Mac bristled. “No, sir! I just… I don’t have a teacher.” He glanced toward the woods. Day. On the other side, lost to him. Frowning, he dropped his gaze.
“I ain’t as pretty to look at, but if you want to learn how to run that thing, I am a Navy man. If you can take orders from a sailor.”
Mac’s shocked attention snapped back up.
Clearly noticing the stunned look on his face, Silas added, “Boy, I’ve been in this life long enough to know a few things. And I know when a soul needs forgiveness. Now, what happened out there isn’t mine to forgive, but I can show you grace while she comes around.”
Mac looked away and took a swig of the beer, not sure he deserved the old man’s grace. And she wasn’t likely to forgive.
“Marge believes her. That’s good enough for me.”
Mac’s gaze swung back toward him. “She tell you what happened?”
“She’s keeping that close, son. She won’t even tell Marge. Said only enough to keep the cops off you.”
Mac frowned; not what he wanted to hear. Thankful, but not comforting on any level.
“Don’t think that was for you, though,” he pointed out. “Don’t think she’s interested in a legal battle. No fight in her.”
Because he’d taken it all out of her, whatever he’d done to her beyond what he knew. Mac scratched his chest through his shirt, giving Silas a sheepish expression. “Take you up on your offer.” It was self-serving. More than the lesson; it was a connection to her. “Thank you.”
Silas harrumphed and waved a dismissive hand in the air.
“Want a beer?”
“Nope, gotta get next door. Got a meal waiting for me. Gonna get an ass chewing for keeping them waiting as it is.” He grinned at Mac as though he was looking forward to the fire he’d lit under his wife’s ass.
Mac managed a smile; Silas was one demented man, looking forward to the lumps he was about to take. And one man who loved his wife. Raising his beer, he requested, “Tell Marge I said hello.”
Silas chuckled. “Son, there’s riling my wife, and then there’srilingmy wife.”
“Thought Marge liked me now,” Mac pressed.
“Said she believes you, not that she likes you,” Silas pointed out. “Our girl’s been through hell. You’ve added to that.”
Mac gazed off again, knowing it was true and wondering why Silas was even bothering then, despite his little speech about grace.
“Something about you, though; about the both of you.” Silas said cryptically.
Confused and curious, Mac shifted his attention to him again, but Silas was turning away. He wanted to ask what the cryptic statement meant. Then again, maybe it was better not to grasp at straws.
Silas thought of Day as his own, but he’d also had a soft spot for Mac once—maybe still did. If he was standing here despite everything, he still did. He was trying to balance his feelings for two people he cared about who happened to be at odds.
Mac mocked himself. “Now who’s a fucking Oprah?”
Silas was true to his word. The next morning, he arrived bright and early in his little rusted-out orange Ford Fiesta. Mac heard the vehicle heave its way into the drive beside the cabin and went outside to investigate.
Silas raised a furry brow at Mac’s lack of attire and pointed out, “I’m not one of your girls, son; get some pants on.”
As Mac smiled, turning away to do just that, he heard the follow-up, “Knew I shoulda called first. Damn tom.”
Pausing, he called over his shoulder, “Tom?”
Walking down the slight incline toward the cabin, Silas answered, “Marge’s nickname for you.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on, I see what the fuss is about, don’t need to keep parading it about. I’m no competition for you.”
Chuckling, Mac kept going across the porch and went into the cabin. “You were a sailor, Silas; there’s a saying about ports and girls.”
“Still a sailor, upstart,” Silas snapped as he climbed the steps. By the time he welcomed himself into the cabin, Mac was emerging from the bedroom in a pair of cutoff sweatpants. He pulled the door semi-closed to prevent a full view of the room.