Libby’s friendship had dug into the nooks and crannies of a wall he’d thought so solid nothing could break through. And now he knew why he’d erected it. A guy like him didn’t deserve a girl like Libby. Liking her, letting her into his life, would only hurt.
Not that he’d entertained any real considerations that she did like him; still, it was hard not to notice her when she stayed late with him to lock up. He’d started to live for her smile, and when she’d laughed when he snapped the towel at her—yeah, his brain had begun dreaming up all sorts of scenarios. He was probably the stupidest guy alive.
Libby approached him, put her hand on his arm. He sucked in a breath and focused on the fire.
“You okay?” she asked.
Gideon made the mistake of looking at her. And then, like the fool he was, he covered his eyes with his hand and, for the first time probably ever, at least for the last five years, answered that question truthfully. “No.”
The kid packed a mean punch, even if he didn’t intend to. Stefanie watched the boy—more of a man, really, the way he’d tried to fight her and Nick to get into the house after his sisters. In a way, he reminded her of her twin brother, Rafe, back in the days when Rafe had established his ironclad reputation as the bad boy of Phillips. This young man wore the same external attire—ripped jeans, an old sweatshirt, a shadow that could be more dirt than beard. But different from Rafe, or perhaps more visible, was the desperation, the agony, as he’d collapsed on the ground, holding his sister.
Even now, watching him fight the emotions on his face as he stared at John Kincaid’s burning house, Stefanie knew there had to be more to this story than just a kid accidentally setting a house on fire.
A story that included a very frightened little girl. One look at her had turned Stefanie’s heart inside out. She needed a bath, a warm meal, and someone to make sure she had a safe place to sleep.
Unfortunately, Phillips didn’t have a Social Services department. But it did have the Silver Buckle, and—staring at the two girls, the little one sitting in the cab with Piper where Stefanie had deposited her, the other standing behind the boy and Libby Pike—Stefanie knew in her heart exactly where they’d sleep tonight.
In fact, the idea felt so full, so rich, that she knew it was the perfect answer. The ranch had always been a place of healing—especially the past couple years with Nick and Rafe returning. Perhaps it could be again.
Especially to a young man who needed a break. Her jaw ached where he had walloped her, but given a switch in circumstances, she couldn’t say she wouldn’t have done the same thing.
Suddenly it hit Stefanie where she’d seen him before. Carrying dishes at Lolly’s Diner about three days ago. He’d been busing tables—wearing a white apron and a staid look.
How long had this little family been squatting on John’s land? They couldn’t be related to the new owners, could they?
The final wall of the house—the back wall—fell in, and then the house was just a pile of fuel, a giant bonfire lighting the night.
Nick was watching the fire with Egger Dugan and the two hands from the Silver Buckle, Andy and Quint, who had wet down the barn. Thankfully the other buildings had all been situated far enough away that the sparks hadn’t hit them.
Stefanie walked over to Libby and the boy. “Hey,” she said to Libby. She knew the pastor’s youngest daughter as well as anyone might know a kid five years younger than herself. She remembered Libby as the one who climbed under the pews and untied worshipers’ shoes as her daddy preached. Or maybe that had been her sister, Missy.
At any rate, Libby had grown up. When she turned to Stefanie, she wore compassion in her eyes. “You okay? You’ve got a quite a bump there.”
Stefanie nodded at the boy. “Thanks to Rocky here.”
“Gideon North,” the boy said, not quite looking at her. “I’m sorry about that.”
Stefanie lifted a shoulder. “I’m Stefanie. And it wasn’t as bad as being kicked by a horse.” She glanced at Piper, who watched Gideon with a guarded look.
“I don’t suppose we should ask what you were doing here?” Stefanie glanced at Nick, who was probably listening to their every word. He’d been a cop once, and everyone in town sort of expected him to be one again.
Gideon said nothing. He watched the fire with a wretched look on his face.
His sister leaned against the truck, arms folded, face dirty. She had black hair—so black that Stefanie knew it had to come from a bottle—and a number of piercings up her ears and one over her eye. Whatever makeup she’d once worn, it had trailed down her face, or maybe that was simply soot. She wore a black shirt under her jacket and a pair of black jeans that looked like she’d painted them on.
Stefanie had had a pair of jeans that fit like that once. Caused her more trouble than she wanted to remember.
“What’s your name?” she asked the girl.
Her eyes cut to Stefanie, then back to the fire.
“Macey,” Gideon said. “Her name’s Macey.”
“Thanks a lot,” Macey snapped.
“Nice to meet you,” Stefanie said, although that sounded corny because clearly it wasn’t nice at all, for any of them. Not with the inferno in front of them.
“And what’s your name, princess?” Stefanie said, leaning toward the little girl, who watched her with wide eyes. She shrank back into the truck.
No one said anything.
“I don’t know it either,” Libby said quietly. She smiled at Stefanie, and suddenly, strangely, Stefanie felt a kinship with the pastor’s daughter. As if Libby knew exactly what Stefanie might be trying to do.
“It’s Haley,” Macey said, then narrowed her eyes at Gideon. “She doesn’t speak.”
“She speaks,” Gideon said. “Just not when I’m around.”
Ouch. Stefanie tried to read his face. He hadn’t even flinched, but she felt something knot inside her chest. Especially when Macey didn’t contradict him. “Are your parents around here?”
More silence, long enough for her to know that maybe she shouldn’t have asked that question. But she had to be sure before— “Okay, then, tonight you’re staying at my ranch. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”
Macey eyed her, and when Gideon turned, she saw hesitation in the set of his jaw. “No. We can’t.”
Of course he would say that—after all, she wouldn’t say yes to the first stranger that offered a roof over her head. Unless she was broke and had two little sisters to care for and was watching everything she had burn to the ground.
“Listen, don’t be stubborn.” Stefanie kept her voice deliberately casual, low, easy. “Let me and my family help you, at least for tonight.”
Desperation was a tough negotiator. She watched his options play across his face as he glanced at Macey and Haley. Then he sighed, looking at the ground. “Just for tonight.”
For starters.
Macey sighed, loud enough to hint at mutiny, but only wrapped her arms around her shivering form.
“Good thing John emptied the propane tanks when he left,” Nick said, coming over to join them. Either he’d heard everything and didn’t want to interfere or he agreed with her invitation. Regardless, he gave Gideon a nod. “Looks like it might have just been an accident.”
Translation: Nick would listen if Gideon wanted to talk. Sometimes, like now, Stefanie got an up-close-and-personal look at the type of man Nick had become, and it filled her with joy.
“Who does this house belong to?” The question came from Macey, who asked it so quietly, it nearly got lost. Stefanie saw how she gave an easy shrug as if not really caring but curious.
“Don’t know,” Nick said. “Used to belong to a friend of ours, but he sold it. I heard it was purchased, but I don’t know by whom.”
“Hope they have fire insurance,” Libby said.
Gideon gave her a dark look.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
Stefanie wondered if Libby’s father knew she was here. Becaus
e . . . well, Pastor Pike wasn’t shy about his expectations where his daughters were concerned. Missy, now that she had her own business, her own house, had made rich fodder for the rumor mill over the past nine months. Apparently her independence made her “headstrong, rebellious, foolish, and just askin’ for trouble.”
Stefanie had no doubts the same adjectives had been used for her a few years ago, when she’d taken over running the Silver Buckle Ranch.
As for Libby, wasn’t she going to be a missionary or something?
Another truck pulled up and Stefanie looked around. A few more onlookers sat in their vehicles, out of the cold, their bright lights illuminating the burning pile of rubble. But from this pickup emerged a group of cowboys from the Double B, the Breckenridge place. Her gaze connected with JB’s.
In a way, JB sort of reminded her of how she remembered Lincoln Cash—dark blond hair, a rugged shadow on his chin, penetrating eyes.
JB nodded at her, touching his hat. “Howdy, Stef.” He walked by her to stand next to Nick. “Someone torched the old Kincaid place, huh?”
Nick said nothing. Beside her, Gideon shoved his hands in his pockets, his jaw stiff.
“Nick, I think I’m going to take these kids home,” Stefanie said softly.
Nick glanced at her, and for a second, argument, or perhaps concern, flashed in his eyes.
She met it with a look of her own. She’d inherited the same Noble spine he had. Besides, one look at Gideon told her that he wasn’t a hardened criminal about to make a run for it. This kid had broken written all over him.
And if God could change her brother Rafe, maybe He could do the same with Gideon, given enough big sky and patience. The thought made her put on her fight face. If Nick even opened his mouth to argue—
Nick nodded. “I’ll stick around here for a bit, but I’ll sleep on the foldout tonight.”
Stefanie could read between the lines—he wanted to help, but he wasn’t letting her stay in the house alone with Gideon and his little flock despite how innocent they looked. “No—it’s my idea. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You and Piper can have Dad’s room.”
She reached for Haley, who recoiled. “It’s okay,” Stefanie said, wondering what had made the girl accept her hand earlier. She kept it outstretched and offered a smile.
Haley scooted out of the truck but didn’t take her hand. Instead she reached out for Macey, who pulled her close. Stefanie met Macey’s eyes, challenge in their depths.
“There’s some chili in the Crock-Pot,” Piper said, engulfed in one of Nick’s wool-lined denim shirts. She looked tired tonight, her blonde hair down and blowing in the wind.
“Thanks,” Stefanie said, pulling out her keys. “Ready to go, Gideon?”
He glanced at Libby, as if needing something from her. Approval? Forgiveness?
“See you tomorrow,” Libby said, smiling at him. Was she blushing? Hmm.
A car door slammed, and Stefanie watched another form making its way through the darkness, just outside the glow of light. Apparently Gideon had inadvertently ignited a town meeting. People she didn’t even know were emerging from the hills—
Except, she did know him. Stefanie stopped swinging her keys as her eyes tried to deceive her, tried to tell her that she recognized Lincoln Cash, in the flesh, walking up the drive of the Big K. All six feet two of him, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, his blond hair just below his ears, sporting his trademark scruffy rub of whiskers. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and seemed mesmerized by the flames. There was a serious, even pained, look on his face, in his blue eyes.
No. She was tired, and the smoke and flames had made her eyes water. Besides, he didn’t have an entourage or a curvy blonde on his arm. It couldn’t be Lincoln Cash.
He caught her gaze. And in the briefest of moments, something sweet, perhaps a memory, filled his expression.
Could she breathe? She tried it, and her breath came out in a gasp that earned her brother’s sharp look. Oh, good grief, now she was acting like a fan, a sappy fan.
She turned away, staring unseeingly at the embers that now glowed, pulsating in the night. “Lincoln Cash is here,” she said, more for herself.
But Nick heard it. “What’s he doing here?”
Stefanie said nothing, paralyzed. She could even feel Lincoln creeping up on her; the little hairs on the back of her neck had begun to vibrate.
“Hey, Lincoln, remember me?” Nick said. He held out his hand.
Stefanie watched them out of her peripheral vision as Lincoln took it.
“Sure do. Rafe’s brother—Nick, right?”
Nick clapped the man on the shoulder. “What brings you to Phillips?”
Lincoln glanced at her. “Hi, Stefanie.”
Stefanie managed a smile. A very bad one, lopsided, all teeth. What was wrong with her? “I’m surprised to see you.” Her voice was high and squeaky; she sounded like she was about three years old.
And surprised might be the understatement of the century. Why on earth would Lincoln Cash simply drop out of the sky to land here, at the Big K, the night the house burned to the ground?
The answer crawled slowly through her chest and made it to her brain by the time he responded.
“This is my property.” He looked past Nick to his burning house, then back again. “And I want to know who burned it down.”
Silence fell like ashes between them. Lincoln had to know that the entire bunch of them had become liars, accessories to the crime, when no one spoke a word. Until . . .
“I did, Mr. Cash,” Gideon said, meeting Lincoln’s eyes. He was ashen, rattled by Lincoln’s appearance. He wasn’t the only one. “It was a mistake,” he said quietly.
Good for you, Gideon, Stefanie thought. See, she knew that buried inside this kid lay real potential.
Potential that Lincoln Cash apparently couldn’t see, what with the stars of fame and power blinding him, because he looked Gideon up and down before he said, “You’re right, kid. A real big mistake.”
And as Stefanie stood there, a cold slice of reality spearing through her, Lincoln turned to Nick and said, “Point me in the direction of the sheriff.”
Fire. Of course, fire.
Watching from the car as the flames flickered in reflection against the windshield, it all became painfully, gloriously clear.
He would die by fire. He deserved it, really. He’d wiggled out of justice so many times; fire would be slow and painful and the poetic way for him to meet his end.
She leaned her head back on the seat, a wave of relief rushing through her, the adrenaline of the road still buzzing her nerves. She couldn’t believe she’d found him—although she’d done her homework, stalked him for so long he’d become almost a part of her. Sometimes they even had conversations in her head. His arrogance often astounded her.
It would be a relief for both of them, probably, when it was over. The waiting, the wondering when exactly it might happen. She would ache with the loss, but a sweet ache. Nothing like before.
He had done this to her. To himself. Watching him now, standing there, distraught, sated the hunger in her belly.
Time to make him suffer. Just like she had promised herself.
CHAPTER 4
LINCOLN HAD BEEN TIRED. And crabby. And sore. And mad.
And an Academy Award–worthy jerk. If there might be any confusion in that assessment, in the tally of votes, one look at the expression on Stefanie Noble’s face confirmed it.
That and the snarl she’d added to her tone since the last time he’d seen her. He didn’t remember a snarl when they’d talked last summer, during the Fourth of July rodeo in Phillips.
“What is your problem, Lincoln? Didn’t you hear him? He said he made a mistake! An accident!”
An accident was knocking over someone’s planter with a football, maybe banging someone’s car with a bike. Lincoln wasn’t exactly sure what the word might be for incinerating someone’s house, but accident didn’t come close.
&nbs
p; Besides, he’d taken one look at the kid, at the way he shoved his hands in his pockets, at his slouched yet wary pose, the expression of defiance as the boy peered at him through that shaggy hair, and Lincoln had flashed right back to the past, to the trailer park and getting his insides rearranged by just this sort of kid.
The sooner this little arsonist was behind bars, the better off Phillips would be. Lincoln couldn’t ignore the flint of disappointment that slivered though him. He’d thought Phillips was safer than this—free from the punks that plagued bigger towns. In fact, he counted on that safety to attract celebrities like himself who needed to hide from the crime that stalked them.
“I heard him loud and clear, thanks. And nice to see you too, Stefanie.” He only half meant the sarcasm in his voice. When he’d envisioned this moment—well, not this moment, not the moment when he’d watch his only shelter burn to a crisp, but the moment when he’d see Stefanie again—he’d entertained the notion of rekindling the tiny flame he’d started last summer.
Or at least he thought he’d started it. One look at her face now—and wow, he’d forgotten how pretty she was with her big brown eyes, that long dark hair, the high cheekbones, the slim, strong, yet graceful aura that she carried in her step—and he wondered if she’d ever liked him at all.
Maybe she’d simply liked the Lincoln persona.
Of course she did. After all, what did he expect?
“Don’t ‘nice to see you’ me,” Stefanie said, echoing his sarcasm with deadly accuracy. “Could you just try to be a nice guy? Can’t you see that these kids need our help?” She gestured to the kid, whose eyes darkened as he glanced at Stefanie, apparently piqued by her description. No, he wasn’t remotely a kid, judging by the scars, the anger on his face. This punk had left “kid” behind at least a decade ago. Which was why Lincoln felt justified in his urge to flatten him.
If he could control his arm enough to swing, that is. And then there was that little issue of his balance. Lincoln was turning back into a hundred-pound weakling, right before his own eyes.
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