Instead, I took a swallow of the dirt-coffee and watched the street.
"Uncle Brock! I found the bumpy one!"
Maisie was right there by the truck bed. She had her cane in one hand and a lumpy, pale pumpkin hugged awkwardly to her chest with the other. Every few steps she shifted it higher against her chest without breaking the steady rhythm of her cane's sweep across the pavement.
"Good find, May-bug," I called out, pitching my voice low so she could home in on me. I crouched, the gravel crunching under my boots. "That is a solid one."
She shifted her grip on the ribbed rind. "I’m giving it to Sienna!"
The diner door across the sidewalk clicked open, the bell chiming above the frame. Wren stepped out with a cardboard tray of iced drinks.
"Maisie, I have your lemonade right here," Wren called out. "It is the one with the extra lemon, just like you asked."
"Auntie Wren! Look!" Maisie chirped, moving toward the sound.
She started across the sidewalk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then came the frantic, scrabbling click of claws on concrete. A guttural snarl cut through the market chatter, coming from the alleyway to our right.
Maisie screamed. Her hands flew up, and the cane clattered onto the asphalt. The pumpkin hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled under the truck.
Air left my lungs. I set the coffee down on the bumper. Wyatt cleared the tailgate in one fluid motion, but I was closer. I threw myself between Maisie and the snarling blur of fur.
Maisie let out a squeak as Wyatt hauled her into the air.
The blue heeler lunged, teeth bared, snapping for my calf. Before the jaws could lock, Wren lunged forward. The cardboard tray tipped, lemonade sloshing over the rim and splattering the asphalt. She drove her boot down hard, the heel striking an inch from the dog’s nose.
"Get back!" she roared.
The dog skittered back with a yelp, its nails tearing at the ground until the leash jerked him up short. Holding the other end of the loop was Hayes.
He leaned his weight onto a cane with a shiny silver knob, and he wore a custom sport coat that cost more than a good saddle. He had a sour, pinched-up face under thinning gray hair. He looked more annoyed than anything else. Didn't even bother checking to see if his dog had put its teeth in my leg. His pale eyes slid past me and locked onto Dad.
"Tell your granddaughter to watch where she swings that stick," Hayes said. "Duke thought she was coming at him."
The last thread of my restraint snapped.
I closed the distance. Hayes recoiled, his silver-handled cane slipping and clanking into the gutter as I backed him against the brick wall.
I did not touch him, but I slammed my forearm inches from his ear, caging him. The impact sent a hard jolt through my bad shoulder, but I bit down and refused to flinch.
"Pick that up!" Hayes's voice went high and thin, his eyes going wide.
I crowded his space until he had no choice but to look at me. "Maisie needs hers too. This is the second time your dog has gone for her. There won’t be a third.”
"You back off right now, boy, or I will have the sheriff?—"
"He’s backing off."
Dad’s hand landed on my shoulder. It was heavy and firm, pulling me back a step.
"But if that dog gets near my granddaughter again, Harlan, I will be the one putting hands on you. And I hit a hell of a lot harder than my son."
Hayes's face went purple. He looked at me, then at Dad, then at Wren, who was standing a few feet away with her fists clenched, looking ready to break his other leg.
"You Wilders are all the same," Hayes muttered.
I dropped my arm from the wall and took a step back, giving him just enough room to move. He bent awkwardly, his bad leg trembling, and fished his cane out of the gutter. With a sharp yank on the dog’s leash, he limped down the street without a backward glance.
