Page 23 of Bitter Falls

“Okay,” I tell them, and let a smile slide like oil over my lips. “Let’s explore that idea for a minute. What if Ididknow? I’d have to be very, very cold. You think you want to start a fight with me? You’re a mother, Lilah. How far would you go to protect your children?”

“All the way to hell,” she replies. “But we both know the best way to win a fight is not to have one. That’s why you should move on. That’s how you protect them kids. By getting out of our territory.”

“I’ll think about it,” I tell them. “Truth be told, Stillhouse Lake isn’t all that great a place. But make no mistake: If I move on, it’s becausewewant to move. Not because you ran us off.”

“Does that matter to you?” Jasper asks. “Comes down to the same thing.”

“It matters,” I say, and meet his gaze calmly. “You know it does.”

He nods. “So how long before you’re gone, Mrs. Proctor?”

“I don’t know. A few months. We have to find a place, and sell this one first—”

“That doesn’t work for us,” Lilah interrupts. “We need you gone by next month.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen, Mrs. Belldene. We go on our schedule.Ifwe decide to go.”

Jasper looks around at this haven we’ve so carefully rebuilt, decorated, made into a home. He slowly nods and takes a long drink of his coffee. He sets the cup down with a sigh. “Mighty good coffee, ma’am,” he says. “And I sure wish you had good sense to match. But you don’t, and I can’t help that. You’ll learn. When you do, remember: we tried being neighborly about this.”

Lilah nods. “Y’all enjoy that meatloaf, now. You want to give that dish back, you just bring it on out to our place. If not, we’ll come back for it.”

I understand what that means. One way or another, this is going to get ugly.

No sense in pretending to be social anymore.

I go into the kitchen, get out a garbage bag, and scrape the meatloaf into it. I run hot water and grab the soap and scrub her dish until it’s sparkling clean. I dry it on a hand towel and walk out to thrust it at her.

“You’re a rude bitch,” she says, and takes it. “But still, I thank you kindly. It’s my company dish.”

“You can go now. Both of you. Out.” I let them see it then: the ice and steel and fury that’s carried me through these past few years. The ache and fear and relentless need to protect my kids.

They blink.

“Well,” Lilah says, and raises her eyebrows. “You drop by anytime,Ms.Proctor. And you bring that man of yours too. One of our sons owes him a broken cheekbone and a couple of teeth from last year. He’ll be wanting his payback.”

“Time to go,” I tell her. “Now.”

She heads for the truck. Jasper follows, shooting me one last, flat look, and I shut the door and lock it behind them. I stay at the window, hand on the butt of my gun, until their truck starts and reverses back down the driveway in a flurry of gravel and dust.

“Mom?”

Lanny’s back, clutching the SUV’s keys and looking tense and worried.

“We’re okay,” I tell her, and put my arm around her. Then I wrap both arms around her. “We’re going to be okay.”

I don’t really believe that.

Neither, from the stiffness of her shoulders, does she.

Sam comes home late and exhausted. We’re having barbecued chicken and corn bread dressing, which pleases everyone; I have the Belldenes’ meatloaf in a plastic sack in the kitchen. I’m considering having it tested for rat poison.

Sam’s filthy and sweaty. His hands are raw from the work, and it makes me ache to see it. He does this for us. Sam likes building things, but it’s a job, not a passion. He’s a pilot. He ought to be flying. And he isn’t because...because of his commitment to us, at least for now. I didn’t ask him to do that. That’s just who he is: a solid, real, stand-up man willing to sacrifice for the people he loves. He doesn’t want to leave us here on our own; he knows things are fragile.

But that sacrifice shouldn’t be forever. And that’s yet another reason to give up my devotion to Stillhouse Lake.

I follow him to the bedroom and silently help him with his dirty clothes; he groans a little as he works one shoulder, and I massage it for him. “Thanks, Gwen,” he says. “Sorry. I pulled something.”

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t sore every day,” I tell him. “Shower, mister. Dinner’s ready in half an hour.”

---