Page 154 of The Lonely Road

The small crowd disperses with the mild disappointment of people who expected a more definitive resolution.

CHAPTER 38

mason

Wiley Buchanan opens Clara’s door when I knock.

I chose to go after seven, once the kids were in bed.

I can’t face Eli and Dakota. Not when I put them and their home at risk.

For a man who thrived on his moral flexibility, this Taya-driven consciousness of right versus wrong and the cost of wrong is crushing.

“Who is it, Wiley?” I hear Clara’s voice from deep in the house.

Wiley crosses his arms and stands, blocking my way. I know I’m at risk of receiving another punch, so I brace myself. He’s the law, so I can’t even hit back.

“Good evening, Deputy. I wanted to speak with Clara.”

He studies me impassively and when Clara appears next to him, he asks, still staring at me, “You want to talk to this dirtbag?”

Christ!

“Mason, heard you were back in town.” Clara puts a hand on Wiley’s arm. “It’s okay, Wiley. Why don’t you go home now and get your stuff?”

Wiley is not eager to do any of that. “And leave you alone with him?”

Clara’s lips twitch into a smile. “Hear that he’s making apology rounds. Went to Mac. Made nice with Eunice. Gave her a massive tip.”

Wiley grunts.

“You here to hurt me, Mason?” Clara asks, her eyes clear.

“No, ma’am.”

“Let him in, Wiley.”

Wiley glares at me. “I’ll let him in, but I ain’t goin’ anywhere until he gets gone.”

His Texan accent comes straight through—which happens to a man when he’s upset. I hate that he thinks he needs to protect Clara from me. But I can’t blame him. If someone did what I did and wanted to talk to Taya—yeah, I’d be where he is, and I wouldn’t pull the punch.

Wiley follows us into the kitchen. When we get there, he stands at the doorway, arms still crossed like he’s on guard.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She picks up a kitchen towel and then all of a sudden, turns around and throws it at me. I catch it before it can strike me. Instinct.

“That was a shitty thing you did to Taya.”

I set the towel down on the kitchen table. “Yes.”

“Sit,” she mutters.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t something heavier,” Wiley murmurs, expressionless.

I take a seat at the kitchen island and take the risk of having coffee thrown at me—but I see through Clara, she’s not angry with me about what I did to her, but she is about what I did to Taya.