But I still don’t see him as a criminal, much less the gangly, scary freak who chased me down the road.
Sure, he’s tall and lean, just like the guy I saw.
Still, he doesn’t look quite right. The other guy was bulkier—whipcord lean, but older. With enough muscle to make it easier to hold his height up.
Stupid town full of stupid tall men.
Everyone here’s got a lumberjack gene here or something.
Before I can say anything else, though, there’s a slamming car door outside.
Everyone freezes, eyes widening.
Then Andrea hisses, turning to shove at Clark, pushing him toward the stairs. “Hurry up—hide! In my room before he sees y—”
“Too late,” Blake growls from the doorway.
A frigid blast of air courses in from outside.
Uh-oh.
I feel like we’re some kind of hivemind, all three of us turning slowly toward the door, my face feeling like as much of a frozen mask as theirs looks.
Crap.
Blake stands there, all protective Papa Bear with his shoulders squared, his feet planted, his huge arms folded over his chest, imposing and terrible and his face set in stone.
I didn’t even do anything, and even I feel like I’m in trouble.
He’s not focused on me, though.
His hawkish eyes are on Clark Patten.
If looks could kill, that boy would be on the floor with his feet up right now.
I try to catch Blake’s eye, but it’s no use.
Clark glares right back, fearlessly, straightening to his full height, and I cringe.
No, dude, no! Being tall right now is not a good idea.
Please don’t put ideas in Blake’s head, agh.
I have to do something.
Without thinking, I launch myself off the sofa, ducking around the coffee table to Blake’s side.
My excuse is that I’m closing the door before all the warm air escapes.
This cold could hurt a warm-weather snake like Mr. Hissyfit, after all.
But really, I just want to lean in close to Blake, as I nudge him enough to get the door shut past his bulk, stretch up on my toes, and whisper, “It’s not him. Trust me.”
His gaze snaps to me, eyes widening sharply.
He leans down to let that rumbling velvet voice move against my ear. “You better be fucking sure, darlin’.”
“I am.” I turn my head.
Our cheeks brush, and if not for the kids, this might be way too intimate.
As it is, it’s making my entire stomach knot up. “He’s too skinny, Blake. The guy I saw was bulkier. Probably older,” I whisper desperately.
Now I know how Moses felt trying to stop a fiery wrath.
Blake grunts, but straightens, and I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable yelling or fists to fly.
But there’s a gleam in his eye as he sees Clark—a sort of sharp-eyed assessment.
At least he doesn’t look like he’s about to commit a homicide anymore.
...maybe.
I bite my lip as he takes a step deeper into the room.
“You and me, Clark,” he bites off. “We need to talk. Alone.”
Clark narrows his eyes, lifting his chin. Kid’s got pride; have to hand him that. “I don’t have shit to say to you, Mr. Silverton.”
“You better say something if you want to keep hanging around my daughter,” Blake snarls.
“Dad!” Andrea’s face flames red. “I hate you!”
His face whips back toward her. “Hate me all you want, Violet, but I don’t want to hear your mouth right now. This is between me and him.”
Holy Toledo.
This is a different Blake.
A calm, severe, deadly-serious Blake.
The kind of Blake you don’t ever mess with.
And Andrea apparently realizes it. She goes pale, silent, her anger draining. It leaves her looking nervous as she stares helplessly between her father and a tense, motionless Clark.
He moves then, farther down the hall, and Blake follows, giving them a faint shield of privacy.
I almost feel like I shouldn’t be here to witness this.
But I also feel like I might need to be here to break things up if they get nuts.
Peacemaker Peace.
Don’t laugh.
I sit on the arm of the sofa, watching tensely as Blake gives Clark a slow once-over, looking him up and down from head to toe.
“I said we’re gonna talk,” he says quietly. “And I mean talk. Man to man, not man to boy.” His jaw tightens. “Because if you’re the one who’s been setting fires around town, if you’re pulling some kind of stunt, that’s how they’re gonna see you when you’re standing in front of a judge. A man, not a boy. So I’m talking to you, Clark, and asking if you understand the seriousness of the situation.”
The kid stays silent for several heavy seconds, his eyes narrow and dark, before he draws up a bit of bravery I can’t help but admire. “You want to talk to me as a man, you’re going to have to take my word as a man that I didn’t do anything. I wouldn’t. You’re an asshole. Not enough of an asshole for me to risk jail over you, or risk hurting somebody. I’ve seen what burns do to people. You think I want to hurt anybody like that? What if I did something stupid, and Andrea gets caught up in it?”
Andrea’s blush is back—but it’s different now, softer, her eyes wide as they trail after Clark. She works her lips with a soft, nervous sound. Then she looks away and ducks her head, completely flustered, tucking her hair back with raking fingers.
Blake and Clark never look away from each other.
It’s like a Wild West standoff.
I can’t help seeing Blake as the desperado again, defending his town.
Finally, he inclines his head, grudging but accepting.
“Guess we’ve got one thing in common, Clark,” he says. “We’d never do anything to hurt Andrea. So if we’re on the same page there...you willing to answer some questions in front of Sheriff Langley just to get this on record?”
Andrea makes a mortified noise. “Dad, he just said he didn’t do anything—”
I grab her arm gently, urging her voice down to a harsh whisper, then silence.
“That’s right,” Clark interrupts sharply, squaring his bony, angular shoulders. “I didn’t do anything. So whatever, I’m not scared to say so in front of the sheriff, if that’s what’ll get you to calm the fuck down and get out of my face.”
Blake smirks.
Actually smirks, instead of bristling in response to what’s clearly a teenager lashing out and testing his authority. “You kiss your mama with that mouth, kiddo?”
I could kiss him right now.
For knowing when to be the big mean dad, and knowing when it’s not fair to flex his muscle on a kid. He lets Clark have that hit to save his pride.
“My mom cusses worse than I do,” Clark shoots back. “So are we done here?”
Blake shrugs. “Don’t know, are you?”
Andrea sighs and speaks up. “Look, we’re supposed to be working on our school project, Dad. Can...can we go do that, or do you want to embarrass me some more?”
Blake grumbles softly, then sighs. “Go on.”
I’ve never seen two teenagers bolt away faster, their shoes scraping the floor.
I’ve also never seen a boy turn as red as Clark does, when Andrea grasps on tight to his hand and drags him upstairs.