Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"
Автор книги: Jennie Davenport
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
She handed him the first one and his eyes doubled in size. He stared at it, taking it as though it might harm him. “I found these last night. I thought maybe you’d like to have them.”
He met her eyes after studying the picture of his father and grandmother, his brows pulling together. “I don’t want them.” He handed it back. He seemed wounded. And again, even with how well she could read people, Mr. Clayton was impossible to understand. “They were left here for a reason.”
“Then…would you mind if I hung them up here?”
He walked to the door, but from over his shoulder said, “That would be fine, Ms. Ashton.”
Chapter 14
The moving van had arrived hours ago, making it two days later than she had expected; but the timing couldn’t have been better. She’d been busy with Jean’s the past two days, setting up supplies. Most of her time had been spent tinkering with the commercial burr grinder and two French presses, the top models for commercial use. She even owned a top-of-the-line, all-in-one espresso grinder/maker, along with all the syrups and nozzles. Cups, baking trays, new chairs, a cash register, etcetera. The shop was finally ready, and now she could focus on readying her home.
She had spent the past hour showing the movers where to place her belongings. She made sure they took extra care with her father’s cuckoo clock, the one she and Willem used to watch as kids—waiting to get surprised by the little bird that would pop out faithfully on the hour and give three bird calls. It hadn’t worked in years, but still she hung it. She would wait until the movers were gone to unroll her rugs, since they managed to walk the entire forest’s mud through her small living space. One of the rugs was an antique Persian carpet with red, black, blue, and gold designs, intricate and eye-catching; the other was a woven wool rug Mr. Vanderzee had bought her on his trip to China two years ago, the fibers fine and silky. They would both look spectacular in this place with rich hardwood floors.
Regardless of how horrible Mr. Clayton’s father had been, he’d had good taste when building his “dog house.” The interior was spectacular: elaborate crown molding and hand-carved arched doorways (only two in the house, belonging to the bathroom and bedroom). She loved it here, and her love had deepened when she watched her belongings—her father’s belongings—move inside. Now she could call it home. Now, when she enters the narrow living room from the front door and sees the cherry-wood rocking chair and antique bookshelf and Persian rug, it will be hers. Not the dog house.
Before they had finished, Arne surprised her with a visit. He’d popped his head in the door when she’d been helping one of the movers—Jerry, who was short and covered in lots of body hair—position her hutch. Caught by surprise that Arne was home on a Sunday afternoon, rather than in Portland with Mr. Clayton, her first response had been, Arne, what are you doing home? He’d chuckled, telling her even Mr. Clayton took weekends sometimes.
Even more surprising was Arne’s casual slacks and Polo shirt. He’d even assisted where the movers would let him, and after they’d left, twenty minutes ago, he’d helped her rearrange things they hadn’t gotten right. It was hot now, the day bright and warm, and not only did she sweat, but Arne’s forehead glistened. She offered him some water, since she hadn’t bought anything else to drink yet, and together they went outside on her back porch, sitting in the two chairs that had been stacked under a cover. She loved the porch, the way it was hidden from the front of the house but almost the same size as the house itself. A raised, wooden deck, with four steps and a large shingled covering, perfect for the rainy days when she might want to sit outside.
In the shade, they drank their water, and Elizabeth admired her forest of a backyard, the way the bottom step of the deck was only two feet from a hemlock. Behind it grew the rest of the forest, dense and gigantic, and coated in moss. She closed her eyes, accepting the breeze against her warmed face and listening to the sounds of wildlife. The birds sang to her, and she imagined it was a welcome song.
“So how is it, working for a man like Mr. Clayton?” she asked, opening her eyes.
He chuckled, keeping his eyes low. He wiped a hand over his shiny, bald forehead. “I could ask you the same thing, working for a man like Mr. Vanderzee.”
“No one is like Mr. Vanderzee.”
“Well, let me assure you, no one is like Mr. Clayton. And nothing can compare to working for him.”
“How long have you?”
“I started working for his father when I was only eighteen. We were very good friends.”
“I hear Mr. Clayton is a lot like his father.”
“In looks, certainly.” He shook his head, his eyes distant, and chuckled to himself. “Most certainly in looks.” Her thoughts drifted again to the picture of Mr. Clayton’s father as a boy, the one that resembled him to a T. “But the old Mr. Clayton was quite a different person than the Mr. Clayton you know.”
“When did you come to Hemlock Veils?”
He sighed a relaxing sigh, reclining. “In 1965. His father, Joseph—Mr. Clayton’s grandfather—settled this town in 1920. It was simply meant to be a summer getaway, and was for quite some time. Then people began moving in, building upon it. Joseph died in the late nineteen-fifties, and Henry Senior and I moved here permanently in sixty-five. We’ve been here ever since, me with the Claytons, I mean.”
“You say you and Mr. Clayton Senior were good friends?”
“We were very close. We relied on each other’s support and advice, and…I miss that man.” He met her eyes. “You seem surprised by this, Elizabeth.”
“I just…from what Mr. Clayton said of his father, it’s hard to believe.”
His brow pulled together and he hesitated. “Mr. Clayton mentioned his father?”
“Briefly. Just this house and the reason his father had it built—to shun him and his mother. He’s bitter, whether he admits it or not.”
“And he should be.” Arne sighed. “It’s a complicated matter with the Clayton family. Put simply, the man I’m referring to is different than the man Henry speaks of. That’s all I can say.”
She chuckled.
“What is it?”
“I’m just imagining the verbal abuse you would get if he heard you call him Henry. Really, it’s hard to imagine him as Henry at all.”
Rather than amused, he seemed trapped in another distant, fond memory. He stared at his age-spotted hands, smiling just subtly. “Sometimes, he’s just Henry to me.”
That made her smile for some reason. “Were you here the first time the beast appeared? I think Eustace said it was that same year.”
“Yes,” he answered with grave eyes. They remained distant, but this time they were not lost in fond memories.
“Was it just as Eustace described?”
“To some, yes.”
Her brow tensed in question.
“The way events affect people are a matter of perspective, aren’t they, Elizabeth?”
She nodded.
“Well, to most, it was as awful as Eustace described. To others…worse.”
“To others?”
His smile hid something. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Trying to hide her disappointment, she nodded. “Arne, may I ask what Mr. Clayton does for a living?” She straightened from the look on his face. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“It…is something best left to Mr. Clayton to answer.” He met her eyes, leaning forward on his elbows. “Tell me, why is it you’ve taken such an interest in Mr. Clayton?”
She straightened again, this time defensively. Ever so faintly, heat flushed her face. “I take an interest because he’s the one who owns everything here. He’s the one I have to answer to now. He’s the one everyone fears.” Her eyes narrowed. “Except you. I don’t see fear in you, Arne. Just…respect.” She half-smiled. “An unfathomable amount of respect, if you ask me.”
He chuckled, but sobered when he met her eyes, clasping his hands together as his elbows remained on his knees. “What about you, Elizabeth? There’s no fear in you either.”
“I’ve always thought it silly to fear a man.”
“Ah, but what about a beast?”
“That’s…different.”
“It’s horribly frightening—a creature most say represents the devil himself. Yet you don’t see that.”
She shrugged, looking to her feet as she set her empty glass on the deck and tucked a strand of hair that had strayed from her ponytail behind her ear.
“It’s all right, Elizabeth. You can confide in me.”
She met his eyes, believing that. Still she didn’t answer.
“You’re afraid I will judge you?”
“No. I don’t concern myself with the judgment of others.”
“Then why not tell me?”
“Because if the town knew I thought the beast was more of a victim than they were, I would get kicked out, especially by Mr. Clayton.”
“A victim?” he asked, flinching in surprise. “Interesting word choice.”
“I know I’m already labeled crazy, but…” She sighed again, and something in his eyes said her words were safe with him. “I just think whoever he is, he didn’t choose this. Maybe he deserved it at one point, but now…I don’t know, I see something in him…begging to get out.”
A faraway sadness resided in his eyes. “Your perspective is fascinating, to say the least.”
“Please, don’t tell anyone, Arne. Especially Mr. Clayton.”
“Don’t tell me what, Ms. Ashton?”
Elizabeth jumped from her chair, nearly knocking it over when she turned. Mr. Clayton stood on the other side of the railing with his hands in his pockets, his lower half disappearing beneath the deck. He wore a pale yellow button-down shirt, much more casual than his suits, and the top two buttons were unfastened. Even his hair fell more casually—not combed away from his face like usual. It was messier, freer, and in this manner it appeared longer. His level of attraction doubled, even as he glared at her. She gulped, cursing internally.
“Nothing, Mr. Clayton. Arne and I were discussing some…personal matters. You know, juicy secrets.” She folded her arms, and his eyes seemed to say touché.
“I was just helping Elizabeth, Mr. Clayton,” Arne said, standing slowly. “She’s moving in today. You can offer your assistance if you’d like. I am getting too old for this.”
“As far as it appears, Ms. Ashton is mostly moved in. She’s young and more than capable.” He met her eyes. “Now, Ms. Ashton, if you’ll excuse us, I need Arne.”
He disappeared around the corner and Arne sighed. “I’m needed by the master.” He handed her his glass and walked down the steps, but then turned back. “I know I’ve already said this, but I like you, Elizabeth. Very much.”
She smiled. “I like you too, Arne. Very much.”
***
The weather from the day before had been a fluke, the sun out only to tease. Now, the evening of the day following Elizabeth and Arne’s chat, rain poured outside her kitchen window, backed with lightning and thunder for added effect. The sky was dark, darker than usual at seven thirty. In the morning, she would officially open Jean’s doors for business, and her chest fluttered with excitement. She’d already spent most of her evening there, preparing dough for the pastries, and hadn’t returned home until just ten minutes ago.
As she unpacked her last box of personal belongings—books and cookbooks she arranged in alphabetical order on her shelf—she stared fondly at the last one, taking up the entire width of the box, cover face-up. Fairy Tales and Folklore: Truth in Legend. Lengthy, heavy, and wide, with a bulky leather cover and a title in faded gold: a compilation of not just the most commonly heard fairy tales, but some known only to those with an interest. But mostly, aside from telling the tales, it was meant to be a reference guide to those who believed them, full of information, tips, and cross-references. Its print date was 1941, and her father had found it at a local used bookstore in his early twenties, or so he’d said. They’d read it many times together when she was a child, from cover to cover, and he’d given it to her for her eighteenth birthday, only days before he’d passed. As though he was trying to pass his knowledge as a gift.
She’d forgotten most of the myths inside, probably due to her desire as a teenager to rid her life of all childish things. Now, hefting it, she wondered how many of them were more reality than myth. Her mind had been blown on the first night she saw the beast; and she did feel a certain magic in this forest, a magic that felt like home. Perhaps her father’s fairy tales held more water than she’d thought.
Opening it, she skimmed through, and old memories awakened at the touch of smooth, glossy pages. After minutes of browsing, she found the tale of Absolon and Elvire, a moving one about love and looking past one’s appearance. It was a story about the Cursed and the Curse Breaker: terms she had heard from her father on many occasions, and terms she had, until just now, forgotten about. They pierced her soul in a way she didn’t understand, and she brushed off the prodding of her heart, stored it in the back of her mind for a later time. The fable wasn’t long, and below it was a cross-reference to the hefty section dedicated to Aglaé, the one who cursed Absolon. Aglaé was a kind of enchantress, one the Witch section devoted the most attention to.
Elizabeth flipped to that section, with drawings and descriptions of every kind. She stopped on the third, the Aglaé—mesmerized by the splendor of the hand-drawn beauty, just as she’d been as a child. She had stared at this picture for hours as a child, simply in awe at the enchantress’s beauty. Aglaé: it meant beautiful splendor in French. It may have been a mere drawing, but she embodied something real and human, even in her splendor. Her long golden hair flowed to her waist in waves. With her delicate wrists and hands lifted in an embrace-like gesture, and her ruby-colored robe, her knowing eyes—the same color as her robe—appeared to seduce. And most sensual of all were her lips, curved in an enticing smile. Aglaé used her beauty to hypnotize men.
But only the foolish and unfaithful were her prey.
She could shift her form into anything or anyone in her attempt to snare them. It explained that as a women’s advocate, Aglaé would most commonly transform said men into the animals they behaved like: monkeys, dogs, jackasses, even frogs. Then, at the bottom of the list it simply said, monsters. It elaborated in the next paragraph, explaining that Aglaé was the most unfair of any enchantress. For some men, a ferocious and undefined beast was the only form she thought fitting for their characters, and for the rest of their lives they were labeled as such. Cursed for eternity, and the only way those curses could lift was by nearly impossible acts.
The following paragraph explained a few of the curses, but noted that there were too many variations to list. Elizabeth skipped to the next paragraph, where it said that in the rare case she might transform a man into such a monster, the cures were too far from their reach.
Her curses gave her strength.
And if the subject of her curse was unable to break it, her power grew.
These enchantresses, ruthless in their desire to keep these men prisoner, would go through extreme measures to keep them cursed. Even transforming into forms of hideous, murderous evil themselves.
Elizabeth closed the book with a huff, a sort of skeptical laugh. It was all so ridiculous.
Yet she found herself questioning its validity. Really, such magic couldn’t be too far-fetched. After all, the beast was inexplicable—undefined by books and incomparable to any known species. Most importantly, he was human. Elizabeth saw it, felt it. And this fairy tale—this story that stretched beyond impossible—fit. What had happened to the beast, and who had he been? What was his curse, and what was he being punished for? Could an enchantress like this be responsible for his existence?
She looked up at the same time that distinct chill tingled down her spine, her eyes shooting to the window behind her. She hadn’t closed her drapes the past few nights for this very reason. She’d been faithful to Mr. Clayton’s demand that she not enter the forest alone, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t watch him through the window at night. And just as he had the past two nights, he watched her, too. He came closer every night, this time only two feet from her window. His eyes pled for something she didn’t understand as the rain soaked him, streaming off the pointy tips of his ears. He seemed unaffected by it, but shook himself free of accumulating water, droplets smaller than the rain misting the air. Now, more than ever, she wanted to meet him outside. She wanted to know more, and she knew he wanted to know about her, too.
But in rising she reminded herself of the honorable person she once thought she was. She’d made a deal with Mr. Clayton, as unfortunate as it was, and would honor it. Besides, there was something…unsettling about the way the beast stood. It appeared he stood guard, as though he had become her night watchman. What was he guarding her from, and what could possibly be more terrifying than him?
With a hand on the window, she said she was sorry, wondering if he could hear, and with hesitation—and even sadness—she closed the drapes. There was no point in entertaining the temptation. She stood still a moment, feeling him there, and then felt nothing. She peeked, ever so discreetly, finding the place he stood empty.
She made her way to the bathroom, turning the handle over the old ceramic tub. A groan resonated from deep inside the pipe, followed by a gurgle. Right as she thought it was just her luck, water spewed from the joint of the pipe and shot in every direction, drenching everything. The cold water shocked her chest, stealing her breath, and while covering her eyes, she felt for the handle to turn it off. It took a moment, but finally all was still, and she sat in a large puddle of water, dripping as ferociously as the beast had been outside her window.
***
On her way to the door, Elizabeth grabbed a small sack of her belongings, her keys, and her new umbrella. It was just before six a.m. and the sun hadn’t begun to rise, but she needed to shower before she went to the shop; she needed it like she needed sunshine. She’d called Regina the night before to ask if she could make a stop over there the next morning, and Regina had offered her the use of her shower before Elizabeth could even ask. Once again, she was indebted to her only real friend here. Her only friend in human form, anyway.
Rain still poured from the night before, heavy and relentless. Cold and damp darkness took over, and she tightened the bag under her arm before stepping out and closing the door. Even with an umbrella overhead, she felt the moisture, from deep in her bones.
Almost to her car, she stopped short. A dark figure approached, rain ricocheting off his shoulders. She couldn’t make him out, but he held something in his hand. He seemed to walk with difficulty, too, and he brought the item in his hand to his mouth. A bottle of liquor, no doubt.
She sighed and kept moving. “What are you doing here, Brian?” she called over the rain.
“I need a reason to see you?” His voice was slower than usual, giving away his inebriation, and he blocked her way. He wore regular jeans and a t-shirt beneath a denim jacket, and the bottle in his hand—nearly empty—was large.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”
A clumsy hand wiped his face. “I’ve been up all night. You know what I’ve been thinking about?”
She swallowed instead of answering.
“I’ve been thinking about you, and how you turned down my deal.”
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you up at night.” She tried getting around him, but he blocked her again, laughing.
“I’m messing with you, Beth. You don’t have that much a hold over me.”
“That’s good to know. I really should get going though. I have a lot to do before the shop opens. You’re welcome to come by when it does. You know, when you’re sober.”
He laughed again, inching closer, and his breath reeked of rum. “I’m planning on it. But I’m here ’cause I wanted to catch you before you went to Regina’s.”
“How’d you know I was going to Regina’s?” she asked, recoiling.
“I stopped by there last night to return something. It was just after she got off the phone with you. You know, Beth…a shower’s so much more enjoyable with two. You can take one at my place.”
“Go home and go to bed.”
He chuckled. “Lighten up, learn how to take a joke.”
“I can take a joke when there is one.” She tried getting around him again and this time he grabbed her arm.
“I was really coming to say I can fix your busted pipe. Like I said before, I’m pretty handy.”
She stood back, studying him. He still held onto her arm, but his eyes were unreadable and dull. “You…would do that?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Not now though. When you’re sober.” She still eyed him skeptically.
“Course.”
“Well, thanks. I think.”
He waved his arm. “It’s nothing. See, some of us are still gentlemen around here.”
“Opposed to…?”
“Just saying I don’t think Mr. Clayton would help out.”
She eyed him again. Did he feel threatened by Mr. Clayton? The idea oddly amused her. She’d thought about calling Mr. Clayton last night after the pipe had burst, only because he’d lived here before. But then she remembered it was Mr. Clayton, and in order to spare her ears of some arrogant response like, “That house isn’t mine anymore, Ms. Ashton,” or, “Deal with it yourself, Ms. Ashton,” she’d decided to conquer it on her own.
“I didn’t ask Mr. Clayton,” she finally said. “It’s my house now and we agreed I was taking it in the condition it was, good or bad. It’s my responsibility, not his.”
“See what I mean? I doubt he would have helped, even if you asked.”
She folded her arm against herself, and her teeth chattered. “What’s your point, Brian?”
“Just saying if you’re gonna be into anyone, be into a real man. You know, now that you’re staying and all…”
“I’m not going to be into anyone. And this is hardly the time and place—”
“Relax, all right?” Massaging her shoulder, he tilted his head as though a remarkable idea had struck him. “So, payment-wise…”
She sighed, ripping her shoulder away from his hand. “Forget the pipe, Brian.”
Even his laugh slurred. “You say you’re different than other women, but you’re all the same. No means yes, Beth. Trust me, I know. I can read the body language you’re putting off…” He pinched her ribs in a playful manner and she swatted his hand away, backing up.
“Maybe it does with everyone else you’ve tried to sleep with, but I promise you I’m not one of those women. And reality check: most women aren’t those women.”
Still he advanced, chuckling. “Tried and conquered,” he corrected, lifting a finger.
Rolling her eyes, she tried moving around him again. When he took her umbrella, her hair immediately soaked through, and she held back a gasp. “Give it to me,” she demanded, peeved beyond comprehension. Yet somehow not surprised.
He laughed as though she was playing with him. “Make me.”
She sighed through her teeth, and her core heated almost hot enough to relieve her of her shivers. “This isn’t a game. Please give it back, Brian.” She backed him into the car, trying to get it from him, and he held it high out of her reach.
“I love seeing you wet,” he said, his laugh fading into a wistful sort of sigh. “I guess this’ll be the closest I get to watching you shower.”
With that, she slapped him in the face, her hand as taut as her nerves. It happened before she could talk herself out of it, but she didn’t regret it, even as he stared wide-eyed at her. She hadn’t hit many people in her life, but if there was anyone deserving of it, it was Brian. Backing away and still holding her bag, she folded her arms over herself, wanting to hide from his eyes and thoughts.
His jaw stiffened and he threw her umbrella. By the time it stopped rolling it was twenty feet down the street, in a puddle pock-marked with continuous, rippling spots. “Get it if you want it,” he challenged.
Startling her, he pitched his empty rum bottle, where it shattered against a tree at the forest’s edge behind her. In her shock, she had dropped her belongings. The silence following was harsher than the shatter itself. And her annoyance was quickly transforming into something she hadn’t felt in a long time, something she couldn’t even admit to herself she felt yet: fear.
“Please leave.” Her voice wavered.
A smile crept in, slow and mischievous, and he stepped closer. “See, Beth. When you’re saying that, all I hear is ‘come in.’” He took her arms and twisted around, pressing her against the car. He brought his face to hers, his breath against her mouth. “And you know what I think when you slap me?” he whispered.
She recoiled from his mouth and he laughed, trying to kiss her. She pushed, but he pushed harder. With a low and gravelly grunt, he said, “I like this fight in you. I don’t usually get it.”
“Get. Off,” she said, pushing him with all her strength. If she still had her keys in hand, she wouldn’t hesitate to use them, but they lay on the street, next to her bag.
He grunted again, but this time it seemed to be out of anger, and like the flip of a switch, he became a monster far more dangerous than the one in the forest. His eyes, already glassy and bloodshot, appeared to swell from their sockets, and a Y-shaped vein bulged from his forehead. Even in the dark, she could see that his wet face reddened. “Go on and keep denying me, Beth!” He lifted her high in the air and slammed her into her car, making her back shudder with pain. “Tell me no one more time!”
Her breath came with difficulty, but she lifted her feet, attempting to kick him off of her. He was too strong, however, had too powerful a hold on her, and though it felt futile, she fought with him. “Go to hell,” she managed, telling herself not to stop fighting.
“Good,” he said, slamming her into the car again, harder than the first time. She exhaled sharply but tried to hide the pain, tried not to wince. “That’s good. Sometimes me and Nicki play it like that.”
A deafening roar startled them both, breaking the static sound of rainfall just as she began to drown in hopelessness. With a jerk Brian looked behind him, but there was nothing. In his distraction, Elizabeth kneed him in the groin, making him drop her and buckle over. But before she could stand he grabbed her again, this time shoving her against the street and straddling her waist. Her spine was hardly chilled from the water beneath her, since she could focus only on the way it flooded her eyes, making her fight that much more difficult. He was strong too, much stronger than she would have guessed, and every time she thought she might get the upper hand, he didn’t allow it, eventually pinning her hands in the street, directly above her head.
Through the whooshing of her own breath in her ears, she attempted to focus on the calming sound of rainfall, faithfully steady. But by the pale light of the rising sun, veiled with clouds that seemed miles-deep, Brian’s face appeared more ominous than anything she’d seen in Hemlock Veils. Her muscles trembled with strain, failing to move the mountain atop her. Breathe. Breathe, and fight.
“Please,” she pled between breaths, tilting her face away from the rain. “Please, get off me.”
He smiled, and she regretted her plea instantly, since it seemed to drive him. He brought his fist up and she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for his blow, but then he didn’t hit her. Instead he grunted—a sound of surprise—and in her own surprise she opened her eyes, just as he was thrown off of her and the sudden weightlessness above became the most exhilarating hope of any hope she’d ever felt. He landed a few feet away, rolling. When she pushed herself up, where she expected to see the beast she instead saw Mr. Clayton, just as drenched as she and Brian.
Even stranger than his soaked figure—like he’d been out for hours, not minutes—were his bare feet. His unbuttoned white dress shirt revealed a torso so muscular that even in her current state of mind, her mouth hung open. His wet hair was disheveled and his face unshaven. His black slacks were only halfway zipped, too, the clasp and belt hanging low, and water trickled down his abdomen. His white shirt, transparent with water, only vaguely hid a dark spot on the skin beneath it, the size of a fist and just below his right collarbone.
Before she could get a better look, he ripped Brian from the ground and threw him into her car, making it rock. When Brian fell to the ground beside her, moaning, her eyes fell upon the dent in her back door. Trapped between her car and Brian, she inched away from him until the back tire pressed against her spine.
Mr. Clayton stared at her, his dripping hair the color of black coal. Crouching, she grasped her knees. She couldn’t speak, still shocked at seeing him here in the first place, and especially like this. As though he’d been in the middle of getting dressed and ran into the rain to save her.
Brian grunted, rolling to his back and shielding his face, clearly confused. With a movement that appeared far too easy, Mr. Clayton lifted Brian to his feet by his collar, then punched him in the jaw. Brian fell back, but Mr. Clayton lifted him to his feet again, pulling his face close to his.
“M—Mr. Clayton?” Brian asked.
“You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Dane, coming out here before sunrise.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but slump. Of course, this was about coming out here on his street before sunrise. She was a fool for thinking it had anything to do with defending her.
“I—I was only—”
“You were drinking, you idiot. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to tell you to stay in your own damn house when you get wasted. I will not have this kind of behavior in my town.”
“Mr. Clayton, I was just coming here—”
“I know what you were coming to do, Mr. Dane, and I should have you thrown in prison.” His low, growl-like voice emerged from clenched teeth.
“There’s no need. Elizabeth and I were just talking—”
Mr. Clayton punched him again, harder than the first, but let him fall to the street this time. He stood over him, chest heaving, as blood came from Brian’s nose. “If you so much as speak to her again, I will throw you in jail.”
