Stillhouse Lake (Stillhouse Lake #1)(31)

“He just said it was kids at school,” Cade says. He doesn’t follow me in. He stands on the outside, looking in. Maybe Javi’s silent presence is warning him off, I don’t know. I make the glass of tea and bring it to the door. He accepts, though he holds it as if he’s not quite sure what it’s for. Takes a tentative sip. I can instantly tell this is not a man who’s used to the Southern traditions, because the sweetness of it surprises him. He doesn’t quite make a face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask your name . . .”

“I’m Gwen Proctor,” I say. “Connor’s my son, obviously, and you saw my daughter, Atlanta.”

Javi clears his throat. “Gwen, I should probably get going. I’m going to walk to the range; I’ve got a bike there I can ride home. You bring the Jeep back and pick up the van whenever you want.” He puts the keys on the coffee table and nods to Sam Cade. “Mr. Cade.”

“Mr. Esparza,” Cade says. I can’t leave a stranger standing here with my iced tea glass in his hand, obviously, and I’m not ready to run off and leave Lanny and Connor at home alone, either. So I let Javier go, though I hold him back for a moment to look him in the face.

“Javi. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Glad it worked out,” he replies, and then he’s gone past Cade, ambling down the drive, then kicking into an easy, loping run toward the gun range on the ridge. Marine, I remember. This is just a quick jaunt for him. No effort at all.

I return my attention to Cade, who is looking after Javi with an expression I can’t read. “Let’s sit out here?” I make it a question. He seems to think about it, then eases down into a chair on the porch. He perches on the edge of it, ready to bounce up and go at any moment. His sips of tea seem more polite than appreciative.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m sorry for accusing you of—well, of anything. That wasn’t fair. Thank you for helping Connor. I really appreciate it. I was freaking out.”

“Can’t imagine,” he says. “Well, they wouldn’t be kids if they didn’t make it a mission to freak out parents, right?”

“Right,” I say, but it’s a hollow sort of agreement. That might be true of normal kids. Mine are different. They’ve had to be. “I can’t believe he didn’t call me, that’s all. He should have called me.”

“I think—” Cade hesitates, like he’s thinking about a line he doesn’t want to step across. “I think he was just ashamed. He didn’t want his mom to know he lost a fight.”

I manage a hollow, shaky laugh. “Is that normal for boys?”

He shrugs, which I take to mean yes. “Javier’s a marine. You might want to ask him to show the kid a few moves.”

I thank him, but inwardly I’m thinking that Sam Cade can also handle himself; he’s compact, but not small, and he has a lithe tension in him that makes me think he’s had experience at being picked on, and hitting back. Where Javi is so visibly military that someone would have to be blind to miss it, Cade comes across as a normal guy, but with an edge.

On impulse, I say, “Army?”

He glances at me, startled. “Hell, no. Air force. Once upon a time,” he says. “Afghanistan. What gave it away?”

“You just leaned a little hard on the word marine,” I say.

“Yeah, okay, guilty of interforces rivalry.” His smile, this time, is unguarded, and I like him better for it. “The advice stands, though. In an ideal world, sure, he wouldn’t have to fight back. But the only thing more certain than death and taxes is bullies.”

“I’ll consider it,” I say. His body language is slowly relaxing, one muscle at a time, and he takes a deeper drink of the tea. “So, you said you’re only in the cabin for six months, is that right? That’s pretty short.”

“Writing a book,” he says. “Don’t worry, I won’t bore you to death with the plot or anything. But I was between jobs, and I thought this would be the perfect place to come for peace and quiet before I head off to the next thing.”

“What’s the next thing?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Something interesting. And probably far away. I’m not much for being settled. I like . . . experiences.”

I would give anything to be settled, and to avoid more experiences, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, we sit in awkward silence for a moment, and as soon his glass is empty, he stands up to go like he’s been released from a trap.

I shake his hand. He has a rough palm, like someone who’s done plenty of hard work in his life. “Thanks again for bringing Connor home,” I say. He nods, but I realize he isn’t looking at me. He’s stepped back, and is looking at the outside of the house. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking . . . you really should get those roof shingles fixed before the rain comes. You’re going to have a hell of a leak.”

I hadn’t noticed, but he’s right; one of the many spring storms has blown a sizable patch of roofing away, leaving fluttering tar paper exposed. “Dammit. Know any good roofers?” I don’t mean it. I’m still half out the door, mentally planning our escape for when it’s necessary. But he, of course, takes me seriously.