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“So gracious.”
With a chuckle, he ducks away and reappears with the little box I made when I was a little girl. It’s popsicle sticks with a big red cross painted on it.
Even when I was barely knee-high to a cricket, I had to do things for myself.
Holt starts to approach, but stops, looking me over, his brows lowering.
“Hey,” he says, settling down on the couch next to me, the box propped up on his knee. “You scared? They didn’t hurt you bad, did they?”
“No,” I growl, glowering over the forearm I have draped over my knees. “They just made me mad. Where the hell do they get off?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” The look that slides over me is warm, almost approving. “What’d they want, anyway?”
I hesitate, then curse, closing my eyes. “They were talking about treasure, the ghost town…and they know about Bostrom. Threatened to go to the cops if I didn’t tell them where to find the artifacts or some shit.”
“Damn,” he says grimly—right before something wet and burning presses against my lower lip. “Thought so.”
“Ah!” I flinch, opening one eye and glowering at him. “The hell do you mean, you thought so?”
He’s still holding a cotton ball dipped in peroxide. “You gonna hold still? I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll tell me even if I don’t.”
“Yeah, but then we’re gonna argue, and let’s not tonight.” He raises both brows. “Hold still and I’ll explain.”
I wrinkle my nose at him, scowling.
Finally, I sigh and lift my head, jutting my chin and giving him my swollen mouth.
Holt chuckles, this rich, deep, strangely soothing sound.
“Brat.” He presses the peroxide-soaked cotton ball to my lower lip again, his smile fading as he studies me solemnly. “You saw they came in trucks?”
I start to answer—but I’m not allowed to talk, so I nod.
“And who else do we know who drives a rig?” he asks.
“Declan.” I suck in a gasp.
“Mouth closed, honey,” Holt says, pulling back the peroxide swab until I comply. With another wrinkling of my nose, he presses the swab against my cut. “Declan. Right. Makes sense, don’t you think? He knows about the ghost town, and he was talking about priceless antiques. And that’s not all.”
What now? I wonder.
Holt swabs at my lip with a surprisingly tender touch, and I know if I try to talk again, he’ll just wait for me to stop.
So I just glower some more, holding my tongue.
He better enjoy the reprieve.
“I wrote down his license plate number a few days ago,” he says. “Seemed weird to me that a banker drove a semi like that. What was even weirder, I stopped by the Confederated branch the other day, and your pal Cherish said he’d never heard of Declan Eckhard. He sure as hell doesn’t work at the bank in Heart’s Edge.”
My eyes widen.
Forget seeing halos.
Now I’m seeing ragey red.
“Jesus. That lying, two-timing, conniving piece of chicken—”
I actually stop mid-sentence, waiting for Holt to chide me.
Instead, he just moves his hand to let the swab dangle, watching me with a sort of cynical amusement.
“Go ahead,” he tells me.
“—chickenshit son of a fuck!” I finish, balling my fists. “He’s been faking it this whole time. Trying to swipe my land and Sierra’s money all in one go! God, we have to—”
“I doubt he wants the land,” Holt says. “I Googled his plate. He’s got a nasty reputation in the long-haul community. He doesn’t do long cons. Short swindles are more his style. Then he hits the road and leaves a lot of angry mobs in the dirt.”
“I’ll put him in the dirt,” I snarl. “And Sierra too. Ugh, I can’t believe the two of them…I’ll turn her and her boyfriend in to Langley myself.”
“Not so fast,” Holt growls. “There’s still Gerald Bostrom.”
Oh.
A lead weight pools in my belly, dragging everything down.
“You mean the dead guy everyone and their grandma knows about now?” I whisper, flumping back against the couch and folding my arms over my chest, wincing as the movement pulls on my bruised stomach. “Eff my life. I hate this, Holt. All of it.”
He nods, empathy shining in his gaze.
I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “I still hate you, too.”
“Still mad at me, huh?” There’s a sheepish smile on his lips.
“You know what you did.”
“What it looked like, you mean. I didn’t brush you off, Libby,” he says. “When you came by the office, my main worksite was on fire, the Paradise Hotel—and I think Declan’s the prick who set it.”
I blink.
Then flush, scrunching down into my shoulders.
Okay.
Crap.
Okay, maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusions.
“So, what?” I mutter, avoiding his eyes. “You didn’t just brush me off because you’re a kiss-and-run playboy who likes playing mind games with women?”
“Not lately, no.” I’m not looking at him, but I can hear the grin in his voice.
