Текст книги "Hemlock Veils"
Автор книги: Jennie Davenport
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Damn her.
“Ms. Ashton,” he finally said. “I’m not looking for payment. I’m just…doing what needs to be done. I was there at the right time, that’s all. I don’t ask for anything in return.”
“They’re just cookies, I know.” Again she appeared flustered at her payment. Regardless of how irritatingly perfect it was. “And I understand if you don’t eat them. But take them anyway. It’s the last thing I’ll ask of you.” A teasing smile lifted her lips. “I know it’s hard sometimes, doing things for people you don’t like, especially when you’ve already done so much for them.”
He only stared, her words sinking him. Before he could respond, she added, “Oh, and if you ever decide to come into Jean’s, you’ll have free coffee. As long as you keep coming, actually.”
He couldn’t address her absurd free coffee remark, not when her previous words sizzled in his mind. They shouldn’t have surprised him, since he’d wanted her to think that very thing: that he didn’t like her. But hearing her say it made him suddenly realize how much he didn’t want her to think it. “I never said I dislike you,” he said, his tone clipped.
“Yes, you did. But even without the words, Mr. Clayton…”
He recalled the moment after he’d sold her his cottage, when he did in fact say those words, and never did he think he would regret them. “I could say the same about you.”
Her eyes captivated him in a stare-down. “Yeah, but…you started it.”
He smiled, before his resistance could stop it. Turning to the door, he said, “And Ms. Ashton? To prevent you from sabotaging Arne with more personal questions about me, I own the second largest oil field in America. Admiralty Bay Oil Fields in North Slope Borough, Alaska.” Her eyes grew sheepish. “Is that enough information?”
It took her a moment to resume as normal, and when she did, she folded her arms. “It’ll do for now.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “For now?”
She shrugged. Then with a hint of a smile, she repeated, “For now.”
Words stopped up inside him so he turned, twisting the knob and letting himself out before he could change his mind. As he left with her cookies in hand, the sun dwelled at its low place in the sky, and he quickened his pace. An anxiety bordering on excitement motivated him; he would see her again soon, when darkness would attempt—and fail—to hide her features. Night was the only time he could drop his guard. It was the time he wasn’t himself, the only time he didn’t need to hide behind Henry Clayton. And it had taken Elizabeth, and all her unfathomable acceptance, for him to realize that.
***
Elizabeth crouched on her porch, over the azalea Mr. Clayton had issued a death sentence to only thirty minutes before. She thought it best to trust him on the subject, since his landscape was immaculate and beautiful. She tried picturing, again, Mr. Clayton gardening. The thought made her smile and she bit her lip, shaking her head. It was impossible to imagine, but at the same time, after seeing him on the floor fixing her pipe, his large hands strangely capable of manipulating small things, the thought came a little easier.
After sticking her finger in the moist soil she stood, planning to replant it tomorrow in the very place he’d suggested. In staring into the forest, darkening with the setting sun, her mind slipped thirty minutes back in time, to the moment he fixed that pipe. There was something alluring about it, even sensual—the way the fancy, wealthy Mr. Clayton, whose man servant protected him with an umbrella through town, lay on her bathroom floor in a snug white t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees, not giving a second thought to the water leaking all over him. She found this side of him so appealing that she knew she would think about him on her bathroom floor for days to come, his shirt riding up his abdomen. She would think about his dark beard, short and in its beginning stage, with a faint trace of silver sprinkled within, and how it complimented the rest of his features.
But it wasn’t just the thought of him on her bathroom floor. It was the way she’d seen him in a startling new light since that morning. Since she’d fit the pieces together. She saw it now, what his eyes hid. He didn’t in fact hate her, or most the town he fought so hard to protect. That’s what it was: protection. He was protecting her from himself, from what he was. He was trying, with everything in him, to push her away. Regardless of the way he didn’t want to.
That was when she’d decided—tonight, after he admitted to liking her in his round-about way—she wouldn’t allow him to push her away. She might annoy him, the same way he annoyed her at times, but just like he’d given her a second chance, she would give him one. A second chance at acceptance. A chance at understanding. Something warm hid inside Mr. Clayton, something she had been too prideful to notice before. He deserved to be liked, deserved to be seen as the man he was—not the monster he thought himself.
The first mistake, however, would be revealing she knew his secret. She could see it now, the way all Hell would break loose. He’d kick her out of town for sure. And she didn’t want to lose this place or the being she saw at night, who seemed to share more of an understanding with her than anyone ever had, simply by looking her in the eyes.
She straightened when she sensed him coming from the side facing Mr. Clayton’s mansion. Yesterday, when standing on her tiptoes, she’d spotted a stone fence behind his mansion, and it made sense that he would approach from that direction. She wondered how it all worked, wondered if it was the setting of the sun that transformed him. She also wondered, when her skeptical side kicked in, how she could even be sure it was him.
But as the beast approached cautiously, that black ridge on his spine erect, and she met his rich brown eyes, all she could see was Henry. Henry. He was Henry. Not Mr. Clayton.
After she rested her hands on the railing, he took caution as he sat before her, his eyes at her level even while on his haunches. Perhaps she should go inside to honor their deal, but could he really expect her to honor it, coming out here every night?
He sniffed the air, right as a threatening chill scaled her arms. His eyes flitted about and whatever it was, she felt it too. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it mirrored the threatening wind from days ago.
Get inside.
She stopped short—thoughts, breath, everything. She stared at him, not sure what to make of the voice overtaking her mind. Not an actual human voice, but words, direct and unmistakable. She thought them, saw them, almost as though she read them, and they’d come from him.
He twisted, about to run. “Wait!” she called. He turned with a reluctance that had to be human, and more importantly, had to be Henry’s. “Please don’t go.” In the moment he stared, the threatening chill left, as quickly as it’d come. “You…can communicate with me?”
He didn’t move, and no words entered her mind. Then he sat and she descended the stairs. Only two feet away, she craned her neck to meet his eyes, and he didn’t back away this time.
He lowered his muzzle to her face, and his eyes turned from marbles to slits. Your heart races, yet you don’t flee. Why aren’t you afraid?
With an exhalation and a swallow at the same time, the air caught in her throat. He could hear her heartbeat, too? These new revelations, however, didn’t repel her. In fact, they awed her. In all reality, she was relieved they finally had a way of conversing. “Why should I be?” she asked out loud, not sure if he could read her thoughts.
Everyone is afraid.
She couldn’t help the wonder in her tone when she said, “People are often afraid of a beauty they don’t understand.”
The beast recoiled. Horror, he corrected.
“Perspective is reality.”
He lay on all fours, allowing her neck relief. Now she could meet his eyes without straining. Your perspective is unusual.
“What is usual?” She stepped closer, studying him the way he studied her. “Can you…hear my thoughts, too?”
No.
“What are you trying to protect everyone from? Not you, since you wouldn’t harm anyone.”
He rose, and a huff of large, angry breath clouded the air. Instinctively, she stepped back on her heels. You know nothing.
“So I’ve been told.” Even with his animal expression and animal eyes, he seemed caught off guard. “Tell me then, let me know.”
His muzzle, zipped with fangs, neared again, his eyes threatening. I’m vicious, blood-thirsty.
Taggart had once mentioned deer carcasses. She held his eyes, narrowing her own. “Maybe. But…you won’t hurt me.”
Her confidence sent a ripple down his spine, making his fur erect. She tried not to gulp. With hands on her hips, she stood her ground. “Well, you’ve elevated my heart rate like you wanted. Are you finished?”
The moment that passed was long, but after seeing she wouldn’t budge, he looked to the side; with a sigh that almost sounded human, he dropped the act.
She took a subtle step closer and asked again, “What are you protecting us from?”
It took him a moment. I protect people from what they fear.
She didn’t understand. “And what do you protect me from, since I don’t fear you?”
It took him a moment to answer. Something else has been here, something far more dangerous than me.
She knitted her brow, feeling another chill. Perhaps it would be best to take his advice and go inside. But she fought the urge, rubbing her arms. After all, she did have the best protection a man could get, sitting right before her. “Is it here…all the time?”
No, it comes and goes, and something has…angered it. It’s not here now, but it’s close. Her shoulders relaxed and he seemed to notice. But you should be afraid. You shouldn’t be out here alone.
She could almost hear Henry’s voice saying it. “I’m not alone. I’m with you.”
It’s not safe…Elizabeth.
She blinked at the mention of her name. “I feel safe…” She took another step. “With you.” She closed in on him, and hesitantly reached her hand toward him. He withdrew quickly, and a low growl resonated from his throat. She didn’t know how she’d missed it before, how she didn’t see Henry. She wondered how hard he had to fight his feral, animal instincts when this close to her.
“It’s all right,” she said. He stayed in place, even with wary eyes. With less hesitancy, she felt the fur on his side, stroking it slowly. He shuddered beneath her hand. It was coarse and soft at the same time, silky really, and the heat from his mass warmed her hand. She slid it down, again exhaling in awe. She moved it to the ridge behind his long, strange ears, where the fur was thicker and stiffer. She ran her fingers through it, combing them down his spine: like horse hair, but not quite, since it was something all his own. His nose came close, sniffing her neck, and he wore the appealing scent of the forest.
She met his eyes. When he didn’t recoil, she brought both hands to his face, grasping his fur. His snout was long and narrow and his face gruesomely large, but his eyes held her.
You’re not repulsed.
“I’m amazed.”
No words entered her mind.
“What can I call you?”
Again silence, but this time she thought it was because he didn’t know. Then, I’m a beast, am I not?
“You don’t have to be alone anymore, Beast.”
He blinked, lowering his head in some sort of surrender. I…don’t want to be alone.
Chapter 16
Elizabeth closed the door behind her when she left, the time a quarter to seven. She loved the morning air, still crisp from damp nighttime but lit with fresh, low sunlight. Only the slightest chill plagued the warmth, one that refreshed her lungs when she inhaled. Lack of sleep left her a little sluggish, but not enough to spoil her outlook. She slung her purse over her shoulder and just as she began thinking of Henry, he appeared, as though her very thoughts could make him materialize. He seemed to be deep in thought when he walked by, and paused when noticing her, doing what could be classified as a double-take.
Smiling, she lifted her hand in a wave and met him on the street. He seemed only slightly more wary than usual, and even gave her a muted smile in return. He wore a suit, as was customary, but appeared much more casual—not just because of his beard, which he had trimmed very short, but because his hair wasn’t combed away from his face. It was still cropped and tidy around his ears but fell wherever it pleased—a look suggesting that all he’d done was run damp fingers through it. She imagined what it would be like to run her own through it.
“Ms. Ashton,” he greeted her. She detected a welcoming tone.
“Mr. Clayton,” she said, trying to keep her voice professional as it came through her smile.
She glanced up at him as they walked; when he returned the glance, they both looked away. They did this a few times, playing hide-and-seek with their eyes, and she bit her lip in an attempt to hide her smile. It was especially hard since he appeared to be doing the same thing. How much did he know, or did he know she knew anything at all?
Was he thinking about last night, as she was? It hadn’t been until after two a.m. when she returned home, and there hadn’t even been much conversation between them. They’d simply walked, probably miles. She liked to think he was giving her a tour of sorts, showing her the forest she’d been aching to see. She’d tried asking him questions about who he was, how long he’d been that way, and what the evil presence was that showed up from time to time; but he hardly answered and when he did, the answers were short and elusive. It was okay though, that he didn’t trust her enough yet. After all, he’d kept his life a secret for a long time, probably more years than she’d been alive.
“The cookies,” he finally said when they reached the corner of Alder and Clayton. “They’re fantastic.”
“Thank you, I’m glad you like them.”
“Between Arne and me, we’ve nearly emptied the plate already.”
She chuckled. “Be careful. They have been known to cause belly aches.” After a smile on his end, she said, “So, Mr. Clayton, are you going to take me up on my other offer, about free coffee for life?”
“No.” She tried not to deflate, and he quickly corrected, “Not on the free part anyway.”
She studied him from a sidelong glance, and again they both smiled. In the beginning, she hadn’t thought he was capable of normal smiles, but the ones she’d begun to see were some of the most charming she’d seen on anyone. They left a feeling in her chest she could describe only as a sense of tiny, fluttering wings.
It came on then, a yawn—without her consent. She tilted her head away from him, covering her mouth.
“Tired?” His voice was quizzical.
“Everyone is these days, aren’t they?”
“Perhaps you’re not cut out for early mornings.”
“Early mornings and late nights.” He lifted a brow, no doubt testing her, and she quickly recovered, “I just couldn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
It seemed to have been enough to convince him; his shoulders relaxed and relief practically fell upon him in a wave. It only reaffirmed that he could never know she knew.
They neared Henry Street. “Mr. Clayton, is Arne…allowed to come in, too?” The question sounded silly, as though Arne was a child. He seemed to think so, too, since he gave a subtle harrumph.
“You think I keep him chained up at the car, do you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s okay. I expect people would think that, given…everything.” He seemed distant for a brief moment then looked down on her. “Arne doesn’t come in by choice, Ms. Ashton. His choice. He feels it would make his job more…difficult.”
She ached for him to elaborate, but she’d bombarded him with enough questions in the past twenty-four hours. “Maybe free coffee would entice him.”
His brow creased.
“Well, if you’re not going to take me up on the offer, maybe he will.”
She unlocked the door to Jean’s in the way he’d showed her a few days before. When she opened it, flipping the sign to an “open” position, she turned to him. A sweet doughy aroma wafted from the open door. “Are you coming?”
He hesitated, but followed her in. His eyes scanned the place, since it was the first time he’d seen it revived. Her vision followed his, which lingered on the framed photos that decorated the west wall. More precisely, his vision zeroed in on the middle one of him and his mother. It had to be his mother, since there was no question anymore that the boy was him, not his father. She’d spent the early hours of the morning in her bed aligning the pieces. It made more sense that way, with all he and Arne had told her, some of the information conflicting.
That boyish, dimple-adorned smile in the photo was the same she saw this morning, the same that had left her chest feeling like a butterfly cage. When she looked away from the picture and back at him, she almost recoiled from the way he was already watching her—not the picture.
“I’ll get your coffee on,” she said, and walked behind the counter, placing an apron over her head and tying it behind her. First, she preheated the oven in the kitchen and removed the dough—prepared the evening before and already strategically placed on baking trays—from the industrial-sized refrigerator. When she returned to the lobby, Henry seemed to be wondering what he should do, and she began boiling water then added beans to the grinder. For a moment, he just stood there, but then he sat at the table farthest from her—the one in the corner. The sound of the grinder filled the awkward silence that she didn’t think was awkward at all, and the door opened behind her. For a second she thought he’d escaped, but when she turned she found Eustace, Taggart, Old Ray, and Doc Ortiz. Eustace and Elizabeth exchanged smiles. “Good morning,” she said to them.
“It’s already smelling good, Beth,” Old Ray said, his long white hair pinned back in a perfect ponytail, as it always was. She’d known the obvious since the moment she’d met him: that Old Ray was of a Native American heritage. But it wasn’t until her night with Regina and fried chicken that she’d learned he was one of the last of the Clatsop tribe—a branch of the Chinooks. The tribe, Regina said, had been losing its identity for some time now, and recently, in an attempt to keep its culture and ceremonies alive, Old Ray had joined the Clatsop-Nehalem Confederated Tribes of Oregon, an unofficial confederation fighting for the independence of the Clatsop tribe. He was the last in his family, apparently, and used to be a raging drunk. Now, though many years sober, he owned and ran the only tavern in town.
Sheriff Taggart adjusted his belt and looked around, appearing surprised when he noticed Henry. “Mr. Clayton,” he nodded.
“Sheriff,” Henry said.
Regina entered then, and so did Sheppy, with his red backpack and lime green Chucks. They exchanged hellos as Elizabeth emptied the medium-sized grounds by rounded tablespoons into both French presses. Then two teenagers she’d never met came in, along with the Thurmans. The space was small for all the bodies, and the sensation thrilling.
“Well, look at you,” Regina said, and Elizabeth peeked from over her shoulder as she began grinding the beans for the espresso machine. Regina stood over Henry, fists on her hips, and he appeared uncomfortable. Hopefully, all the attention wouldn’t scare him away. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any handsomer, Mr. Clayton.”
He glanced up at her, rendered speechless.
“The beard’s particularly striking.”
He chuckled, only one side of his mouth lifting. “Thank you, Mrs. Washington.”
“It’s good to see you here,” Taggart added, his mustache twitching as he again adjusted his belt. Henry’s limbs appeared to stiffen. The oven beeped behind her and she went in the back, put the pastries in the oven, set the timer, and returned to the lobby. The water was boiling now—perfect timing—and she poured it into both presses before checking the espresso machine that did most the work itself. From yesterday, she knew Taggart liked his cappuccino creamy and Regina liked her lattes with vanilla.
She worked quickly as everyone conversed behind her, typical morning chat. The teenagers, she heard, were on their way out of town, to school in Government Camp; Taggart had to investigate a strange case of Gina Gray’s missing cats—a woman whom Elizabeth had never seen—and he didn’t seem thrilled about the task; Old Ray was headed to the tavern after his coffee, to open it for whomever might be down enough on their luck to drink that early.
After skimming the floating grounds from the top in both presses, Elizabeth put one on the warmer and poured some from the other into a tall mug she’d already had warming. She left the coffee black, just the way he liked it—the way she happened to like it, too. She found the folded newspaper Taggart had left the day before, and though it was old news, she thought it better than nothing.
She approached Henry in the corner; his eyes locked with hers, and she placed the steaming cup before him, then handed him the paper. “It’s from yesterday,” she said with only a hint of a smile, “but…I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
He seemed surprised at first, but then pleased, as though she’d just saved him from social awkwardness. From the look of it, she may as well have saved his life. He smiled a polite smile and nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Ashton.” He began reaching inside the pocket of his jacket, but she stopped him, placing her hand on his shoulder.
“I meant it, Mr. Clayton. I won’t accept your money.” She walked away before he could argue, and the room was silent. What was so unusual about her exchange with Henry she didn’t know, but whatever it was, it shut everyone up. And while trying to look discreet, they were in fact quite obvious, with their roaming eyes.
She worked behind the counter, hurrying—but not rushing—to fulfill everyone else’s orders as they formed a line toward the counter.
Things moved fast and she liked the busy feel, the way things rolled smoothly along. When Regina finished, she sighed and scooted away from the table she’d shared with Taggart, Eustace, Old Ray, and Doc Ortiz. “I guess I better get back to it,” she said, standing. “Nicole wanted to check this place out.” She saw Elizabeth’s surprise and chuckled. “I know.” Regina reached behind the counter and gave Elizabeth a quick, tight squeeze, her hair smelling as it always did: bitter coffee and menthol Newports. “Keep it up, Beth.” She’d said the same thing before she left yesterday, too, after she said how amazing the latte was—the best she’d ever had.
“Bye, Regina,” Elizabeth said after her. A pleasing smell emanated from the kitchen, telling her the pastries were done, and after she let them cool a few minutes, she placed them on the trays behind the glass counter. Immediately, nearly everyone rose, flocking back to the counter.
Nicole and Brian entered then, and Elizabeth swore her heart stopped beating all together as she locked eyes with Brian: head low, hair disheveled, and a dark line on the corner of his lip. Around that side of his mouth, the skin had a greenish tint. Yet all she could see was him above her, the image of his enraged face swirling due to the rain flooding her eyes. And within seconds, venomous thoughts of rage, humiliation, and retribution began spinning in her head.
She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling through her nose.
From the way Nicole’s arm was through his, claiming him, she guessed no one knew what he had done. Perhaps Nicole had dragged him here. How he had the nerve to show his face here at all was beyond Elizabeth’s now muddled comprehension.
“Beth,” Eustace said, and her eyes shot to him. Others watched her, too; he may have said her name more than once. Cautiously, he extended a five-dollar bill in her direction. “You all right, Beth?”
After a short second she smiled and nodded, hiding every ounce of her discomfort. “Of course, Old Man.” She took his money, opened the cash drawer, and withdrew his change. She handed it to him. “Just…getting used to running this place, that’s all.”
“Hope we don’t keep you too busy,” he said, a hint of a smile lifting his beard.
“I hope you do.” As she smiled back, Brian approached the end of the line. Nicole sat at one of the tables while she waited, conversing in a surprisingly friendly way with Sheppy. At the table beside them, in the corner, was Henry.
Henry.
He sat rigidly at his corner table, his vision planted on the back of Brian’s head as though deadly darts would shoot from his eyes at any moment. She prayed this wouldn’t end messily.
In a quiet voice unlike his own, Brian ordered two coffees, both with cream. Then he glanced nonchalantly—but too conspicuously, in her opinion—around to make sure everyone else was out of earshot. He leaned over the counter and she recoiled, his presence giving her goose bumps. “Beth,” he began softly, then paused. “I…I’m sorry. I feel awful about it. I hope you know that’s not who I am and I would never—”
“That’ll be four twenty-one,” she interrupted, unable to meet his eyes. Instead, she looked at the glass counter, where his hands rested. Grease tattooed his skin, beneath the circular and maze-like patterns of his fingertips.
“Beth, come on. I can’t stand this. I never wanted to—”
“I don’t care.” She was about to tell him to leave, but didn’t want to make a scene. She thought her next words through carefully, whether she meant them or not. “That’s fine if you want to come in here, but don’t expect small talk. Don’t talk to me about anything other than coffee.”
Silence. A stare-down.
“Got it?” she asked through tight lips.
He was about to say something—probably through his teeth, judging by the way that vein began to bulge from his forehead—but Henry appeared behind him, startling the both of them. He put a hand on Brian’s shoulder, a friendly gesture to any outside eyes, but a threatening one to those who knew. Thankfully, no one else did. “Is there a problem, Mr. Dane?”
Brian sighed, edging his shoulder out from under Henry’s hand. “No, Mr. Clayton.” His bitter voice lacked its usual respect for Henry.
“Then why haven’t you paid Ms. Ashton?”
“Brian, what’s going on?” Nicole asked as she approached, arms folded.
Brian faked a smile. “Nothing.” He handed Elizabeth a five and his eyes, directed at hers, were malicious. She tried not to cower at the way they said so much. “Keep the change.”
With that, he and Nicole walked away, sitting at the table next to Henry’s—with his coffee and paper still atop it. Without words, Henry’s eyes met hers, communicating with her in the same way they did at night.
She only nodded, in answer to his silent question. He nodded too, and returned to his table.
“Have you seen the monster behind your house yet, Beth?” Eustace asked from one of the tables, crumbs topping the napkin, which once held his puff pastry.
Briefly, she stumbled over her words. Then, while all were silent—and while Henry watched her warily from his table—she said, “I…I’m not sure, Eustace. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Taggart asked. “I think you’d know.”
“Nah, the thing can be quiet as a mouse,” Eustace said, still eyeing her. “But it is back there. It’s always back there.”
She wiped runaway coffee off the counter. Even Sheppy, who’d been conversing with the teens who were now leaving, fell silent. “Beth,” Taggart said, sitting forward and narrowing his eyes. “Why do I get the sense you’re hiding something?”
She shrugged, as casually as she could. “I don’t know what you mean, Sheriff.”
“I just think it’s strange how cozy you feel living there, knowing that thing is out there.”
“What do you want me to do? You want me to say I’m scared?”
The silence lasted only a moment. “That would feel more appropriate,” he admitted.
“Well, I’m not. I think I’ll fare just fine with the beast.” She went back to wiping down the counter, but still felt eyes on her.
“You’re not…you know, wandering out there, are you?” Eustace asked.
She sighed, resting her hands on the glass. “Will everyone stop worrying about me?”
“You don’t make it easy. Plus, what are we going to do if the best barista in town disappears?”
She smiled. “He’s not going to go eating me up, Eustace.”
“He,” Nicole said. “There you go with the he thing again. No disrespect, especially being in your new place like this, but it kinda freaks me out. I think it freaks us all out.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Henry’s fingers at his eyes, rubbing. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t answer.
“Why’s it a he, anyway?” Nicole added. “You know something we don’t?” A few, including Nicole, chuckled.
“Just a feeling I get.”
Nicole shook her head, and so did Taggart and Eustace, sitting back.
“Last time I checked, I was entitled to my own opinion,” she said, placing a hand on her hip.
“What is your opinion, exactly?” This surprised her, since it came from Doc Ortiz, who usually kept quiet through everything. He was short and thickset, his black hair thinning, and today he wore hiking boots and a tan Carhartt jacket. “If you think he’s no monster, what do you think?”
“I think…” She looked down. “I think things aren’t always what they seem.”
Now finished, Taggart stood with hands on his belt. “He walks the perimeter of this town, terrorizing everyone. What else would that mean?”
This conversation had to make Henry’s skin crawl, but she intentionally kept her eyes away from him, as she would if she hadn’t known. “Maybe he’s protecting the town. You ever think of that?”
He and Eustace laughed, but Taggart’s was more of a huff. “You saying the devil out there is our guardian? If so, we’ve done lots of sinning to deserve that.”
She looked through the glass, at the few pastries remaining. “You can think what you want, and I can think what I want.”
“It’s crazy, Beth,” Eustace said, almost desperate. He turned to Henry. “Mr. Clayton, surely you agree—”
“I think as long as Ms. Ashton isn’t putting her life or anyone else’s in danger, she is free to think the way she wants.” This surprised her, as much as it did everyone else. Henry’s eyes lifted from his paper and met Eustace’s, as though he’d been reading without the slightest interest in their conversation. “That’s the beauty of the country we live in, isn’t it, Mr. Bathgate?”
