Clay felt a wave of respect for this small, tough-looking man. “Better the devil you know.”
“Exactly. You clean us out of weekend entertainment, and there won’t be a damn thing left for the sheriff’s office to do anymore. So, you see I might be a little confused as to just who the hell you are, with your prison tattoos and that death sentence on your face. And I’m curious as to what you might be doing in my town. But I’m not entirely sure I want you gone just yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The sheriff’s eyes flicked up to the clinic sign and back down to Clay; his smile turned smaller, sly. “Figured as much. Anyway, you come on in and show us some of those fancy moves you might or might not have used on our local cranksters, and I’ll give you something to occupy yourself with while you squat in my town—keep you from breaking a nail trying to hold off my other local troublemakers. Mutually beneficial.”
Jesus, the man had attitude. Old and small, but showing absolutely no fear. Clay smiled, his first one of the day—or was it year?—and, surprising even himself, nodded. “What time?”
“Come in at noon,” the old dude said before starting off. “You can kick my ass for lunch.”
* * *
On her way to Jessie’s, George grabbed a jar of homemade strawberry jam, some brown paper, and raffia, then ran outside to pick a few zinnias from the back of the garden.
You didn’t go anywhere empty-handed. That was something her mother had taught her early on. Hastily wrapped gifts in hand, she rounded the house from the side and headed over.
Inside, the place was sparsely furnished—short, brown coffee table, its veneer cracked; a fat, tan sofa, with worn patches on the arms and stains on the cushions. The floor was covered with carpeting, which she wouldn’t have guessed before coming inside, and the fireplace appeared to be sealed shut. Too bad. Pull up the rug and open up the chimney, and the place could actually be quite picturesque.
“Happy new house!” George said, handing the jam and bouquet to Jessie.
“Oh. Wow. You didn’t have to do this. Thank you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. So, you’re all moved in!”
“Yeah.” Jessie looked around, lips compressed. “We don’t have all that much.”
“Better clean and neat than a hoarder like me.”
“You’re not a hoarder.”
George raised a brow at Jessie.
“Seriously, your place is awesome. It’s got character.”
“Yeah!” Gabe chimed in. “Candles and cushions and rocking chairs and stuff. You’ve got all those blankets and those owl statues and the lamp of the Chinese woman and those paintings and—”
“Okay, G. Let’s get you in pj’s.”
“But George just got here.”
“Yes, well, remember our deal? Pj’s first, then dinner, then teeth.”
“And a game?”
“I don’t believe video games were ever mentioned.”
“Aww, Mom!”
“Look,” Jessie said with a sigh. “I’ll read you a story, okay?”
“George can read to me tonight.” The child looked at George, and she could do nothing but smile. He was adorable. Really, truly adorable, with his sprinkling of freckles and amber eyes, just like his mom’s. He may be manipulating her, but she loved it.
I want what they have, she thought, pushing back a rogue wave of envy. “I’ll read to you.”
“No. No, actually, I want you to tell me a story.”
“Tell you one?”
