by Snow, Nicole
So I charge out before she catches her breath, heading off to work.
* * *
It’s a pretty long drive to the Potter place.
Heart’s Edge is the kind of town where the population gets deceptive. You just don’t know how many people are really living wild out in the hills on their homesteads and ranches and little logging cabins.
The Potters have a ranch way out on the other side of the valley, off the main road and down a long, desolate dirt road snaking across the valley floor. It’s past the ruins of the Paradise Hotel and the boarded-up entrance to the silver mine that once was a secret Galentron facility.
Well, technically it’s just one Potter now.
Liberty, Mark’s daughter. He was a real smart scientist back in the day who called this place home forever before he passed away last year.
She’s light on extra hands to help out and it seems like money, too. Old Mark wasn’t a rich man, even if he was drawing a NASA pension, and I think he just inherited this place way back from his old man.
I give her a friendly smile, say hello to her horses, trade a few words about her dad—light stuff so I don’t rub her grief raw—and get to work.
So, considering how deep in the wilds of rural Montana I am, working my blowtorch, helping Libby haul shit and set up scaffolding, I don’t expect visitors.
Imagine my surprise when I step out of the barn and see a familiar truck parked next to my Jeep on the dirt-packed front drive.
Warren.
He’s just climbing out of his truck as I pull my gloves and welding mask off, frowning.
Dude looks grim.
Shit.
Something must’ve happened.
My mind flicks instantly to Peace, the house, and my gut sucks in. Had he been by?
Goddamn, I never should’ve left her alone today.
Gathering my courage, I step forward casually and say, “Hey, man. What drags you out here?”
“Take a look.” He beckons to me, and then gestures fiercely into the back of his truck, so angry that his movements are jerky, pulling his jacket tight against his big straining arms. “This fuckery—I just—Leo told me about that fucking note. If someone’s trying to endanger my kids...”
I don’t understand. Not till I look in the back of the truck.
Then I start swearing up a blue streak.
Because there’s no doubt what I’m looking at.
A crumpled, half-empty gas can and a bunch of bundled twigs and branches. They’re tied up in a very specific way to make sure they’ll catch fast, catch hard, and burn long.
Dry shit. The sort of material that’ll suck up a flame and burst into a fireball in a hot second.
Goddammit.
I spit out a few more curses, then drag my hand over my face. “What happened?”
“Somebody tried to start a fire by your girl’s cabin,” he snarls.
I almost want to spit back She’s not my girl, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.
Like the fact that I was right to keep her with me.
“Peace caught somebody setting fires up in the hills yesterday,” I say. “She didn’t get a good ID on him, but he must’ve been worried she did.”
“Yeah, well, this bastard got unlucky. He propped it up in a snow dune and the melt put the fire out,” Warren growls, his eyes flashing. “And he almost got a face full of Grandma’s cookware. Wilma caught a prowler trying to light up the dry azaleas in the back garden and chased him off with a fork and a pot.”
I can’t help a laugh, imagining Wilma Ford up in arms, though it’s brief, bitter, tired.
Angry.
Someone tried to hurt Peace.
Tried to hurt my friends and Charming Inn.
This is way beyond a stupid kid’s prank.
I don’t even know the half of it.
“That’s not the end.” Jaw tight, Warren fishes in his back pocket, then pulls out a crumpled bit of blue paper with singed edges, thrusting it at me. “I also found this at Jenna’s grave.”
Another note.
Christ.
My stomach sinks, deep and hard.
Sighing, I smooth it out with my thumb, reading the jerky handwriting. It’s the same as the other letter—almost like there’s hate etched into every letter.
Jenna was the real hero, Warren.
And you can’t even protect her memory.
The feeling inside me returns, black and thunderous.
What kind of sick, callous fuck would say something so cruel to War about his dead sis?
My dead friend.
Who died when Clark Patten was just a toddler.
What? This doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Who could’ve done this who’d remember Jenna?
The answer screaming into my mind like a blood-red police siren is one I can’t even stand, no matter how I feel about my brother.
Holt.
He’d been so damned in love with Jenna Ford back when we were kids.
All the way through high school.
Sometimes, I think it was the thrill of the challenge. She was the only girl who ever turned him down, even when we were teens.
Reject him, and he gets obsessed.
But...but...nah.
I can’t.
It’s too much.
Holt can’t be this twisted perp.
I shake my head. “Fuck, man. I gotta think. I’d thought I knew who set the fires, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Why the hell would they leave that on Jenna’s grave?” Warren spits. “Covered in ash, no less. Like some kind of weird sacrificial offering.”
“I don’t know, War,” I say gravely. “Let me start asking around. ’Cause we’ve got trouble, but I tell you one thing: I won’t let it get any further.”
11
A Little Louder (Peace)
Not one day in Blake’s house and I’m already breaking the rules.
By “rules” I mean waiting for the man who just kissed my soul out to ferry me around like my chaperone.
I know he means well.
I know he wants to protect me.
But nothing’s going to happen in broad daylight, especially locked away safe in my customers’ homes and hotel rooms.
Mr. Creepazoid Arsonist doesn’t have access to my planner and has no idea where I’m going to be today.
It’ll be fine.
And I’m right. It’s absolutely fine.
I have a busy day seeing to housewives with tennis elbow and older bed-bound patients who can’t get up to stretch their muscles, so they need someone else to help them limber up.
It’s another good day for money.
A day where all I need is a soft touch and soft words and a little understanding to make someone’s life better.
It’s not playing God, but it’s good.
And I’m feeling good by the time I get back to Blake’s house. It’s not a bad place to be.
I’m staying with the man who turns me inside out, makes me breathless, leaves me struggling to sort up from down.
And this morning, when he’d pulled me in for that knee-bending, breathtaking, oh my God hot kiss? I wish he hadn’t stopped.
But Andrea was there, and he’d caught me off guard, and...
So many ands.
So many missed chances.
If his kiss was like the rain finally breaking over a parched desert, it’s left me wanting more.
That kiss clings to my mind as I let myself into the empty house.
No sign of Andrea or Blake.
He must still be at work. I’m guessing Andrea’s out enjoying her Sunday with friends before school drags her back to dreary Monday.
I don’t mind having the place to myself.
It lets me settle in on the overstuffed sofa with my guitar, strumming soft chords, trying to get my mind to focus on something besides Mr. Silver Tongue. Oh, and now that I’ve had a taste, the name fits him too perfectly for other reasons.
<
br /> Lyrics. Focus. Right.
Making this melody come together into something real, raw, true, and lovely.
That’s my focus now.
Even if it might be an ode to how I feel about Blake.
Wouldn’t that be funny?
Some pop starlet like Milah Holly picking up one of my songs and blasting it across the international air waves. Never knowing the wild man she’s singing about, the desperado with the dust of his past on his shoulders is a living, breathing small-town tornado of a man.
The thought makes me smile.
Mr. Hissyfit seems to like it, too. He’s happily twisting in his tank, moving like he’s winding himself in rhythm to the music.
I’m so caught up in my strumming, in the turns of phrase and rhyme that fit the chords, I don’t realize I’m not alone until a soft voice interrupts.
“Damn, you’re good, lady!” Andrea chirps.
My fingers slip on the strings, and I glance up, blinking.
There she is, punky as ever in ripped jeans and a battered oversized military jacket over a crop top that leaves her belly exposed even in winter, henna designs inked around her navel along with a belly button piercing that I think would give Blake a heart attack...except I can tell it’s fake. Costume jewelry.
And standing next to her, thumbs hooked into the loops of his torn black skinny jeans, is a sight that makes me tense.
“Hey,” he says.
Clark.
Eep.
He’s as sullen as ever, tall and lanky in this awkward teen boy way that makes him slouch naturally because it’s just hard to deal with that much height and gravity at the same time.
He’s dressed in all black, from his chain-spangled jean jacket to the black hoop in his lower lip. Total throwback to the eighties’ glam goth crowd.
He doesn’t look like an arsonist.
It’s just hard to see it.
Sure, he’s got some pent-up anger. What kid their age doesn’t?
He’s lashing out against the world.
But the way he looks at Andrea, there’s something soft in it.
Something sweet and almost innocent.
Something that tells me there’s just a confused, quiet boy under all that dark armor. He wouldn’t ever hurt anyone close to Andrea, not even to get back at her overprotective daddy.
So, maybe I’m projecting, too up in my own clouds about love.
But I have a sixth sense.
“Cool shit,” he says, echoing Andrea. “You play professional?”
I don’t want to give away my thoughts, so I plaster on a smile and shrug, setting my guitar aside. “Just something I do in my spare time. What’ve you been up to?”
Andrea shrugs. “Just helping Clark get ready for the carnival. There’s going to be a fireworks show over the ice castle at the end of the night, so we’ve got a lot to do for safety stuff if Dad’s ever going to sign off on it.” She rolls her eyes, and Clark snorts.
“He’s such a pill,” he mutters. “I know what I’m doing. So does Uncle Rog. Dude helped with Burning Man shows four years in a row.”
I chuckle. “It’s Blake’s job as fire chief, that’s all. If anything goes wrong, the first person they’re going to come down on is him for not doing it right. He’s just trying to keep everyone safe.” I hesitate, watching Andrea, then venture, “...your dad’s actually been needing a few words with you.”
I don’t know how else to hint.
How else to help, when I really shouldn’t be sticking my nose in.
And I think I’ve made a mistake. Andrea instantly scowls, hissing under her breath.
“I bet he has,” she spits. “And I know what it’s about. Clark didn’t do anything. God, Dad doesn’t need to watch me all the time like I’m ten! I’m fine—fine, and he can stop being such a shitty jerk about everything! I’m not a baby anymore.”
“You’re not,” I agree softly. “But maybe you need to tell him that, not me.”
“I’ll tell him something,” Clark snaps. “I didn’t set anything on fire that wasn’t supposed to be on fire.”
Woof.
I hope to God he doesn’t say anything like that in front of Blake. It could be easily misconstrued as a subtle admission of guilt.
But I still don’t see him as a criminal, much less the gangly, scary freak who chased me down the road.
Sure, he’s tall and lean, just like the guy I saw.
Still, he doesn’t look quite right. The other guy was bulkier—whipcord lean, but older. With enough muscle to make it easier to hold his height up.
Stupid town full of stupid tall men.
Everyone here’s got a lumberjack gene here or something.
Before I can say anything else, though, there’s a slamming car door outside.
Everyone freezes, eyes widening.
Then Andrea hisses, turning to shove at Clark, pushing him toward the stairs. “Hurry up—hide! In my room before he sees y—”
“Too late,” Blake growls from the doorway.
A frigid blast of air courses in from outside.
Uh-oh.
I feel like we’re some kind of hivemind, all three of us turning slowly toward the door, my face feeling like as much of a frozen mask as theirs looks.
Crap.
Blake stands there, all protective Papa Bear with his shoulders squared, his feet planted, his huge arms folded over his chest, imposing and terrible and his face set in stone.
I didn’t even do anything, and even I feel like I’m in trouble.
He’s not focused on me, though.
His hawkish eyes are on Clark Patten.
If looks could kill, that boy would be on the floor with his feet up right now.
I try to catch Blake’s eye, but it’s no use.
Clark glares right back, fearlessly, straightening to his full height, and I cringe.
No, dude, no! Being tall right now is not a good idea.
Please don’t put ideas in Blake’s head, agh.
I have to do something.
Without thinking, I launch myself off the sofa, ducking around the coffee table to Blake’s side.
My excuse is that I’m closing the door before all the warm air escapes.
This cold could hurt a warm-weather snake like Mr. Hissyfit, after all.
But really, I just want to lean in close to Blake, as I nudge him enough to get the door shut past his bulk, stretch up on my toes, and whisper, “It’s not him. Trust me.”
His gaze snaps to me, eyes widening sharply.
He leans down to let that rumbling velvet voice move against my ear. “You better be fucking sure, darlin’.”
“I am.” I turn my head.
Our cheeks brush, and if not for the kids, this might be way too intimate.
As it is, it’s making my entire stomach knot up. “He’s too skinny, Blake. The guy I saw was bulkier. Probably older,” I whisper desperately.
Now I know how Moses felt trying to stop a fiery wrath.
Blake grunts, but straightens, and I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable yelling or fists to fly.
But there’s a gleam in his eye as he sees Clark—a sort of sharp-eyed assessment.
At least he doesn’t look like he’s about to commit a homicide anymore.
...maybe.
I bite my lip as he takes a step deeper into the room.
“You and me, Clark,” he bites off. “We need to talk. Alone.”
Clark narrows his eyes, lifting his chin. Kid’s got pride; have to hand him that. “I don’t have shit to say to you, Mr. Silverton.”
“You better say something if you want to keep hanging around my daughter,” Blake snarls.
“Dad!” Andrea’s face flames red. “I hate you!”
His face whips back toward her. “Hate me all you want, Violet, but I don’t want to hear your mouth right now. This is between me and him.”
Holy Toledo.
This is a different Blake.
A calm, s
evere, deadly-serious Blake.
The kind of Blake you don’t ever mess with.
And Andrea apparently realizes it. She goes pale, silent, her anger draining. It leaves her looking nervous as she stares helplessly between her father and a tense, motionless Clark.
He moves then, farther down the hall, and Blake follows, giving them a faint shield of privacy.
I almost feel like I shouldn’t be here to witness this.
But I also feel like I might need to be here to break things up if they get nuts.
Peacemaker Peace.
Don’t laugh.
I sit on the arm of the sofa, watching tensely as Blake gives Clark a slow once-over, looking him up and down from head to toe.
“I said we’re gonna talk,” he says quietly. “And I mean talk. Man to man, not man to boy.” His jaw tightens. “Because if you’re the one who’s been setting fires around town, if you’re pulling some kind of stunt, that’s how they’re gonna see you when you’re standing in front of a judge. A man, not a boy. So I’m talking to you, Clark, and asking if you understand the seriousness of the situation.”
The kid stays silent for several heavy seconds, his eyes narrow and dark, before he draws up a bit of bravery I can’t help but admire. “You want to talk to me as a man, you’re going to have to take my word as a man that I didn’t do anything. I wouldn’t. You’re an asshole. Not enough of an asshole for me to risk jail over you, or risk hurting somebody. I’ve seen what burns do to people. You think I want to hurt anybody like that? What if I did something stupid, and Andrea gets caught up in it?”
Andrea’s blush is back—but it’s different now, softer, her eyes wide as they trail after Clark. She works her lips with a soft, nervous sound. Then she looks away and ducks her head, completely flustered, tucking her hair back with raking fingers.
Blake and Clark never look away from each other.
It’s like a Wild West standoff.
I can’t help seeing Blake as the desperado again, defending his town.
Finally, he inclines his head, grudging but accepting.
“Guess we’ve got one thing in common, Clark,” he says. “We’d never do anything to hurt Andrea. So if we’re on the same page there...you willing to answer some questions in front of Sheriff Langley just to get this on record?”