“Naw.” Nicholas stuck out his lower lip pensively and looked at his mother. “Is that really what happened?”
Neva shrugged.
“Sort of,” Trask intervened, sensing Neva’s discomfiture. “We good guys always have to be on the lookout, you know.”
Nicholas came down the last few steps. The boy’s eyes were round with excitement and hero worship for his uncle. “Mom? Did Uncle Trask get into a fight?”
“I don’t really know,” Neva said nervously.
“So where’s the other guy?”
“He took off,” Trask said, attempting levity. “He’d had enough I guess.”
“Because you beat him?” Nicholas sat on the edge of the couch.
Trask had to laugh and the pain in his ribs seared through his body. “Unfortunately the other guy got the better of me.”
Nicholas frowned petulantly while stepping closer to the couch and surveying his uncle. “But the good guys are always supposed to win.”
“Only on television,” Trask replied, ruffling the boy’s coarse hair. “Or if they get help from their friends.” Trask’s eyes moved from Nicholas to Neva. She paled slightly and tried to avoid his gaze.
“Come on, Nick. You can have a piece of pie and a glass of milk. Then you’ve got to go back to bed. Uncle Trask has to make some phone calls.” She placed the telephone on the coffee table and carefully stepped over the cord. “Here, take these,” she said to Trask, offering him aspirin and a glass of water.
“Thanks.”
“But I want to stay up.” Nicholas turned pleading eyes on his uncle.
“You’d better do what your mom says,” Trask suggested.
“But it’s not fair!”
“Nothing ever is,” Neva replied softly, thinking of Jason’s early death and the men who were responsible for his murder as she guided Nicholas into the kitchen and waited while he ate his pie.
When Nicholas had finished eating, over his loud protests, Neva put him back into bed. She watched the boy until his breathing became regular and he fell asleep with one arm tossed around the neck of the puppy Trask had given him for his birthday. Her throat tightened at the sight of her tousle-headed son sleeping so blissfully unaware of any of the suffering or malice in the world. How desperately she wanted to protect him.
As Nicholas started to snore, Neva could hear Trask talking on the phone in the living room though most of the one-sided conversation was muffled.
“Damn!” Trask muttered as he slammed the receiver of the telephone back into the cradle. He had tried calling Tory twice, but no one at the Lazy W had bothered to answer the phone. Fortunately his other calls had gotten through. He ran his fingers through his hair and swung his feet over the edge of the couch.
“This has gone on long enough,” Neva said tightly as she came down the stairs and took a seat in her favorite rocker. “The next time someone attacks you, it might be your life, senator…or maybe someone else’s.” Her voice cracked and her hands worked nervously in her lap. “I think you should call the sheriff. Let Paul Barnett do his job and wash your hands of this accomplice to the conspiracy theory right now.”
“I already have,” he said slowly as he watched her. For the first time since he had returned to Sinclair, Trask had an inkling of Neva’s true fears and he finally understood her odd behavior.
With a groan, he stood. Neva started. “You should be lying down—in the guest room.”
Trask walked over to her and, placing both hands on either arm of the wooden rocker, he imprisoned her in the chair. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on, Neva, what you’re really afraid of?” he suggested, his voice cold. “Come on, level with me.” His blue eyes pierced into hers.
“I’m afraid for you,” she whispered.
“Not good enough.”
“And for Nicholas.” She rubbed her chin nervously and tried to avoid his stare. It was impossible as his face was only inches from hers.
“That’s better.”
Tears started to pool in her eyes. “The kids at school—”
“Are not what you’re afraid of, are they? Someone’s been threatening you and Nicholas.”