I clear my throat. “Hi, everyone. I’m Sierra.”
My whole body is as attuned to him as ever. I sense instantly where Logan is the moment he hears my voice. He stands in the back right corner, stiff as a post, frozen before he slowly turns toward the stage.
“We’re going to start with the poetry tonight,” I continue. “Poetry might seem like an odd choice if you’re not familiar with the history of this cave or the man who stored his loot in it 150 years ago. Billy Blackstone’s poetry to the love of his life, Lula Maude, was discovered here. All of which seemed to be returned to him right before his death. His loss is our gain, for now we have pages and pages of beautiful—and, yes, sometimes salacious—poetry to enjoy, written by this complicated man.
“He had one poem he was in the midst of writing to her, one he never got to send.” My eyes find Logan’s in the darkness. “It’s a letter any of us could have written.Icould have written,” I add, off script. “It records his grief for the love he lost, his regret for the choices that broke them apart, but mostly his love for the one who completed him. It ends with hope and promises that, once they’re reunited again, the past can stayin the past. Because their love could be bright enough to carry them through the pain and the darkness—one bright flame in the undulating dark.”
I clear my throat and look back at my cards. “The Sagebrush Bank thanks our poets in advance for not continuingallof Blackstone’s legacy tonight.”
A few chuckles bolster me, but when I look up, the spot where Logan stood is empty. Instead, I see Marshal Dawson moving toward the front of the crowd.
I flip to the next card, my hands sweating. “Before we present our poets, please join me in welcoming the Sagebrush Bank manager, Candice Farnsworth, for more information about the brothel excavation project.”
As I climb off the stage, I turn away from the audience so I can press record on my phone and shove it back into my bra.
Marshal Dawson steps directly in my path. “Sierra,” he says. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
I tilt my head toward the entrance of the Blackstone gold cavern. Dawson smiles grimly, but to my surprise, he follows me into the separate space. We ignore the blockade that was put up and walk inside.
It’s eerily quiet, the noise outside deadened completely by the limestone. I look around the familiar space, my heart hammering with nerves. I see the cot, the fake gold-filled canvas bags. The intimate experience Logan and I shared here flashes through my mind. Last time, I was too cowardly to bring up what happened with Marshal Dawson, but now…
Now I’m going to face it head-on.
I take a deep breath before slipping into a damsel-in-distress persona. As much as it embarrasses me now, I’ve been helpless and terrified in his presence every time we’ve crossed paths,and I need to keep it up, so he doesn’t suspect what I’m up to.
“Have you released the recording yet?” I ask, biting my lip in what I hope reads as fear.
I can tell the moment he falls for it, because he instantly smirks. Even though I want him to relax, it’s still infuriating that he seems to get off on my terror. I ignore the urge to whack him on the nose with the prop packet of letters.
“Not yet.” He saunters over to lean against the large barrel.
“Please don’t,” I plead. “I know it didn’t work with Logan last week, but you still got a lot of mileage out of the recording.”
He tilts his head, his movements snakelike. “What do you mean?” he asks, almost indulgently.
I pretend to look confused. “That’s how you became marshal, right?”
His smile sharpens. “Clever girl.”
Oh, fuck this guy. I’m not a velociraptor. Still, I give him my most flattered smile as my mind races. I had hoped that would get him talking and admitting something concrete.
“Not as clever as you,” I say breathlessly. I don’t even have to fake my winded delivery. Adrenaline has my lungs working overtime. “You were so quick. How did you do it? Were you already looking for a way to blackmail John, or did you put together the plan on the fly? I’ve always wondered.”
“John was the one who called me,” Dawson says.
Now I’m genuinely curious. “Why?”
“We had an…arrangement,” he says vaguely, still smirking like the cat who got the cream. “It wasn’t the first time I helped the councilman out of an awkward situation.” He frowns at my clueless head tilt. “You really had no idea he had a drug problem?”
Ah ha. Now we were getting somewhere. “I didn’t! Howdid you help him out of that one?”
“I made it go away,” he says. “Same as with you.”
Damn. Still too vague. I shift to a more direct approach. “Did you threaten someone else with false charges, like you did to me?”
He snorts. “No. Yours was more involved than simply not arresting him for drug possession.”
“Oh.” I let disappointment soften my voice, then pivot. “I guess…I always thought you were a mastermind. An evil genius pulling all the strings in Sagebrush. But the way you describe it, it sounds more like luck. And small-time, petty stuff.”
