Chapter 2
EMMA
Hank slides the beer across the bar with a sympathetic look. It’s the kind of look people give you when they know you're about to do something stupid.
I can’t think of anything stupider than being here alone.
Like I have a choice. I grip the sweating bottle in my hand. “Thanks, Hank.”
"You waiting on someone, Em?" he asks, his weathered face creased with concern. He’s owned the Rusty Spur for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my dad would bring me here, and Hank would make me a “cocktail.” The Shirley Temple still has a special place in my heart. He’s known me all my life, so he knows it’s weird for me to be here alone.
He can probably also see I’m damn tense.
“You could say that.” I lift the beer and salute him before I take a small sip.
He frowns. “Harper Garrett?”
I wish. If there’s anyone I wish was here with me, it’d be my bestie, the deputy sheriff. Or Jake Callahan.
Do not think about Jake.
I take another sip of beer. I should have ordered whiskey. “I’m waiting on Eli Turner.”
His frown deepens. “Why the hell are you meeting him?”
Because he gave me no choice—not unless I want him to corner me alone again.
I shudder. That’s the last thing I want. I’m a wildlife photographer, and I’ve been in scary situations with animals, but none of them compare to Eli’s predatory gaze over my tits as he says, “You don’t look like you know how to say no. Not that I care what you say.”
Yeah, that happened earlier today.
I clear my throat. “He wants to talk to me about buying the Circle H.”
Hank rears back. “You aren’t going to sell your dad’s ranch, are you?”
I flash him a wry grin. “And risk having Dad rise up from the grave and yell at me? No thanks.”
He shakes his head, wiping the counter. “Em, you stay away from Eli Turner. Those Turners are bad news.”
Don’t I know it.
I turn around on my barstool. Neon from the sign outside bleeds red across the worn wooden bar. It’s busy, the after-work crowd rowdy with their liquid dinner. I check the time.
8:56 p.m. Eli Turner will be here in four minutes.
My stomach twists, and I hold the bottle in my hand like it’s a lifeline.
Four minutes to figure out how to tell a predator to leave me alone. Four minutes to find the words that will make him understand I'm not selling the land my dad left me. That I'm not backing down. That he can't have what's mine.
The problem is, I don't know if words will be enough.
Eli Turner doesn't listen to words. He listens to power, and I don't have any. Not really. When my dad died in a car accident four weeks ago, he left me the ranch, but he also left me alone. I have no one to call when Eli shows up at my door with that smile that makes my skin crawl.
I've called Sheriff Garrett twice. Both times, he said there's nothing he can do without an incident.
Well, tonight there's going to be an incident.
I just don't know what kind, or if I’ll be walking away from it intact.