Chapter Twenty-Four

Sam sat at his kitchen island and wondered how he could eat a second bowl of chili when Doc had been shot. ’Course, this wasn’t the first time he’d eaten or slept or pissed or otherwise went on living when someone he knew—someone he’d liked and respected and… cared for—had been hurt.

Had died, in some cases.

God willing, though, it would be the last.

“Do you think Otter the Dog’s made himself sick?” May was watching the terrier worriedly. Otter was zonked out on his dog bed in front of the kitchen broom closet. His belly was distended.

“No.” He cleared his throat. “He’s got a cast-iron stomach.”

May had put together supper and served it and then had found a sleeping bag and talked Becky into lying down next to the futon in the spare room. She was taking care of them all, he realized. She liked to pretend toughness, but she was so soft, so caring, underneath it all.

God, he had to keep his May safe.

He watched as George took another beer from his fridge. The older man hadn’t said much in the couple of hours since they’d made it back. Hadn’t made any explanations. Hadn’t offered any apologies. Something about that just didn’t sit right with Sam.

“Did you know?” Sam asked.

George looked at him warily. “Know what?”

Over by the sink May stiffened.

Sam put down his spoon. He carefully placed his hands palms down on the table, bracketing his chili bowl. “Know the Russian mob was coming here to Coot Lake?”

George’s eyes narrowed. “I did not know at first.”

“Dyadya had no idea—”

“Hush, May,” Sam said gently without looking at her. “You knew he was mafiya, though, didn’t you?” He jerked his chin at Ilya, sitting in the corner, still in his red jacket, a half-eaten bowl of chili clutched to his chest. “When did you know he was coming into town?”

“Ilya and I are old… acquaintances.” George deliberately twisted off the beer bottle cap, using only the three fingers on his right hand. “He called me yesterday morning, very early, and asked to see me. So, yes, I suppose I should have realized that the mafiya might be arriving in the so-gentle Coot Lake.”

“And you told no one,” Sam said, hard.

“Sam!” May went to stand behind her uncle. She couldn’t have made her allegiance any more obvious if she’d screamed it.

Something dark gathered inside Sam. Her unwavering loyalty was part of the reason he wanted her, but in this she had to be on his side, not her uncle’s.

“No,” George murmured, his accent thick. “No, I did not tell anyone that my old friend Ilya was coming—and that the mafiya might be not far behind. That is what you want to hear, yes? That the suffering of the noble police chief Doc Meijer is my fault? Entirely my fault”—George’s voice lowered almost to a whisper—“and not his or yours.”

Sam stood so fast his stool fell over.

Otter lifted his head and gave a single, startled bark.

May pushed in front of Sam, scowling, hands on hips. “This isn’t Dyadya’s fault—you know that. He has as much to fear from the Russian mob as you do—more, in fact. His testimony sent Beridze’s uncle to prison.”

Sam felt his fists clench as he looked over her head at the old man. “So he’ll be after you, too.”

George just watched him, his face closed.

Which was answer enough, Sam guessed. “You sat and waited and chose to remain silent when you knew thugs with automatic weapons were coming to my town.”

“You know I am mafiya.” George shrugged. “Did you perhaps expect otherwise?”

May looked exasperated. “Dyadya!”

Sam’s lip curled. “You endangered this town—endangered May—and didn’t give a fuck, did you?”

“Sam!” May puffed up like a bantam hen. “You can’t talk to him like that.”

“Go upstairs, May.”

“No.”

“I said—”

“And I said no.” She reached up and grabbed his chin.

He looked down at her, incredulous.

“I’m not going to be pushed to the side like a good little girl,” she said low and fierce, “while you big men settle your asinine argument. This is the twenty-first century, not the Middle Ages.”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “I let you get away with a lot, sweetheart, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a line.”

She blinked, but didn’t back down. Instead she crowded up against him, well within his personal space. “You knew exactly what I was like when you decided to keep chasing me, Sam West. I’m not some sweet young thing who’ll tell you your cock is the biggest I’ve ever seen. I’m a cranky bitch with a career, an education, and opinions. Take it or leave it, but don’t start acting like you had no idea who I am. What I am.” She pointed behind her, straight-armed at her uncle without looking away from Sam. “Dyadya is everything to me. If you force me to make a choice I’m going to pick him. Every. Single. Time.” She inhaled and her voice suddenly dropped as if all the steam had gone out of her. “So don’t force me, Sam.”

He stared at her a moment longer and suddenly realized that he’d already made a choice of his own—whether she liked it or not. Old George and Ilya were still in the kitchen watching, but he ignored them, because this was between him and May, and it was important. “Go on to bed, May. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Dyadya—”

“I’m not going to hurt your uncle.” Tonight.

She looked at him suspiciously as if she’d heard his unspoken amendment, but in the end she nodded and turned to the stairs without protest. Despite what she’d just yelled at him.

Not that he was stupid enough to point that out.

George wasn’t a fool, either. He waited until May was out of earshot before he raised an eyebrow at Sam. “So, that is settled, I think.”

Sam looked at him, flat. “Don’t bet on it, old man.” He jerked his chin at the mission chairs by the windows. “You and Ilya can bunk in the chairs—they fold down nearly flat. Spare blankets in the closet by the back door. Sorry I don’t have anything better,” he added without really meaning it.

George nodded cautiously anyway. “I thank you. And you, you’ll be, uh, bunking with my niece upstairs?”

Sam looked the man in the eye. “Got a problem with that?”

George actually chuckled. “Oh, I am not the one you should worry over.”

Sam grunted and turned toward the stairs and his loft, because he figured Old George had it right: He might have May in his bedroom, but that didn’t mean he had her in his bed.

Yet.