Page 132 of Beat of Love
She cupped his face with her free hand, brushing her thumb over the stubble. “You’re wrong. So very wrong.” Her voice shook slightly, but she pressed on. “I see you, Rafferty Lawson. I see who you are, all the way down to where it matters most.” She pressed her palm to his chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart. “Here.”
“You don’t know the worst.”
“Tell me.”
A haunted look flickered in his eyes. “After my father’s accident—”
She touched a finger to his lips, gently. “You don’t have to say it again. I know.”
His brow furrowed. “Know … what?”
“I heard you. That night. When you told your father about Italy. And what came after.”
He went utterly still.
“You know,” he rasped, the words strangled from his throat like they hurt coming out.
“But I also know this …” she went on, cupping his jaw. “A man with blackness in his soul wouldn’t spend hours with a traumatized horse, teaching her to trust again. He wouldn’t rescue an injured deer, nurse her back to health, and create a sanctuary for her and her fawn. He wouldn’t put up with his brother’s moods or lie awake worrying about the sorrow in his mother’s eyes. And he sure as hell wouldn’t ache the way you do when a child looks at him with fear.”
His forehead dropped, breath shaky. “Red,” he groaned. “Stop.”
“No. You need to hear this.”
She slid her hand to the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle at his nape, holding him to her.
“You chose a hard life,” she whispered, vision blurring. “One most men couldn’t endure. You left your family to fight evil, to protect the innocent, to make the world better. That’s not selfish, Rafferty. That’s heroic. You’re not rotten. You’re scarred. But you’re strong.”
Her voice thickened. “Connor’s mom didn’t choose wrong. She picked you — for a reason. She knew you’d protect her son when she no longer could.”
39
Nebraska welcome
Clearbrook, Nebraska
Rafferty pulled to a stop in front of the County Courthouse a few minutes after ten on a heavily overcast Tuesday morning. Weather had delayed his flight by half an hour, and he hoped Mrs. Bronson wouldn’t hold it against him. Exiting the rental sedan, he paused to take in his surroundings, buttoning his jacket against the chill.
Typical Small Town, USA. Quiet. Unassuming.
Yet his skin crawled.
Someone was watching him.
He narrowed his eyes, scanning more carefully this time. The sun struggled behind shifting clouds, casting patches of light across the gloom.
There.Movement to his left, in the deep shadow beneath a row of trees lining the sidewalk.
A man in a brown uniform stepped out and approached. “Rafferty Lawson?” he called once close enough.
Rafferty’s eyes flicked to the badge glinting on his chest. “Sheriff…” He glanced at the nameplate. “Stirling.”
“Welcome to Clearbrook,” the man said, extending a hand.
Rafferty accepted the handshake. Firm. Almost too firm.
As was the look in the sheriff’s eye. Cordial words, but cold steel beneath them. “I need a word with you before you meet with Children Services.”
“I’m already late for my—”
