On the other hand, maybe there was an upside to this.
He said, “My knees got a little shaky. I thought I’d rest a while before trying to get back to the house.”
Strictly speaking, none of that was a lie. His knees had gotten a little shaky when he’d walked out. He’d also rested. But he could easily make the return trip to the house—okay, if not easily, at least without falling on his face.
“Lean on me,” she said without hesitation, though again there was nothing to read in her face that hinted at any great concern. She stepped close and shoved her shoulder against him the way she had the day he arrived, her right arm around his waist. He looped his left arm around her shoulder and let a little of his weight rest on her as they slowly walked back to the house, Tricks prancing in escort.
He looked down at the top of her head, at the sun gleaming on the thick, rich darkness of her hair. She didn’t do anything special, he didn’t think; her hair reached the middle of her back and all she did was pull it back and clip it at the base of her neck. If she wore any makeup, he couldn’t see it, though he wasn’t exactly an expert in the makeup department. He noticed lipstick, or if a woman wore enough eyeliner that she looked like a raccoon. Other than that, he was a guy, which meant he was fairly oblivious.
Her skin was smooth, with a healthy sheen to it. A faint peach-hued flush had warmed her cheeks. Beneath his hand the bones of her shoulder felt fragile, not much thicker than a child’s. There was nothing childlike about her, but the feel of her shoulder clasped in his rough fingers made his stomach tighten because it reminded him that she had jumped headlong into a fight without regard for her own safety, that she’d been punched in the face by some low-life son of a bitch who needed to be shown a thing or three about what happened to jerks who hit women.
“Are you okay?” she asked again, frowning as she slanted a look up at him, and he realized his breathing had gone deeper and faster as anger bubbled his blood.
“I’ll make it,” he said roughly, sidestepping the question. Yeah, he was okay. He made himself a promise: Before he left this place, he’d make it his mission to track down that bastard and make him wish he never saw Hamrickville again.
CHAPTER 10
WHEN BO STEPPED INTO THE STATION WITH TRICKS beside her, the first person she saw was Warren Gooding. If he hadn’t seen her too, she’d have silently backed out and not returned until after he left. Unfortunately, he did see her, so she was denied the coward’s way out. Her stomach tied in knots at the thought of the coming confrontation because it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Loretta, the dispatcher, peeked out from around her cubicle and mouthed “Sorry” at her. Bo gave a slight nod to let her know it was okay. What could Loretta have done, thrown the man out? She only wished. Physically Loretta could have, because she was a big woman, but that would only make the inevitable meeting that much more hostile.
“Mr. Gooding,” she said calmly. She didn’t feel calm, but she could act calm. Telling him he was a jerk and his son was a jerk wouldn’t accomplish anything. She tried to picture the path she walked with Tricks, the peacefulness of the trees and wind and sun. Maybe that happy-place stuff really worked; it was worth a shot.
“I’d like to talk to you in private.” His tone was curt, his scowl saying that he wasn’t in a placating mood. He was a tall, heavyset man, and would have been good-looking if his discontent with the world and everyone he knew wasn’t evident in his expression.
“Certainly.” If she’d been a betting person, she’d have bet every cent Axel was paying her that she knew what he was going to say. He thought he was a special snowflake, that the rules that applied to everyone else didn’t apply to him. She wasn’t looking forward to his outrage when he found out no snowflakes were special, that they all melted.
The station house was a mostly open floor plan, with a few desks and chairs scattered around. The town’s money could only go so far, so functionality was the name of the game, with decoration and status far behind. The best that could be said of her area was that she had the newest office chair, which was to say it was less than ten years old. Maybe. She led the way to her desk, indicated the visitor’s chair. He glared around as if the layout of the station was her fault. “I said private.”
“I heard what you said, but this is as private as it gets. I don’t have a private office. Our only other option is to step into the bathroom, and no offense, but that isn’t going to happen.” She could just see that, yelling back and forth over the toilet—though she hoped it wouldn’t come to the yelling part. The hope was a small one, but miracles did happen every now and then.
His head swiveled back and forth as if looking for an office to appear out of thin air. Frustrated, he turned back to glare at her some more.
“Please, have a seat.” She indicated the visitor’s chair. After hesitating a minute, not wanting to give in but having no other option, Mr. Gooding dragged the chair over so he was mostly sitting beside her, rather than in front of her. She slid her own chair back and swiveled it so she was facing him. They weren’t meeting as equals, and she didn’t want him to think they were.
Tricks had gone to greet Loretta and now came prancing toward the new person. When she was a few feet away, however, she got a distinct look of doggie distaste on her expressive face and came to a halt. Bo kept watch on her, ready to intervene if Tricks decided to greet Mr. Gooding with her usual enthusiasm, but after studying him for a second Tricks backed away and went to her bed. Evidently ill temper smelled bad.