Of course he came.
Oaks kills his engine and swings off before the truck even stops. Big, broad, beard dark, eyes already taking inventory. He looks from me to Amelia, then to August, then to the panties clutched in Amelia’s fist because God hates mercy.
Oaks lifts a brow.
I point at him. “No.”
He holds up both hands. “Didn’t say a word.”
“You thought several.”
“Whole paragraph.”
Wildcat hops out of the tow rig grinning like Christmas came drunk. “I hear laundry’s declaring war now.”
Amelia’s face goes red again.
I step between them without thinking.
Wildcat’s grin dims.
Oaks notices.
Everyone notices too damn much.
“Truck first,” I say.
Wildcat nods, business settling over him. “Keys?”
Amelia hesitates.
I hold out my hand. “Your call.”
She looks at my hand. Then at Wildcat. Then gives the keys to me. Not because she trusts me. Because she trusts me a hair more than the man she don’t know. I pass them to Wildcat.
“Careful,” I say.
Wildcat looks offended. “With vehicles or possible Welles problems?”
“With both.”
He glances at Amelia, then softens. “I got it.”
Oaks walks closer, keeping his hands visible because Oaks can be a scary bastard when he forgets other people don’t know he’s mostly gruff wrapped around old guilt.
“Ma’am,” he says.
Amelia gives him a suspicious look. “Ma’am?”
Oaks shrugs. “My woman says I need manners.”
“She must be patient.”
“No,” he says. “Armed.”
A reluctant laugh slips from Amelia before she can stop it.
Good.