That is the first kind thing he does.
The second is when he turns toward the men staring too hard and snaps, “Y’all ain’t seen a woman and kid before? Find something useful to do before I assign chores.”
He doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t put an arm around me or pretend I belong to him so the men will look away.
He just makes the yard behave.
I don’t know why that matters.
It does.
A few men snicker. A few look away. One mutters something about Derby getting domesticated and earns himself a look so lethal he suddenly remembers business on the other side of the yard.
August lifts his head off my shoulder and stares at Derby.
“You’re loud,” he says.
My soul leaves my body.
Derby looks at my son.
My son looks at Derby.
Then Derby says, “So are motorcycles.”
August considers that with grave suspicion. “Mama says loud things give her a headache.”
Derby’s eyes come to me. “Does she?”
“She says a lot of things when she thinks little ears aren’t listening,” I mutter.
August pats my cheek. “I listen.”
“I know you do.”
That is part of the problem.
Derby reaches into the tow rig and grabs the first box before I can protest.
“Wait,” I say. “You don’t have to carry those.”
“Good, because I wasn’t planning on carrying all of them. Just enough so nobody steals your busted lamp and whatever else nearly killed me in the road.”
“I’m not staying.”
He looks back at me. “Tonight you are.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. The flat tire, sleeping kid, empty gas tank, and the fact that you came looking for a dead man do.”
The words hit harder here than they did on Hell Road.
Derby already said it once.
Mike’s dead.