for my horses and my privacy.
Provisions Mr. New York City doesn’t have to follow through on once I agree to it.
I can’t trust this crap.
And I can’t forget the biggest reason why I can’t have hordes of people milling around.
People get nosy. They poke around.
Sometimes they find things they damn well shouldn’t.
Holt looks at me, his eyes shining and eager.
“No deal, cowboy.” I set my jaw, shaking my head.
Holt’s face falls.
On anyone else, it might almost be cute.
He looks like a little boy who’s just been told he’s going to bed without dessert, as if that ain’t the damnedest thing when he’s as gorgeous as Lucifer. Right down to those shadowy eyebrows that make his eyes smolder.
“Why not?” he asks.
“I said I’d listen, and I did. Don’t owe you an explanation,” I force through my teeth—and instantly feel like an ass for it.
I don’t know why.
We’ve been trading barbs ever since we laid eyes on each other, and he’s still that snake who’s after my land—and I know his wicked reputation.
So I don’t even know why I feel guilty seeing that crestfallen look on his face.
I sigh.
“Whatever, I’ll give you three reasons,” I mutter grudgingly, then unfold a finger from my clenched fist. “One—an embankment isn’t a total guarantee. I don’t want to lose my horses to a semi and a tired driver. Two—” I flick out another finger. “That crappy mall is gonna destroy half the businesses in town, and if you think I’m up for helping with that, you’ve got another thing coming. And three?” I snap out a third finger. “You’re twisting my problems to your advantage, mister. Making it sound like you’re doing me a big favor. So actually, here’s number four—screw you.”
He just blinks at me.
I arch my brows, folding my hand against my arm.
Waiting for the insults, the condescension.
Waiting for him to tell me I’m being unreasonable—yeah, I kinda am—but I never claimed to be smart when I’m pissed.
Waiting for him to start arguing.
But he doesn’t say anything, and honestly, that’s weirder than this entire mess.
“Well?” I growl. “That finally good enough?”
“For me, maybe,” he says somberly. “What about Sierra?”
“What about Sierra?”
“She won’t quit, Libby,” he points out—like I don’t know it. “And the way she’s going, she’s probably going to try to take the whole ranch—not just half. The more you stonewall, the better her hand gets in court.”
I wrinkle my brows. “What do you mean? Half the ranch is rightfully mine.”
