No White Knight

by Nicole Snow

  Declan totters backward, his legs buckling, and Sierra scrambles to her feet and darts for the door.

  At the doorway, she pauses, looking back with sad, worried eyes. I manage a smile for her.

  I nod, just once. No time to waste on words.

  It’s okay, I tell her. Go now.

  I’ll be all right.

  Holt’s coming.

  And between me and him, we can tackle this idiot clown.

  We’ll make him pay back every red cent of evil tenfold.

  Sierra hesitates a second longer. Her gaze flicks to Declan, and her eyes darken with something I recognize all too well.

  Hatred.

  Then she’s gone, just a faint clatter of her heels on the rickety porch before she disappears into the night.

  I’m glad.

  Grateful that even if I don’t get out of this okay, Sierra surely will.

  For now, I just watch as Declan sags on his knees, clutching both hands over his puny dick like a little boy who’s really gotta go and tries to hold it in.

  His eyes are closed, his expression pained, his jaw a lump of iron.

  “That. Fucking. Bitch,” he wheezes, over and over again, like a mantra he’s using to control the pain, rocking back and forth. “That bitch, that bitch, that bitch!”

  I smirk. “What do you expect? She’s my sister, dude.”

  He opens his eyes to hazy slits, looking at me with abject loathing—then lunges, only to let out a grunt and flop back, wincing and clawing at himself again.

  Harsh breaths slip past his lips.

  “You might wanna put some ice on that,” I point out. “And hold still a bit. No smacking me around or anything. Ruined balls are weird like that. You never really realize how much you pull with your core until you’ve got a collapsed left testicle.”

  “My God,” he grinds out. “Do you ever shut up?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I fling back cheerfully.

  Right now, I just gotta keep him talking. Keep him busy.

  I want him distracted when Holt shows up, and not ready and waiting to pull some nasty shit on my man.

  “You want me to be quiet now? You were practically begging me to talk before. I don’t think flip-flopping’s a real attractive trait in a man, you know.”

  “Enough,” he grunts. It’s real satisfying that I can tell he’s still about to pop from the pain. “Now shut up unless you actually have something useful to tell me about the silver.”

  Silver?

  Oh.

  Frick.

  That must be what Holt told Declan to get him to meet.

  One sly, sexy lie.

  Might as well play into it.

  If he figures out Holt tricked him, it’s over for all of us. So I just shrug as best I can—but that’s when I feel it.

  The ropes are looser.

  Sierra made some progress on that knot after all.

  Curling my fingers, I try to search for the loose spot in the rope while I keep talking.

  “Silver? It’s in my kitchen drawer, you idiot,” I say. “I dug it all up myself. Melted it down into a pretty silverware set. You were gonna get to eat off it for dinner before you had to be an asshole in my house. You’re disinvited to future family gatherings, by the way. Pretty sure a double-stomp to the nuts is an effective Dear John. Pity. You’d have been a good brother-in-law, right?”

  “The best,” he grits out. “I’m absolutely brokenhearted over your bitch sister. What a missed opportunity, to be part of your family of waspish, irritating little harpies.”

  “If you’d been nice, we’d even have let you take the Potter name. Better than Eckhard, anyway. The hell kind of name is that? Where are you even from?”

  “Better places than this podunk town.”

  Declan gathers himself with a weird dignity for a smarmy asshole, but I guess he keeps all his smarm in his balls, and Sierra stomped some of it out of him.

  He draws himself up, rising to his feet on legs that visibly quake.

  Guess he’s still too proud to let me see him kneeling for too long.

  “Now,” he says, looking down at me with this sad attempt at contempt. “Unless you want me to hunt that sister of yours down like a mad dog and shoot her, I suggest you try being more informative.”

  I grin.

  Sierra’s just as much of a country girl as I am.

  She knows these mountains, the paths, and our ranch.

  She knows how to shoot, too, just as well as I do.

  Declan ain’t hunting shit.

  She’s gone, and he’s not gonna find her unless she wants to be found.

  Which leaves me free to keep shooting my mouth off, while I keep secretly tugging at the ropes.

  “What do you want to know? I could tell you how to trim a horse’s hooves when they start to overgrow their shoes, or how to prime a pump that’s been dry for a while, or—”

  I expect the bolt of pain that slams into me like a tornado touching down on my head.

  Turns out, expecting it doesn’t make the back of his hand hurt any less.

  Everything goes whirly as my chair tips over.

  Slowly at first, then gravity grabs hold and it’s boom, down, me flopping on my side like a fish on the floor.

  “Ow,” I force out. “Was that really necessary?”

  “Necessary, but apparently useless. You’re still running that mouth,” he mutters. “I repeat, unless you have something useful to say...shut it.”

  The threat’s pretty freaking clear.

  So is the menace as he strides closer, his dirty boots filling my vision.

  I’m already bracing for pain, but I just grin.

  “You’re so gullible,” I say. Nothing like a little truth to make him think I’m lying. “There’s nothing here but ghosts. I’ve never been guarding any treasure. Don’t you think if I had silver buried out here, I’d have fixed my money problems?”

  “Nice try.” He squats down in front of me, bringing his face into my line of sight.

  It’s hard to see what my sister ever found attractive. “You knew it was here. You just couldn’t find it. So you’ve been keeping people out until you could. I saw you, riding out here with your man, looking for the silver to save your ass.”

  “So you’re a stalker on top of hitting ladies? Charming.” I let out a harsh laugh. “A big idiot, too. I told you. There’s nothing here but ghosts. You should thank me for keeping people safe. The boys who died out here didn’t go down happy. And angry dead people tend to stick around.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Too late! Already called you an idiot.” I’m gonna get myself killed like this, but I need to keep him on the hook. “Believe me or not. But I heard one story about this gang of outlaws. Scum of the earth types. Real violent. And they weren’t all that happy about getting outsmarted by the law. And you? You’re out there digging up their graves right now. How do you feel about that?”

  Me and my big mouth.

  Declan drags me up so I’m dangling with the chair tilted against the floor, my whole body dangling from his grip, my scalp on fire.

  He brings his face closer so I can smell his wet, meaty breath.

  “Stop playing games with me, little girl,” he grits out. “You forget. I know all about the dead body. There’s no old-time outlaws and no fucking ghosts, Libby Potter. That man hasn’t been dead that long. How do you feel about jail time as an accessory?”

  “A hell of a lot better than I feel about your dental hygiene,” I strain out. “Yeah, I know who killed that guy. You wanna hear it?”

  His eyes narrow. “Do tell.”

  I conjure up my nastiest smile. “The same dead bandits who’re gonna kill you. That guy tried to steal from this place, so Danny the Rattlesnake and his buddies took him out.” I stare right at him like I’m fucking possessed. Might as well play into it. “I can hear them, Declan. I can feel them. They’re telling me, you’re next.”

  He just stares
at me coldly.

  I don’t know if my acting sucks or he just doesn’t care.

  But he lets me drop, my vision reeling as I hit the floor hard.

  “Sick of your shit!” he snarls.

  Then he turns and walks out.

  Leaving me alone with the throbbing in my skull and the sound of Declan outside, shouting at his men to keep digging.

  I don’t know if I fall asleep or pass out.

  Everything gets dark, and nothing becomes clear again until Declan’s voice wakes me up.

  It’s like the sound of him talking incites this instant, subconscious fury that slaps me awake as sharp as a punch.

  I tense, slitting one eye open, taking in my surroundings.

  I’m upright again. No memory of anyone picking up the chair I’m tied to. I must’ve really been unconscious.

  It’s darker outside, just a sliver of moonlight through the window.

  I can’t hear more digging noises or shouting, but I don’t get the feeling that people are asleep.

  Nah.

  It’s too tense here.

  Declan’s shadow hovers, pacing back and forth outside on the porch, his voice drifting inward.

  “Don’t fucking play me, Silverton.”

  Holt.

  He’s talking to Holt.

  My heart leaps. I strain to listen.

  “We had a deal. Midnight.” He pauses.

  “Why are you in such a rush?”

  Another pause.

  He passes in front of the door again and leans in to look at me. I slam my eyes shut and let my head hang before he’s fully in.

  “Of course she’s alive! Asleep.” He stays silent, then sighs. “Will it get this over with faster? Fine.”

  His heavy footsteps make the floor creak as he comes inside.

  Those thick, horrible fingers dig into my chin, jerking my face up.

  “Wake up!” he grunts, but my eyes are already snapping open.

  I glare at him mutely, grinding my teeth.

  He smirks.

  “I’m going to be nice,” he says. “Talk to your boyfriend.”

  He shoves the phone against my ear, still holding my jaw so tight it feels like it’s gonna snap right off.

  Part of me wants to stay quiet just to spite him. But when I hear Holt on the other end, drawling in that dry way of his, I can’t resist.

  “Libby,” he says—calm as can be, as if he’s got everything under control.

  I hope like hell he does.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, too.

  I don’t want him to worry. I want him to know it’s okay, and I’ve got his back.

  “Where the hell you been?” I whisper.

  “Taking care of business,” he answers. “I’m on my way, honey. Coming for you right now.”

  “You’re slow,” I retort and swallow back the knot forming in my throat. I won’t cry in front of Declan. I will not. “Get your butt up here. Turns out Sierra’s boyfriend is really crappy company.”

  Holt chuckles. “Yeah? Doesn’t surprise m—”

  I don’t get to hear any more. Declan rips the phone away with a disgusted sound.

  I almost lean after it.

  Almost.

  But instead I let my pride yank me back and focus on feeling at my ropes, still searching for the right spot.

  Declan lifts the phone to his ear.

  “One hour,” he bites off. “No more delays. Don’t make any other ‘adjustments,’ or I’ll know you’re bluffing, and I will kill her, Silverton.”

  I don’t hear what Holt says back but it must be enough to satisfy Declan.

  He ends the call with a swipe of his thumb, then turns his head slowly, looking down at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Well,” he says. “Since your darling man’s being so accommodating...what do I really need you for?”

  It doesn’t quite click what he means.

  His fist snaps out so fast I don’t even see it coming.

  He hits like he means it.

  There’s a crash.

  My vision goes white, then black.

  Pain storms through me like a red-hot whiplash.

  And then I’m gone.

  I’m surprised to wake up again.

  I can’t breathe.

  There’s something stuffed in my mouth, something foul and thick that makes my tongue feel like cotton.

  I come to slowly, wheezing as I’m tossed around in seasick lurches, my vision fragmenting all over the place.

  Oh, God.

  I’m gonna barf.

  No—no, if I do, I’m just gonna choke myself.

  I swallow it back, forcing my eyes to focus, biting off curses around the rag and squirming.

  Yep, still tied to the chair.

  And as my eyes clear, I realize...I’m staring right at Declan Eckhard’s ass.

  He’s got me tossed over his shoulder, chair and all, and he’s carrying me outside.

  Ugh.

  “Finally awake?” he asks just a little too mildly. He’s got a hand clamped down on my thigh, and he digs his fingers in hard enough to make me squirm. “Good. You’re lucky I let you live, but you see...I think you’re still not telling the whole truth. You or Holt. You’re going to tell me what we’re missing here, and you’re going to tell me before he gets here.”

  Everything somersaults in my vision so fast it’s a miracle I don’t pass out again.

  He steps down into the churned-up graveyard and swings me down on the chair so hard my head whacks the tall back of it.

  Jesus, if I get brain damage, I’m sending this prick my hospital bill.

  He lords over me, his hands on the back of the chair.

  “Your army of the dead isn’t coming to save you, baby,” he says. “Look at them. No ghosts. And you’ll be joining them soon, if you don’t start talking. What the fuck’s here that’s so valuable? What did that man in the saloon die for?”

  I can’t help but stare at what he’s done to the graves.

  I don’t know who these people were.

  Sinners or saints, criminals or law-abiding citizens.

  It doesn’t make what he’s done any less of a desecration. Just total disrespectful carnage.

  I wish ghosts were real. Then they could come kick some asses over what he’s done.

  “You really are an animal,” I whisper. “You just couldn’t let these people rest in peace? You’re that desperate for money?”

  “They’re dead. They don’t care.” He smacks his hand on the back of my chair, a warning. “Now talk. If you’re a good girl, I’ll even let you see your boy one more time before I dismember you both.”

  I don’t get a chance to retort.

  Because suddenly there’s a loud whistle—three quick, short bursts.

  Plus the sound of hoofbeats, coming in hot.

  I know those hooves, they’re the sound of my own horses. And I know damn well Declan is in trouble.

  It’s Holt with somebody else at his side.

  “Cut them off!” Declan barks.

  His hands are all over me—awful, grabbing, ripping at the ropes, swarming over my hands and legs in a way that makes me feel violated.

  That doesn’t stop me from trying to kick him off, to pull away. The ropes fall down around my ankles and pool around the chair.

  He doesn’t give me a chance.

  His thick, beefy arm wraps around my neck in a headlock.

  There’s a metallic click.

  And then the mouth of a gun pressed against my temple, cold and steely and round.

  “Try anything,” he breathes into my ear, his voice almost slimy, “and I’ll blow a hole in you right in front of him.”

  “Fuck you,” I hiss, grappling at his arm.

  “I’ll do that in front of him, too,” he leers. “Maybe I’ll let him watch me fuck you right before he dies.”

  The sick horror of those words, that promise, leaves me stiff.

  Declan hauls me up, practic
ally carrying me against his chest with my feet dangling.

  I don’t dare move, kick, or bite.

  Nothing while that gun burns against my temple.

  He drags me through the town while his men go swarming on ahead.

  Eventually we come around the side of the saloon.

  Just in time to see Holt and a big, gruff-looking Alaska emerge from the darkness, Frost and Plath stepping through the trees and underbrush slowly.

  Frost looks like a toy pony under Alaska’s bulk, but carries him easily while both men ride in with their hands raised, guiding the horses with their knees.

  Over half a dozen men train their guns on them.

  I could cry at the sight of Holt.

  He’s never looked more gorgeous. Even now he’s easy and relaxed, icy calm in his black leather jacket that makes him belong to the night, jeans laying easy on his thighs.

  My heart skips a beat.

  He wears confidence itself like designer fashion. Not even flinching when multiple safeties click and seemingly not giving half a damn that he could die with a single pull of a trigger.

  The horses stop, surrounded by a circle of men.

  Holt cocks his head, a lock of dark hair falling across his brow as his gaze wanders, golden brown eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  He smirks.

  Of course he freaking does.

  “Not even a hello? Hardly a warm welcome,” he calls out, pitching his voice to Declan.

  “I told you, no more surprises,” Declan growls, hefting me up. “You’re late. Don’t play games with me.”

  Holt arches a brow, keeping his hands held high.

  “I’m not the one playing treasure hunt like a kid pretending to be a pirate,” he says. “Now would you mind putting my girl down?”

  “Only when I’m good and ready.”

  Declan sounds calm, if irritated.

  I can feel what he’s not saying, the violent pounding of his heart against my back.

  Something’s making him nervous.

  He’s a small-time criminal, I bet. I don’t think he’s ever truly killed anyone before.

  He’s probably always just been fine making big threats, using that intimidating bulk and bearish attitude to make people think he’d just as soon kill them as look at them.

  But really?

  He’s all talk—and he runs once he’s been found out.