Текст книги "Truth or Beard"

Автор книги: Penny Reid

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

CHAPTER 22

“The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to be rich, and the constant traveler saying 'anywhere but here'.”

– E.E. Cummings

 

~Jessica~

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked, breaking our hour long silence of touching and petting and kissing.

“Sure…” he said, his voice sounding drowsy and not at all sure.

We were cuddled together in the bed, my back to his front. I faced the interior of the cabin, the fireplace directly in front of me. I was completely relaxed. Really, malleable was the right word for my present state, caught in that dreamy world of satisfied to the point of exhaustion, but too excited for sleep. Not yet. Again, I wanted to hold on to the moment.

“Do you always have condoms in your wallet? Or only when you come to your fortress of solitude? Are there random wood-women who come to the cabin and service hillbillies?”

I felt his tension ease, and he chuckled while nuzzling the back of my neck. “That’s three questions.”

“Okay. Forget the last two.”

“Yes. I always have condoms in my wallet.”

“Hmm…”

“What? What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“It’s just that, I never took you for an optimist.”

His renewed laughter made me smile.

He clarified while stroking my hip possessively beneath the covers. “I’m not. Billy does random wallet checks. And every year for Christmas he stuffs our stockings with condoms. I think he’d sterilize us all if he could.”

Now I was laughing, and that meant we were laughing together.

My laughter tapered and I spoke as I thought, “I really like your brothers.”

Duane was quiet for a beat; his beard tickled my shoulder when he finally spoke. “Yeah. They’re okay.”

I smiled at his affectionate and dismissive remark, letting the subject drop. I wasn’t ready to invite anyone else—not even via discussion—into our lovely slice of heaven pie. Not yet.

The fire was burning low, just coals at this point, embers of red glowing in chalky black cinders. I loved how wood fires smelled, tart and smoky. They reminded me of dessert, s’mores and hot lemon curd baked in a pie iron. My daddy was my Brownie pack leader growing up; he’d taught me all the campfire dessert shortcuts.

“How did you get here, Jess?”

“Pardon?” I’d been lost to my thoughts, desserts and campfires. Now I’d associate wood fires with Duane. This thought made me happy.

I felt him shift behind me, lean up on his elbow. “Did someone drive you?”

“No. I drove. I have…well, I have a car now. It’s a long story.” I frowned, remembering I hadn’t spotted his parked car when I arrived. “By the way, where’s your car? Where’s the Road Runner?”

Duane dithered, his body tensing behind me. At last he cleared his throat and said with a sigh, “I wrecked it.”

I choked on nothing, my eyes bulging, certain I’d heard wrong. “You…you what?”

“I wrecked it, last weekend at The Canyon.”

I twisted in his arms so I could see his face, a rush of alarm making my muscles tense.

I rested my palm on his cheek, needing to touch him, as my eyes moved between his. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine.”

I wanted to search his body, see for myself. But then I reminded myself of the sex cartwheels we’d just finished. If he’d been injured then he could hardly have accomplished such a physically demanding activity.

He didn’t look sad or mournful about the car, and his lack of reaction did not compute. “You loved that car.”

His expression didn’t change, not really, but he shrugged. “It’s a good car.”

“Why aren’t you more upset?”

“It’s not a person, Jess. It’s a thing. Things can be fixed. Eventually, maybe, I’ll fix her up.”

“But…that car is awesome. And you never lose.”

“I wasn’t quite myself last weekend,” he mumbled distractedly, his attention dipping to my chest as his hand lifted to cup my breast. He touched me like he appreciated my texture, using his thumb to draw circles on my skin.

“Then why would you risk it?” I ignored the pleasure radiating from where he enjoyed my body because I wanted to understand how Duane could be so dismissive of his badass car.

“I only risk what I’m willing to live without,” he said, still with an air of distraction. He moved, guiding me so my back was against the mattress and he was above me again. Just before he bent his head to my chest he licked his lips. The wet, slick heat of his mouth closed over my nipple and he sucked, swirling his tongue in a circle.

Despite my best efforts to remain focused, my breathing became erratic.

“Duane,” I struggled to remain sensible. “Duane, that’s not real risk at all. It’s only real if you risk what you need.”

“I need to be inside you again, Jessica,” he half whispered, half growled and I felt his need press into my inner thigh.

“Okay…” I sighed, adding absentmindedly. “But you should know I’m still mad at you for not taking my call on Sunday.”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve taken your call.” He nipped the underside of my breast.

I squirmed, my eyes closing. “You have to promise me, I need you to promise you’ll never do that again.”

I sensed him falter, his movements stilled, and several long seconds passed where the only audible sounds were our combined breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.

His continued stillness prompted me to open my eyes and lift my head. He was still over me, his mouth parted like he was going to speak, but needed to think first on the words. Duane’s sumptuous eyes examined my face, searching. His expression was enough to give me pause, and I was about to withdraw, push him further for the needed promise.

But then he said, “As long as we’re together, I’ll never ignore your call, I promise.”

Something about the assurance felt off, too careful. I was groggy, therefore I replayed his words in my head three times before I caught the disclaimer.

“No.” I shook my head, narrowing my eyes in an attempt to stay focused. “No, no disclaimers. Just a promise. You need to promise me you will never ignore me again. For the rest of our lives you will call me back, ’til we’re dead and buried.”

He continued to stare at me, and as he stared I watched Duane war with himself. After a protracted minute, he rose to his knees, his eyes conducting a quick but heated sweep of my face, hair, body, and then he climbed off the bed.

He paced the short distance to the fireplace, then the table. He halted there, his hands on his hips, giving me his glorious backside. I watched his broad shoulders rise and fall and propped myself up on my elbows, waiting. The longer I waited the heavier the sinking sensation twisted in my belly, giving me vertigo.

“Duane?”

Abruptly he turned and stalked back to the bed, careful not to touch me. He sat on the edge, grabbing his boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. I watched him dress, at a complete loss as to what he was thinking.

“What are you doing?”

He gave me his decidedly stormy gaze. “You’re asking too much. I can’t promise that.”

Again, I replayed his words in my head three times before I understood. When I did, I’m sure my expression mirrored the explosion of anger catching my brain on fire. I scrambled from the bed, taking the sheet with me, and stood over him as he yanked on his jeans.

“Why the hell not?”

“You know why not.”

“I don’t. I really don’t.” My hand fell against my thigh with an exasperated smack. “Sometimes you talk to me, and sometimes you don’t. You tell me you’ve been waiting for me, for five years, biding your time. You’re hell bent on courting me, but heaven forbid I give you a blow job! We make this deal for thirteen and a half months, meanwhile you’re straddling the line. I’m all in and you’re half in, half out.”

He stood from the bed, buttoning and zipping the fly of his jeans, and I lifted my chin to maintain eye contact. I decided he was too tall. And imposing. And unreachable.

“You’re leaving, Jess. You’re not all in. You’re dipping your toes in the water until it’s time to go.”

I felt that remark in my spine, between my shoulder blades like a knife.

It took me a moment, but I finally managed—albeit more loudly than I’d intended—to respond, “That is complete bullshit, Duane, and you know it. When have I ever given you any reason to think I’m not completely invested?”

“What I know is, when you leave, you can’t expect me to have friendly feelings about it. When you leave, you shouldn’t call me. Ever. Because I am not returning your calls. I won’t want to see or talk to you.”

This time the pain was in the front and the back, my spine and my chest, and I’m pretty sure I flinched. His words felt like a blow, a slap across the face, especially after what we’d just shared. I knew tears were gathering in my eyes but I didn’t care.

Duane studied my features only briefly before turning around and walking back to the table, like he couldn’t stand looking at me. I swallowed my emotion, but it continued to rise, making my scalp feel hot and my skin overly tight.

And then I heard his frustrated grumble, “This was a mistake.”

I couldn’t think. All the air had been sucked out of the room. I backed up to the mattress and sunk to it. He was a pendulum and I couldn’t keep up with his perpetual motion mood swings. One minute we’re cuddled up in bed and the next…

“I don’t understand.” I stopped, then decided just to say what I felt. “I don’t understand why you offered me a year when you obviously had no intention of following through. Can you explain that?”

He glanced at me, examining me from over his shoulder. He appeared to be confused by my question, or maybe the vulnerability behind it. Finally, he turned completely around, scratching his beard as he did so.

“Jess…” he started, released a short breath, his face screwed up like I was a lunatic, then began again. “Jessica, I know about your plans.”

“My plans?”

“Your brother told me about your aunt. About the money. About your plans.”

“What?”

“To leave. After Christmas.” These words were stated as cold fact.

“To…Christmas? What?” I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

Duane stopped scratching his beard, but his eyes narrowed, like he was studying my reaction closely. “Your brother, Jackson. He pulled Beau and me over on our way home, Thursday afternoon, right after you and I finished talking. He told me you inherited all the money you’ll ever need for your world travels. He told me you were planning to start after Christmas.”

I blinked twice, shaking my head in an automatic rejection of at least half his words. “Well, that’s a lie.”

Duane straightened, his abruptly wide eyes evidence of his surprise.

I rushed to clarify. “Not all of it. I mean, my…aunt did leave me with money. From the looks of it, and with good investments, enough for me to travel the world and not work if I so decided. But I have no plans to leave Green Valley imminently, and certainly not just after Christmas.”

His eyes dimmed and his mouth flattened. “Why not?”

Now I studied him, how he appeared to be restraining himself, holding himself away from me, and everything clicked. He’d been so cold, so aloof when I’d told him I loved him. He thought I was leaving. He thought I was just going to leave and never come back.

“Wait a minute.” I jumped to my feet, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to decide which part of this tangled mess to address first. “You thought…and then you…and we just…” I gestured to the bed, and decided to settle on my last thought. “So Jackson tells you about the money and you assume things are over between us? Do I mean so little to you? Did you ever want me? Or was that a lie?”

Duane frowned, balled his hands into fists, and said nothing. Yet behind his frown I perceived a restlessness to contradict.

But I wasn’t finished. “Or is this is about you not trusting me? You don’t trust me. And that’s why we made love tonight. You don’t trust me to stay. ‘Just for tonight, Jessica.’ That’s what you said.”

He didn’t deny it. He just continued to watch me piece everything together.

“Admit it! The only reason you gave in tonight is because you thought I was going to leave right away. Now that I can leave, you don’t trust me to stay. You don’t trust me at all.”

“I trust you,” he countered quickly.

I ignored his statement, desperation making me say, “We are far, far from over, Duane Winston!”

“Jess,” he shook his head, looking visibly torn. “We have an expiration date. In fact, we are over. I don’t see where we go from here. You’re going to be making plans to leave. We had this trial period before the twelve months started and I’m calling it off.”

“You don’t get to call it off!” I charged forward, waving my index finger around like it was a sword.

“I am calling it off. I’m walking away because I’m not going to keep you from doing what you need to do.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Leave.”

I flinched again; my next words were accusatory, half outraged question and half statement. “You want me to leave?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m in love with you. Why don’t you ask me to stay?” I demanded with a frustrated shout and a firm push against his chest.

“You don’t ask someone you love to give up on her dreams!”

I reeled back, my mouth falling open—wide, wide open—and I’m sure I looked a bit like an astonished owl. Two fat tears trailed down my cheeks, hot and unwieldy.

Duane gritted his teeth and looked away, his eyes focusing on a spot behind me. Shifting on his feet, refusing to make eye contact, he appeared to be regretful. He was obviously wishing back his hastily shouted admission, and that made me immeasurably sad.

Meanwhile, none of my internal organs knew what to think. They wanted to have a He loves you! He finally said it! party, but the manner of his confession and immediate withdrawal afterward made my heart hesitate to place the catering deposit.

My voice wasn’t entirely steady as I asked, “Were you ever going to admit the truth if I hadn’t pissed you off?”

“We’re not discussing this.”

“Why not?” I cringed at how needy I sounded, how lost.

I finally had his eyes again, but now they were blazing with fury. “Because you’re leaving, and we’re over, and it’s pointless. That’s why!”

“And everything has to be perfect, right? Everything has to be just right. Heaven and all the angels forbid Duane Winston ever does anything without precision and guaranteed success.”

I must’ve struck a nerve, because his gaze morphed from heated to incensed, and he advanced on me. “Fine. Fuck yeah, I love you. What do you think this is all about?”

“Well, now we’re finally getting somewhere. In case you didn’t hear me the first hundred times, I love you, too!”

He ignored me, or maybe he didn’t hear me. “I look at you and I see my future, and it is something great. But I can’t do anything about the fact that our dreams don’t align. And since I do love you, I want you to live yours.”

He’d backed me into the bed, but I held my ground, catching his arm before he could turn away. “So what about you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Fine? Fine?! Screw fine!”

“Yes. Fine. I’ll be just fine knowing you’re somewhere in this world following your siren call.”

He was withdrawing again, so I held on to him tighter, not allowing him to turn away. “Why are you like this? Why do you insist on being so noble? Why does everything have to be defined?”

His chest rose and fell with a large breath, his eyes darting away, and I knew I was pushing him beyond his level of comfort. But I couldn’t help it.

I tried softening my voice, coaxing, “Duane, I have been nothing but honest with you. The least you can do is tell me—”

He interrupted, bringing his flashing eyes back to mine. “My father always took whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He took my momma, us kids. He’d take and take and take. I promised myself I was never going to be like that. Because when you have a father who is a selfish bastard, who takes what he wants whenever the fuck he wants it, the last thing you want to be is without honor.”

My heart hurt for him, but I didn’t know what to say, how to make it better. Regardless, he didn’t give me a chance.

Duane peeled my fingers from his arm and cradled my hand between his. “You want to go out there and live your dreams, then I’m going to remove myself from the equation. I’m not going to stand in your way. Because I would rather see the sadness in your eyes now than resentment in your eyes months or years from now. We are over. And I have to be the one to end it. I have to be the one to walk away. It has to be my decision. You need to give me that at least.”

He dropped my hand and stepped away, his eyes moving around the cabin like he was searching for something. Finding his shirt, he pulled it on. I watched numbly, part of me still cuddled up with him in bed, as he sat in one of the chairs by the table and put on his socks and boots.

I was feeling so many things, but none of them were eloquent. Broken. Sad. Broken and sad. That’s what I was. Silent tears slipped through my eyelids while he slipped through my fingers.

I didn’t have the brainpower or the heart for an impassioned speech. I was tired and my heart was bruised. But I couldn’t let him go. Not without exploring every option. Not without a Hail Mary pass.

I couldn’t keep bashing myself against a door he kept firmly closed, but I could leave a note.

Therefore, on a desperate whim, I asked with an unsteady voice, “Truth or dare, Duane?”

He shook his head, his eyes closing briefly to cover his discomfort, like the sound of my voice caused physical injury. “Truth or dare? You want to play truth or dare now?”

“Yes. Pick one, truth or dare?”

“Fine.” He clenched his jaw then gave me his eyes, they were cool and distant. “Dare.”

I nodded once, making a decision to be vulnerable just once more. “I dare you to extend the term of our relationship to indefinite.”

His expression didn’t change. He just stared at me. The line of his mouth flat and straight.

So I pushed, begging, “Stay with me tonight, don’t leave. Stay with me, and not just for twelve months. Stay with me always.”

He winced and I could see his hackles rise. Before he could speak, I lifted my hand to stop him.

“I see you don’t understand my meaning.”

“I understand you perfectly,” he ground out, his tone rough, unyielding.

“No. You don’t.” I waited a beat, wanting to be sure he saw I was serious before I handed him my heart on a platter. “Come with me.”

That made a dent. He blinked his surprise before he could catch himself and blurted, “What?”

“Come with me. I dare you to come with me. Next month, next year, whenever. I dare you to come with me when I go. And stay with me, stay with me always.”

CHAPTER 23

“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.”

– Margaret Lee Runbeck

  ~Duane~

I walked home.

I left Jessica wrapped in a sheet.

I left Jessica.

I left.

And I left part of myself in the cabin. I sensed the emptiness in my middle, in my gut, as soon as I crossed the threshold and entered the cold night. Her suggestion—that I leave with her, travel the world and share her life, her adventures—sounded like a fairy tale. A perfect fairy tale. And I’d been so surprised by the proposition that my mind actually considered the possibility.

But then I remembered the shop, my brothers, my obligations, the shit with the Order, and how everyone had been affected when Ashley ditched us years ago. I remembered my father, and how he took what he wanted, without a care for his family. He came and went as he pleased.

Leaving with Jessica was a fairy tale. Perfect in theory, but completely impractical in reality. Beau and Cletus relied on me, needed me. They couldn’t handle the workload on their own. My savings were invested in the auto shop, and I wasn’t going to travel the world using Jess’s aunt’s money.

Was I too proud? Fuck. Yes.

I was too proud to take money from Jess or anyone else without working for it.

So I left before I reconsidered, before I heeded my siren call.

But even then I’d been undecided. I kept seeing her face, the tears shining in her beautiful eyes as I walked out. The image of her called to me, to the depths of my soul. Each step was a burden. I turned back to the cabin at least three times and the tightness in my chest made breathing near impossible.

That was until I spotted her car. Jessica’s new-to-her car was a brand new, F-Type Jaguar. 5-liter V8. Manual transmission. All-wheel drive. 495 horsepower. I knew my automobiles like most people know their ice cream, so I knew the MSRP (manufacturer’s suggested retail price) was just under a hundred thousand dollars.

I stared at it for at least a full minute.

Then I walked the remainder of the way home without looking back, taking satisfaction in the sound of every twig that snapped violently under my boots. By the time I arrived at the house I was in desperate need of breaking something, no way was I going to be able to sleep.

Getting drunk was an option, but I’d been drunk for most of the last five days. And it was our first Thanksgiving since Momma died. Besides, getting shitfaced an hour before dawn wasn’t my style anyway. Concluding the only option available to me at present was splitting more wood we didn’t need, I decided to veer toward the woodshed once the house was in view.

But as I cleared the trees, I stopped short. Jethro, my oldest brother, was walking up the porch steps to the front door, carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. I was too surprised by the sight of him, and too caught in the momentum of my misery, to call out before he entered the house. But the sound of our front door shutting pulled me out of my stupor.

My mind was a mess as I quickly jogged to the porch and rushed through the screen door. I needed to speak with him, bring him up to speed. But I was also five different shades of pissed off with my oldest brother. Somehow, likely because violence was already on my mind, the five shades of pissed off won out over being sensible.

Thus, when I entered the house and he turned around—a big, care-free grin eating up his face—and he said, “Hey, Duane. Did you miss me?” I punched him in the face.

I pulled my punch at the last minute. I didn’t want to knock him out, I just wanted to beat him up a little. Maybe get knocked around myself.

He staggered back—more from surprise than from the force of my fist—and threw a completely perplexed frown at me while clutching his jaw. “What the hell was that for?”

I didn’t answer. I let him read the intent in my eyes, gave him a few seconds to prepare, then I charged at him. Jethro was a good fighter, we all were, but he was better than most of us. Being the oldest and spending a good part of his youth fucking around with the Order, he learned to fight fierce and dirty. But he’d taught me all his tricks long ago; and his fight now wasn’t fueled by weeks of frustration, of dealing with biker threats and Jessica James’s confession I could do nothing about.

Perhaps he was trying to defend himself against my assault, but that didn’t deter me any.

We crashed around the living room, banging into walls, sending picture frames falling to the floor. He had me in a headlock and I used the position to elbow him in the ribs, then administer a kidney punch as he struggled to contain me.

My nose was bleeding and I took satisfaction in the sight of his split lip when we were interrupted by a harsh whisper. “What are y’all thinking?”

We glanced up in unison. Cletus’s furious expression had an instantly sobering effect. He stood on the steps, looking as upset as I’d ever seen him, and loud-whispered down at us. “Making a big ruckus at five in the morning? Making a mess of things? On Thanksgiving? Today is turkey day! Plus you know how Billy needs his beauty sleep, otherwise he’ll be whining at us ’til dinner. I don’t want to listen to that swill on my day off. And besides, you interrupted my quiet time.”

Jethro grimaced, shooting me a dirty stare—which I returned—and loud-whispered his response, “Sorry, Cletus.”

Cletus’s hands were on his hips and he gave us both a hard look, his eyes sticking to me a bit longer than Jethro. “Take your fight outside.”

I nodded, staggering to the front door and whispering contritely, “We will.”

“And now you owe me pancakes, Duane Faulkner Winston,” Cletus added with a reprimanding whisper. “Blueberry pancakes.” Then he pivoted and disappeared down the upstairs hall.

I didn’t know what Cletus did during his quiet time, but Beau seemed to think it was yoga.

I opened the front door, then turned and gestured for Jethro to exit the house.

“You first.” He lifted his chin, covered with three weeks’ worth of unkempt beard. His hands were still balled into fists. He’d never been the trusting sort; then again, I had just attacked him in our living room.

I shrugged and exited to the porch, walking to the far corner. I waited until he followed and shut the door before saying, “You’ve always been a selfish asshole.”

Jethro nodded once, working his jaw back and forth; his steps were measured as he crossed to me. “Everybody knows that. And you always could start an argument in an empty house. Now why don’t you tell me specifically what I did to inspire such an unforgettable welcome home?”

“Traps,” I growled, closing the remaining distance between us and keeping my voice low. “You installed traps in four cars, for the Iron Order, so they could run drugs without getting caught.”

Jethro’s eyes widened even as his brow pulled low. “How do you—”

“Because, dummy, they videotaped the whole thing. And now Repo is exploiting your shitty decisions as blackmail. He wants to use the Winston Brothers Auto Shop as their new chop shop, or else he’s sending you to federal prison.”

“Oh shit…” Jethro said on a shocked and defeated exhale, then sunk to the rocking chair to his left. I watched dispassionately as his elbows came to his knees and he buried his face in his hands.

I was quiet, something I knew how to do well, and waited for my brother to process reality.

“Did you do it? Did you agree?” He didn’t lift his head, so his words were spoken to the wooden porch floor.

“No. We’ve been stalling.”

Jethro’s shoulders rose and fell, and he nodded. “Good. Good.” He was silent for a beat, then asked, “And Cletus doesn’t have a plan?”

“No. Cletus doesn’t know.”

Jethro lifted his head from his hands, his eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean Cletus doesn’t know? You didn’t tell Cletus?”

“No, Jethro. I didn’t tell Cletus. Why would I want to bring him into this godawful mess of yours if he can keep his hands clean? Isn’t it bad enough that Beau and I have to deal with it?”

My oldest brother jumped to his feet. “Duane, Cletus installed the traps.”

Now he’d surprised me. I straightened from the wooden beam where I’d been leaning and stared at him. He was half smiling.

“Come again?”

“Cletus was the one to install the traps in those cars, not me. Do you think I’d be able to install those contraptions? Did you see how they work? You have to…” He appeared to be searching his memory for the description. “You have to wire them just so—where they won’t open unless the car is off, but the key is in the ignition, and the seatbelt is fastened, and there’s a hurricane in Florida, and no beer left in the fridge, and everyone’s favorite dessert is banana cream pie—or some such complicated nonsense.”

I was still stuck on the fact that Cletus—not Jethro—had been the one to install the traps, too stuck to admire the genius of how they worked.

“So…Cletus knows? He knows all about this? How you got out of the Order?”

Jethro nodded. “Yeah. When I decided enough was enough, and those biker boys told me what I needed to do, the cost of my freedom, the first person I thought of was Cletus.”

I frowned at my brother. “Was he there? When you showed them how the traps work?”

“No. He installed the traps, showed me how to use them. I went to the Order on my own, took credit for the installations. I was trying to minimize his involvement.”

“So he doesn’t know they’re being used to smuggle drugs?”

Jethro made a sound in the back of his throat and shifted on his feet. “I mean, he probably guessed it. I knew, of course, even before the Order told me so. Why else would they want secret traps?”

“But on the video you start cussing them out when they tell you.”

“Because I had plausible deniability up until that point. Once they told me, and I knew for sure, I became an accomplice. That’s why I was so pissed off. If they didn’t tell me, then I could always claim ignorance.”

Jethro was good at that, claiming ignorance, shifting blame. Or he used to be, before he got himself straight.

“We need to tell Cletus,” Jethro said with a kind of certainty that gave me my first glimmer of hope. “He’ll definitely know what to do.”

***

We took turns in the downstairs bathroom wiping blood from our faces.

I walked into the kitchen once I was finished assessing the damage and rehanging fallen pictures. I found Jethro making coffee and icing his lip. Thus, after grabbing myself a bag of peas for my eye, I set to work making enough blueberry pancakes to feed a small army.

Without prompting, Jethro good-naturedly related his adventures trekking the Appalachian Trail. I was amazed how he was able to keep from fretting about the Iron Order’s blackmail attempt.

I’d been twisted up, either thinking about how to outsmart the Iron Order, or debating what to do about Jess. Or counting the hours until I could see her again. Or trying to figure out how to get her alone. Or wondering how the hell I was going to survive without her. Thus, Jethro’s tall tales were a welcome distraction.

We had to wait until Cletus emerged before approaching him. Having interrupted his quiet time earlier, I had no desire to instigate his wrath further. Cletus’s retaliation was always unanticipated and devious. He was a fan of polite revenge, knowing how to get his point across with very little fuss.

We both stilled when we heard footsteps on the stairs, and Jethro poked his head out of the doorway.

“What the hell? What happened to you?”

Recognizing Billy’s voice, my shoulders sagged and I turned back to the griddle. Jethro didn’t answer. Instead he walked back into the kitchen and reclaimed his spot at the kitchen table.