She smoothed her fingers over his dark muzzle, then stood. “I think you could offer me very good advice if you spoke English.”
But could anyone get her out of this mess?
Cillian and her father had seen each other tonight. And it had been a disaster. More so than the brief meeting they’d had sixteen years ago when Victoria and Mom had tried to introduce Cillian to her father. At least then, only her father had done the talking and Cillian had kept silent before he’d stalked off.
This time, Cillian had been far from silent. What had he been thinking, bursting into her father’s house and yelling at him like that?
But she knew what he’d been thinking. He wanted to protect her. That much was clear in what he’d said before, during, and after the confrontation.
Part of her, the part that had spiked gladness through her heart when he’d flung open the office door and told her father not to speak to her that way—that part of her was grateful. No one had stood up for her against her father in such a strong and unapologetic manner. No one had stood by her so resolutely without question or compromise, without shrinking and cowing before her father.
Perhaps because of the hours of police interrogation she had just endured, Cillian’s show of protectiveness and willingness to fight for her had raised her up from the depths of guilt and regret that Dad’s accusations had plummeted her into.
But only for a moment. Attacking Dr. Henry Weston never ended well for the person who had the nerve or lunacy to confront him. And Cillian doing so on her behalf would only mean they both would suffer greater wrath and consequences.
Her shock over what was happening—Cillian challenging her father openly to his face—had delayed her intervention for too long as the conflict escalated. But at least she’d finally found enough strength to interrupt their faceoff and bring about some semblance of peace, at least between Dad and herself. Thank the Lord that He had given her the idea to tell her father Detective McCully was carrying out a personal vendetta against her.
But she’d thought about the fallout as she had silently ridden in Cillian’s jeep all the way back to her car at the office.
Thankfully, Cillian hadn’t tried to follow her to her house after she’d thanked him and quickly left, seeking refuge in her own cold car.
Hank had been waiting at home with Max, and Victoria did not need another family member learning about Cillian. She’d already noted Treese staring at them from the staircase as Victoria had pulled him from the house. Treese had probably heard most of the argument in the study, and perhaps she’d seen him enter.
Victoria only hoped they hadn’t spoken. What would Cillian have told Treese about their relationship? Their history?
Treese likely wouldn’t recognize him, since she had only been nine or ten the last time she had seen Cillian. And he had only been to the house twice.
Unease squeezed Victoria’s stomach. What Treese had heard or recalled wasn’t nearly as significant as what had transpired with her father.
He knew now that Cillian had returned. And he clearly thought Victoria was in a relationship with Cillian again, despite her protest.
She worked so hard to keep her father happy, to stay on his good side so she could be an advocate and go-between for her siblings. That was the only way she could keep the family together and peaceful as her mother would have wanted. Would tonight’s events jeopardize that?
She would need to speak with her father again, without Cillian this time. Perhaps she could convince him that Cillian wasn’t the cause of the trouble she was in, as her father had claimed.
The memory of the things Dad had said about Cillian, with him standing right there, made her wince. He’d been so rude and unkind to Cillian. But she could never tell her father that or call him out for his behavior. Direct criticism made her father angrier than anything else. He never seemed to forget or forgive anyone who dared to critique him personally.
So she had done her best to end the mischaracterization of Cillian by redirecting her father’s attention to Detective McCully. And by making a quick ex?—
A scream broke the silence.
Victoria’s breath caught.
Not a scream. Only the tea kettle’s high-pitched whistle.
Air returned to her lungs, but her pulse sprinted erratically. She pressed her hand over her racing heart. She really needed to calm down and stop overreact?—
A booming bark filled the kitchen, making her flinch again.
“Max?” She glanced at the dog as he stood. “Why are you barking? It’s only the tea kettle.” She lifted the kettle from the stove, and the high-pitched sound rapidly faded.
Another bark jerked her head toward Max. His bark was so much louder than she remembered. He had only barked one other time in his life, probably two years ago.
He stared through the doorway to the hallway, his ears high and his stance rigid. His tail tucked between his legs.
Strange. Max was easily and often frightened, but his fear never made him bark.
Her mouth grew dry as her pulse accelerated again. “What is it, Max?”
