“Keep your door open,” Blake growls after them.
The only answer is the resounding slam of the door instead, and he hangs his head with a snarl, scrubbing his hands over his face.
“Well,” I venture, holding back my grin. “That was eventful.”
“Sorry you had to see that.” Blake jerks, lifting his head and looking at me a bit sheepishly.
“It’s fine. I’d rather be here if I helped even a little bit.”
“You did, darlin’. Thanks for helping calm her down.” With a firm glance, he settles down on the couch, his heavy weight sinking in—and I can’t help but notice that he’s favoring one leg again.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Never have kids, Peace. They’ll kill you, if you don’t kill them first. But I’m glad you were here, or I might have lit that little shit on fire myself. You’re sure it wasn’t him?”
“Not a hundred percent,” I admit. “But ninety-nine-point-nine. He’s just too skinny, and he doesn’t carry himself the same way. I don’t feel like Clark’s that kind of kid. He’s going through an angsty rebel phase, yeah, but not a crazy pyro phase.”
Blake smiles tiredly. “In all your wisdom raising kids, huh?”
“Hey, I’m not completely lost.” I laugh. “I know people, no matter their age.”
“Yeah, you do.” But Blake shakes his head. “I know you’re right, anyway. That beat-up old Pinto he’s driving ain’t the right car. Plus, there’s been another fire and a new note.”
“Again? Was anyone hurt?” My heart sinks; my eyes widen.
“Could’ve been,” he says grimly, lifting haunted eyes to me. “They tried to set the fire at your cabin, but the tinder tipped over into the snow and put itself out.”
That hits me like a blow to the gut.
I...oh, no.
Now there’s no more doubt.
The guy, the creeper, he wanted to hurt me.
He recognized me, knew who I was, and he wanted to hurt me, and I was off gallivanting around town today like nothing could ever happen. Totally oblivious.
I wrap my arms around myself. “But the note? What else happened?”
“Ms. Wilma chased somebody off her property but didn’t get a good look at him. Here.” He digs in his jacket pocket and retrieves a bit of blue paper, then passes it over. “Look for yourself.”
Frowning, I take it and smooth it out.
Jenna was the real hero, Warren.
And you can’t even protect her memory.
Yikes.
It’s so ominous, so terrible, and I can’t even explain why.
I shake my head. “Who’s Jenna?”
Blake exhales slowly, propping his elbow on his thigh and leaning forward, pressing his knuckles to his temple. “Warren’s sister. Dead. Almost a decade ago. She was murdered by one of our closest friends overseas while they were enlisted. All because she found out he had a terrible secret, some illegal shit he was smuggling in and out of Heart’s Edge. He made it look like an accident in the line of fire when they were deployed, but Warren...he wouldn’t quit till he found out the truth. Took him years to figure it out and win her some justice.”
“That’s horrible. So it sounds like whoever set the fire blames Warren for something?” I bite my lip and pass the note back to Blake. “What did the other note say?”
He gives me a skeptical look. “You didn’t eavesdrop on that, too?”
“Um.” I wince, half-smiling. “Sorry.”
Blake looks so heavy, so burdened, and I wish there was more I could do. “It called Leo a scarred freak. Said he and his merry band of assholes aren’t as smart as they think.”
“Wow, that’s cruel. So the arsonist is after the Heroes of Heart’s Edge,” I murmur as it clicks. “To him, you’re not that heroic.”
Blake’s head comes up sharply. “All of us? Me and Doc, Warren and Leo? Shit.” He stares at me, then swears, looking away and dragging his hand through his beard. “Yeah, guess that jives. And it helps me narrow my suspect list down to one, though I don’t want to fucking think about it.”
I can’t help myself.
I can’t stand seeing anyone in pain, least of all Blake.
So I slide off the arm of the sofa to settle down next to him, our hips just barely touching.
“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on his arm. “Who do you think it is? Why would they want to hurt you?”
He doesn’t look at me.
His arm might as well be solid steel under my touch, so tense, and I worry all this tension can’t be good for his leg.
After a minute, he turns a long look on me, searching, before his hand falls to cover mine, warm and enveloping in its roughness.
He’s not pulling away from me.
But he’s not giving me any answers, either.
He just squeezes my fingers and says, “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Old family business. You’ve gotten muddied up in enough of my dirt around here. It’s not your problem.”
Then he leans in, stamping a kiss to my forehead.
It’s chaste, not like the burn-me-down passion this morning.
I’m just as in love with it, anyway.
He kisses me like I’m a small, precious thing he wants to cherish, the rasp of his rusty-brown scruff against my temples, catching in my hair.
And even if it’s so small, so simple, so sweet...
It takes my breath away, leaving me silent as he pulls back, the sadness in his smile whispering at an old, deep ache.
“You just let me look after you,” he says, though he’s already standing, drawing away, and putting that wall up between us again. “I’ll get this wrapped up nice and quick.”
No matter how long I stand at the window and watch him, I don’t think Blake’s going to look up and notice me.
And if I open the window and call out Romeo, oh Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
I doubt he’s going to climb the trellis to get me.
He’s been sitting outside by the snowy fire pit for hours, well past sunset and into the dark of evening, moving only to crack open another beer from his six-pack or to top off the flames with a few fresh logs to keep it burning hot and bright.
I can’t stand seeing him down there. Brooding. Hurting. Alone.
Sure, I’m supposed to be heading out to put on another show with Ember at The Nest while he’s here, locked up inside his own head.
But I don’t think I could sing with my real heart if I knew Blake was beating himself up over things that aren’t his fault.
I don’t want to cancel on Ember, either, though.
So I guess I’ve only got one option.
I finish pinning my hair up in a little twist with lacquered sticks that give it just the perfect oomph of messy I like while keeping it out of my face. Then I pull on a sweater over my little strappy tank top with my favorite pair of jeans—this lucky thrift shop find, bell-bottoms that are tight in all the right places, loose enough to earn their name, and embroidered with flower appliques all over them.
Yes, they’re hokey, utterly kitschy, and totally me.
I pull on my winter boots, slide on my coat, sling my guitar over my shoulder, and head downstairs with hope bright in the back of my throat, like a quiet note waiting to burst into song.