“Hey, we’re not talking about my nightlife habits.” Blake snickers. He’s got that goofy thing going when he’s drunk, like a big dog, but it’s good to see it. There was a time when it was a mask over trauma, loss, grief, loneliness…but now it’s just his genuine happy self coming out, ever since he settled into married bliss. “Look, I’d have something to say if you were parading a different woman around under my daughter’s nose every night. But I don’t like the idea of you staying in a hotel room all the time when you’re family.”
Part of me wants to protest.
I’m not like that anymore.
Part of me also almost wants to take him up on the offer.
Just to feel like I’m part of something.
But it’s Blake’s family, his life, his home. He’s newly married with a teenage daughter, and it’s not my place to play third wheel.
I’ll build my own home when I’m ready.
And when I do, I need to do it with my own two hands.
I’ll prove to myself that I can actually build things, instead of wrecking hearts and my own prospects for a future. That I’m more than some dude who talks his way into good luck and better graces.
For now, that means going it alone.
Tonight, I’ll let my reputation save me.
“I’ve already got a bed and somebody waiting on me,” I lie. “The Fords aren’t so picky about my guests. I’ll come hang out some other time.” I reach over and ruffle his hair. “Tell the kiddo hi for me.”
“You bastard devil!” He swings at me playfully, but I’m already gone, spilling out into the bright lights and the dimmer glow of the parking lot.
The Milky Way overhead outshines any street lamps.
Time to get some rest for real.
Got a feeling I’ll need it to gird my goddamned loins for another confrontation with Libby Potter and the ranch holding the key to my future.
3
Hoofing It (Libby)
With my temper, caffeine probably isn’t a good idea.
But I’ve got an addiction to those mocha lattes Felicity whips together at The Nest, and she’s one of my closest friends.
I need a friend right now.
I need to be around someone I can trust.
And I shouldn’t have to feel that way around my own flipping family.
The only thing I can think, every time I see Sierra, is what do you want from me now?
Thankfully, Felicity’s easy, friendly company who doesn’t expect anything but a smile. Plus, it’s pretty sweet having a friend who always gives me free drinks with extra whip.
So that’s how, this morning, I find myself perched on a stool in front of the long polished coffee bar at The Nest, listening to her chatter faster than a bright-eyed chipmunk about…
I’m not even sure what she’s going on about, honestly.
Something about finding like, a town underneath the town?
It doesn’t make sense to me, but Felicity’s all excited. It’s an archaeological dig or something.
Apparently, towns as old as Heart’s Edge kind of build on top of themselves. Foundations of old buildings turn into new ones.
Now underneath all the crap that’s gotten blown up and burned down and torn up lately, they’re finding pieces of buildings that’ve been here since the old silver rush settler days. Old antiques, art, tools, clothing, remnants of entire lives. Western stuff.
I don’t get why she’s so into it, but everybody needs a passion, I guess.
That thought makes my hand drift to my throat, this tic I always do but don’t realize until I feel cool reassuring metal and tiny polished stones against my fingers.
It’s a necklace—shaped like the constellation Aries, the Ram.
Nine tiny major and minor stars no bigger than grains of sand. All made out of this polished red stone that’s rather matte with a pinkish shade. Never found out what it is, but those nine little pieces are strung together with silver rods as fine as thread.
Dad’s gift in more ways than one.
Thanks to him and his old NASA career, I can identify every last one of those nine stars, from Sheratan to Mesarthim, whether I’m looking at the fragile necklace in my palm or up at the night sky.
It’s the last thing he ever gave me.
The last thing I have to remember him by.
Other than whispered words I try to forget every damn day of my life. I can’t stand to think about what they might mean.
Seems to be a theme for me, lately.
Trying to forget the things men say.
Whether it’s my father’s dying words…
…or Holt Silverton, talking about using his tongue on me, thinking about what’s in his pants, all that other ridiculous, low-down, filthy—
God.
He just makes me mad.
A swaggering dumb peacock of a man, strutting in and looking me over like he’s already won when he doesn’t even know the stakes in the battle we’re fighting.
And then to hear him go and say all that dirty stuff…