Page 48 of Colton's Secret Weapon
“I know.”
“Tonight is better than last night. We know he’s alive. We know where he is. We know that he’s safe.”
She nodded. Taking in every practical, logical word.
Just as she’d forced herself to eat and swallow most of the salad he’d ordered in and had delivered from The Cove for dinner.
He wasn’t her mother. Or a guide. But he was doing a pretty impressive job of reminding her how to keep her head out of the sewer of fear trying to suck the life out of her.
But she was tired.
Had never felt so alone.
And needed to know, “Why are you doing this?”
“Walking you to my car? You know why.”
While, in a better state, she might have teased him about focusing so much on the literal, or in a worse one thought he was playing with her, Dove didn’t have the energy to engage in light conversation.
“I mean giving up your own schedule, your regularly scheduled life, to babysit me.”
They’d reached his car, and when she would have left his side to go to her door, while he opened his he grabbed her elbow lightly, shook his head, and said, “You get in with me.”
Without missing a beat, she did so, sliding over on the seat to allow him access behind the wheel, buckled herself in and prepared to sit through the ten-minute drive to his place in silence.
She’d asked a question that wasn’t factually based. He wasn’t going to answer. And she didn’t have the energy to fight him on it.
It wasn’t like his reasoning mattered all that much. He’d insisted on his role. She’d agreed to it. Case closed, Counselor.
Keeping her secure between his body and the car door, he’d checked the back seat before nudging her to get in. And gave the same kind of intent concentration on watching all around them as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed down toward Main Street. From there, a short jog west would take them out to his place.
Clint’s bar had the door open, with people milling inside. Dove saw Oscar, sitting on his usual stool, and wondered if he’d heard about Whaler yet. Mitchell had told her that the police were keeping things quiet, that the employees at St. James Boats had all been asked not to say anything until the police knew more.
Still, she almost asked Mitchell to stop long enough for her to have a word with her father’s young friend. Until she realized that maybe her need to connect with Oscar was more for hersake than his and reconsidered. Oscar had enough problems of his own.
And better that there were answers—and that Whaler was conscious with a good prognosis—before Oscar found out what had happened to him.
No way did she want to be responsible for driving the man to further drink.
Mitchell made the turn toward his place, keeping his eye on the rearview mirror as much as the windshield, and then seemed to relax.
She actually saw him settle back in the seat, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
And she knew. “You were afraid we were going to be followed.”
She should have figured that one out for herself.
“Afraid, no,” he said. “Aware of the possibility, absolutely.”
Which made her think of something else. “Let me guess, you have a pistol in the glove box.” They lived in rugged territory. There were a lot of nonhuman predators that could appear at any moment, making a gun the only difference between life and death.
Her mother had refused to learn to shoot.
As had Dove. She could be struck by lightning or drown in the sea. If nature was going to take her, it would find a way to do so.
“I do,” he told her. “And one in the house, too. You get your pick of which one you want to take to bed with you.”
She shook her head. “Neither.”
