He glanced up from coiling the rope around his elbow and over an open hand. With that male cockiness that set her teeth on edge, he tapped a blunt finger against his temple. “Instincts. I get by because of mother wit.”
“And I suppose it was mother wit that landed you in prison.”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for some stupid pissant attorney.” He jerked the rope into a tighter coil, his movements angry and stilted as if he were throwing punches or wanted to.
She didn’t say anything.
He tied off the rope and tossed it to the ground. “And those guards called convicts scum of the earth. They ought to put the attorneys in cells and let the prisoners free.”
She waited, then said, “I expect you’ve known your share of attorneys.”
“I know attorneys. The most idealistic, word-twisting, egotistical, and argumentative group of horses’ asses alive.”
She chewed on her upper lip as she watched him storm around in front of her, moving a trunk and then opening and closing it for no reason. She sighed. “And I suppose you’ve never done anything illegal.”
“Laws were made to be broken.”
“You believe that?”
“Yeah.”
“Yet you blame your attorney for your situation.”
“I told the little paper shuffler that there was no such thing as a fair trial in an island court.” He threw down the lid of a trunk and stomped past her, muttering, “Fool.”
“You are innocent,” she said in a wry tone.
He stopped in front of her and scowled down. “I’m innocent.”
“Hank Wyatt is innocent.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Now why does that sound oxymoronic?”
He looked at her for a minute, then went over toward the bamboo. “Yeah, well, I’m not half as stupid as an attorney.”
She looked at him, blinked once, then burst out laughing.
Squatting on the ground, he glared up at her. She laughed harder. She couldn’t stop.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “An oxymoron is a phrase of incongruous words.”
He was rigidly silent.
“You know... two contradictory words?” She bit back another smile and explained, “The last thing I’d call you is innocent.”
“Yeah,maybe I’ve had my share of trouble, but I am innocent.”
“There is a saying that in prison all convicts are innocents.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” he shot back so quickly that they both fell silent. He looked as if he wanted to eat his words.
She just stood, frozen. But her mind was not frozen. Murder meant a life sentence or death.
“Were they going to execute you? Is that why you escaped?”
“My attorney said I was lucky. I got a life sentence.” He looked up at her from his squatting position as if he expected her to scream and run.
She wouldn’t run.
