The sheriff’s attempt at humor was met with laughter that sounded less strained than relieved, like folks were happy to see a levelheaded adult step up and take over. The big man’s gaze gentled considerably as it settled on me, and he gave me a small, rueful-looking nod. Then with a visible rising and falling of his chest, he left, presumably to catch up with his deputies.
Cletus shoved his hands in his pockets, making no move to follow this time. My heart in my throat and needing to see for myself he was okay, I stepped next to him and slid my fingers around his wrist, drawing his attention to me as I pulled his hand free. I wanted to hold it. I might be mad later, but for now I just needed the reassurance of his touch.
His glare, icy and agitated, melted almost at once as it met mine, a flare of worry and pain turning his eyes a vivid blue. Someone—likely Elena—had scratched his face. Red, angry nail tracks stood in stark relief starting at his hairline, over his forehead, and down his cheek. He was bleeding.
I sucked in a breath. “Oh, Cletus.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm, his voice monotone. “I deserved what I got, probably more.”
Now I breathed out, feeling suddenly tired and relieved it was over, but—strangely—still not angry. “Cletus, can we . . .” I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. After what had just occurred, I needed a minute with him, just the two of us.
He seemed to need it too. Wordlessly, he led us to the fringes of the crowd, out one of the side doors, and into the night. I let him guide me, wishing I were angrier, knowing I should be. He was so infuriating sometimes.
But Cletus was mine. And I was his. And I wouldn’t change that fact for anything in the world.
Chapter Three
*Jenn*
“Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passion. If you don't have questions, you'll never find answers.”
Colleen Hoover, Slammed
“What are you thinking about?” I dabbed gently at the cuts on his face with a ball of cotton soaked in hydrogen peroxide and blew on the wound. The scratches already looked a little better, but he also had a wee little bruise under his left eye where my father had punched him. Apparently, Cletus’s plan had almost worked and would’ve been fully realized if Billy hadn’t held Cletus back.
After Cletus and I left the party, he’d taken us as far as the parking lot by the bakery. There, he’d seemed to hesitate. The Buick was just a few feet away. Eventually, as though finished with a wieldy internal debate, he’d grumbled and turned from the car. He took me to the Donner Bakery building instead. He’d unlocked it and opened the door for me, the bell jingling as we entered.
I’d walked past the storefront, the bakery case, and back to the kitchen where I’d grabbed the first aid kit while he’d flipped on the set of lights over the sink.
Presently, he lowered himself to the edge of the kitchen counter, and I stood between his legs. We were more or less at eye level, which made it easier to tend to his face.
Cletus hadn’t yet answered my question. I ceased dabbing at the wounds and leaned back a bit, catching his eyes. “Cletus Byron, what are you thinking about?”
The set of his mouth was distinctly grim, so I didn’t expect him to say, “I really love this dress.”
Something about the way he said it struck me as immensely charming, like he loved the dress, but he also hated the dress because he loved it so much. This dichotomous delivery of a sweet statement had me fighting a smile.
“Oh? You do?” I backed up a bit more and felt the reluctant slide of his hands release me from where they’d been resting on my waist. I turned to the side, modeling it for him. “Did you see the back?”
“I don’t need to see the back.” His eyes closed, like the sight of me overwhelmed him a little, and he moved to rub his forehead, wincing when his fingers made contact with the scratches. “Dammit.”
Crossing my arms, I watched as frustration played over his features. Confound it, but I wasn’t mad at Cletus. Yet I didn’t feel sorry for him either. Well, I didn’t feel sorry for him much. Cletus knew what he’d been doing.
“Actually—” he placed his hands on the counter at either side of his waist, his gaze on the floor “—what I was really thinking was I wished we were alone.”
“We are alone, silly. I don’t see anybody else here.” I laughed, coming back to stand between his legs and finish what I’d started. The scratch extended into his beard, and I swallowed around a thick knot of anger. As much as I wasn’t angry at Cletus, I was furious at my father and Elena.
The last time I’d seen my father was at his court sentencing last spring, where he and Elena had been given probation for what they’d done to us last year. I’d been . . . well, I’d been angered by the outcome. The court considered what they’d done “assault,” which was a Class A misdemeanor, punishable by up to 11 months and 29 days in jail, a fine up to $2500, or both.
Up to 11 months and 29 days in jail and $2500 for ruining my peace of mind. Good to know what the court thought it was worth.
They’d put their hands on me, harmed me, invaded my sleep and robbed me of my tranquility, and ultimately got off with a fine and probation. The injustice of it had left me feeling pretty bitter about the state of the legal system. I hadn’t admitted as much to Cletus, nor had I discussed it with anyone else, but a darkness had followed me ever since that day. Truth be told, I was coming around to Cletus’s way of thinking.
Perhaps it was necessary to take matters into your own hands if you wanted to see real justice served.
Maybe that’s why you’re not angry with Cletus now, even though you should be . . .
“I meant tonight. I wish we were alone tonight.”
“We’ll be alone later.”
“All of tonight.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You’re being greedy.”
“With you? Always.”
I rolled my eyes so he couldn’t see how I loved his answer. “It’s only one night. Don’t you think the barn looks pretty?”
“It does . . . look . . . pretty,” he conceded, haltingly.
I ceased dabbing again, again catching his eyes. They looked as cagey as his words had been. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not in a suit.”
“So what?” I glanced at the fit of his red shirt and black pants, admiring the shape of him and taking a moment to thrill in what I knew his clothes concealed. “You look perfect just as you are.” I meant it, scratches and all, he was perfect.
“Your momma expected menfolk to wear suits, and Jackson James knew to wear a suit,” he grumped, his hands coming back to me. But this time they settled on my hips, holding me a little tighter, his grip feeling somehow more possessive.
“So?”
“So, aren’t you concerned we’re nearing the end of days?”
I looked at him blankly. “End of days?”
“Jackson James knowing something I don’t.”