* * *
Clay’s head was full as he finally descended the mountain. Weird stuff, like the silhouette of a vulture high in a dead tree, overlooking the hazy foothills beyond, or the dark eyes of the sheriff, taking stock and unexpectedly getting Clay. Other things, like the smell in the crook of George’s neck—a potent blend that hit him right in the gut every time. Her sweat after an evening in the garden. Way too complex to be distilled into a single scent. Overly complicated. Just like the woman herself.
She’d asked him to leave. She wanted to be alone.
And yet…he needed to stay, he realized with an uncharacteristic sense of certainty. Had to tell her the truth. About how he felt.
Tell her that maybe she was the kind of woman he could see himself with. That she was worth fighting for and that he’d fight, even if she wasn’t willing to. That she was the type of mother he could only dream of for his babies. Because—
Babies? Fucking babies? No. No babies. The last thing he wanted was to bring children into this unbelievably messed-up world. No, he’d always said he wasn’t fit to be a father, and obviously, she’d recognized that, so… So what? Was he going to leave her alone to deal with the fallout of what had been the best… No, the deepest sexua—
No more lies. She had been the most meaningful relationship of his life. Period. While it lasted, before she’d told him to go, what they’d had was the best thing he’d ever experienced. And, he decided, eyes lingering on the dark-purple mountain crests in the rearview mirror, nothing in his life, before or after, would ruin what they’d done together, what they’d had. Nothing.
You don’t get to decide, she’d said. And yet she was the one who’d kicked him to the curb last night. Well, that wasn’t any fucking fair, was it?
So maybe this time she needed to be told those words. Maybe George didn’t get to decide.
He’d go, and he’d tell her that.
And on that note, Clay headed to the hardware store and spent a small fortune on supplies for her house. A new henhouse, he decided. She wanted time to think? Fine. But no way in hell was he leaving her alone.
In fact, he pulled up in front of the clinic, parked, and got out, wanting the confrontation out of the way, needing to tell her how he felt, how this was more than just—
“Mr. Blane!”
Clay stopped.
“Mr. Blane, we need your help!” called a little voice from in front of the MMA school. He recognized one of the kids he’d taught that weekend.
“Don’t bother the man, Carter,” the mom said. “He’s obviously busy. Sorry to bug you, Mr. Blane—the kids are just a little worked up.”
“What’s up?” Clay asked.
“Camp’s canceled!” the kid yelled, looking like he was about to break down. Behind him, a bunch of children had gathered at the window of the MMA school, faces and hands smashed against the glass, staring at the scene.
“Yeah?” asked Clay, wary of whatever new mess he was getting into.
“Yeah. Sheriff Mullen ain’t gonna do it. One of his deputies broke his leg and he’s three guys short and now he can’t teach our classes. So we got no camp.”
“What was this, karate camp?”
“Yeah. Tae kwon do too. You know tae kwon do, right, Mr. Blane?”
“I…” Clay’s eyes trailed up over Carter’s head to where another dozen eyes tracked his every movement. “Sheriff in there?” he asked. The kid nodded, and Clay sighed before heading inside. “All right. Hang on.”
Inside, the gym was abuzz with young voices. “He in back?”
“Right here,” came Steve Mullen’s voice from the side of the room, where he stood amid a cluster of tired-looking parents.
They met in the middle of the room.
“You put him up to that?”
“Hmm?”
“Carter? You tell him to drag me in?”
“’Course not,” said Steve with a look that was probably supposed to be innocent but held sharp undertones of deviousness. “What, you offering up your services?”
