Cruel? Hardly.
If you knew Sierra like I do, you’d chase her off your property, too.
Sometimes blood don’t mean a thing—it sure as hell never did to her.
Frost snorts, tossing his head hard enough to nearly bump my hat off.
Guess he agrees.
“Good boy,” I whisper with one last pat to his cheek. I swing myself back up into the gelding’s saddle, settling into his comfortable bulk as he plods us forward.
There’s a lot to love about Vanners. Not only are they gorgeous with their long, shaggy manes and tufts of flowing hair around their hooves, but they’re smaller beasts while still being pretty freaking strong.
A girl with a similar build can relate.
We circle the barn, coming into plain sight of the gate. The instant we emerge, my sister turns quickly, perking up with a smile as bright and plasticky as bubblegum and just as obnoxiously pink as that dress.
Cringe.
She’s always tried to dress like she knows what big city looks like. Too bad neither of us ever spent time in the cities growing up, and I’d be surprised if that’s changed judging by her wardrobe.
You’d think she’d never seen a horse in her life, either.
The way she eyeballs Frost like he’s gonna lunge right out from under me and bite her as I guide the horse up to the fence steams my blood.
We stop right there, waiting.
I ain’t getting down until she gives me good reason to.
And I ain’t crossing that fence or opening that gate for her.
Maybe this is her ranch, too, technically.
But it’s my home and Frost’s space.
Not hers.
Later, I’ll regret that thought like some kinda godawful prophecy.
For now, Sierra idles, clearly expecting me to get down and welcome her with a big hug. Whatever siblings who don’t want to tear each other’s throats out usually do.
But the longer the silence runs on, the more her smile droops until she’s pouting, folding her arms across her chest.
“Really, Libby? You haven’t seen me in eight years,” she says, “and you’re still mad at me?”
“Reckon I’ll stay mad,” I say, resting my hand on my thigh, right next to the saddle holster for the sawed-off shotgun I keep around to scare off predators. “You got a reason for showing your face here, or are you just doing it to torture me?”
“I live here,” she huffs out.
“The hell you do.”
“Dad’s will says I do.” Her smile’s back then, triumphant, and dread pools in my stomach like thick mud. “My name’s on it too, Liberty Jane Potter. And I’m here for my half of our ranch.”
This is where I get conflicted.
See, part of me wants to bust out cussing bloody murder.
The rest of me won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me go nuclear.
It’s so predictable it’s sad.
I should’ve damn well known.
Sierra couldn’t bother coming home for Dad’s funeral eight months ago, but when she needs a little scratch?
Why, of course she’s hauling her fake-ass plastic smile out here in her crappy little car, blowing in from wherever she marched off to years ago.
All because there’s some sweet green vitamin M on the line.
A mosquito heading for a naked rat couldn’t move faster than Sierra does with money.
“The ranch ain’t yours,” I grind out. “You’re looking at the lady who’s been keeping it afloat for years. Same girl who kept up looking after Dad when he was sick. I don’t care what the will says. You’re so not breaking up my home.”
“Don’t be like that, Libby.” She sighs, fluttering her lashes. She’s got that wilting daisy act down; I’ll give her that. “I came here to help you, too. You know the lien on the ranch is public record, right? You haven’t been able to pay the property taxes for years, and—”
“And I’ll figure that shit out,” I snap.
She blinks. What else was she expecting?
God. My neck feels hot, and my temper’s up, meaner than a cornered rattlesnake. “If I have to, fine, let’s make it legal. I’ll buy out your half of the ranch. But you’re not selling off my land and making my horses homeless.”
“Our land,” she corrects.
Holy hell.
I swear if I was less of a lady—a lady in cutoff jeans and cowboy boots, a lady dirty from wrestling in the hay all day, but still a lady—I’d get right off this horse and slug her in the face.
We’ve always been like this.
Oil and water.
It’s like entire years never passed, and we’re teenagers again, bickering over who got the last stinking Pop-Tart. Only, the stakes are a whole lot higher than pastries now.
She gives me that phony smile again, resting her hands on her hips.
“The bank’s gonna take it from you once the tax man crawls up their butt. But before they do, they’ll try to buy it for pennies on the dollar,” she says. “Now for the good news—I’ve found us a buyer who’s willing to pay a hell of a lot more, and he’ll even take on full responsibility for the lien.”
I fight the urge to check whether or not I have steam shooting out my ears.
Of all the presumptuous, insane, low-down crap—this doesn’t just take the cake.
It chucks it into the dumpster.
“I don’t care. Screw you and screw your buyer, Sierra,” I snarl.
“Oh, you’ll care when the bank comes calling, Libby.”
My hand twitches.
Her gaze strays to my hip, and she sniffs.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, holding up a finger too close to my face. “I’ve got my copy of the will. I’m not trespassing on my own land. You shoot at me, you wind up in jail, and then you can’t do anything to stop me from selling.”
I hate that she’s right.
I’d rather be hog-tied than admit it out loud.
Narrowing my eyes at her, I send up a prayer for a bottomless pit to open up under her feet, but don’t say anything.
Something isn’t right here, and it’s not just her usual greed.
Sierra’s not the type to scour whatever they post liens in.
She sure as hell wouldn’t be squatting on the papers watching for our property.
This girl ran away from home when she was seventeen.
Stole the last things I had to remember our mama by, her priceless collection of Tiffany glass, and then ran off with some guy who drove one of those vans. The kind that smells like old lube and cheap weed and stale cheesy puffs inside.
So it doesn’t shock me that she’s come back looking for a quick buck.
What’s got me suspicious is her showing up now.
Right while I’m backed into a corner.
The ranch wasn’t doing that great when Dad was still alive and it’s only getting worse.
It’s been getting harder to keep things afloat with the little scraps I get from teaching horseback riding classes and renting out space in my stables to the good folks of Heart’s Edge.
I didn’t even know about the years of unpaid property taxes until Dad was already gone, and I got that letter from a bank representing the county Department of Revenue.
Nasty surprise.
Almost as nasty as Sierra showing her face again.