The rental car passes us going east on the bridge before the turn onto my road. It doesn’t slow and the driver doesn’t glance over his shoulder.
Sophie sees the car. She stares out the front windshield, but her hands ball on her lap. “He wants me to know he saw me get in your cruiser.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel one quarter turn. “He’s going to be very disappointed in what’s coming.”
I don’t slow down or glance in the rearview. I drive us home.
Sophie takes off her coat when we come inside and hangs it on a hook by the door. She crosses to the kitchen, washes her hands, pulls a knife out of my block, picks up an onion, and dices it with the speed and economy of a woman who has worked a four-station bar at last call for years. Her wrist is locked, letting the blade do the work.
I’ve never had a woman in this kitchen. I file that away, warmth settling in the center of my chest.
I remove meat from the fridge. Move past her at the counter.
The rushing river roars through the back door. The wind blows off the ridge. The cold seeps in around the seal of the door like it always does.
Sophie slides the onions into the pan I set beside her. Her shoulder brushes my arm when she leans for the salt. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
The onions hiss.
She picks up the knife and minces the garlic. Her rhythm stays the same, and my chest tightens. I like her in my kitchen more than I should admit, and I let her cook.
As I grill the meat, Roz brings over a drink Sophie made me and stays for ten minutes. The second she drives away trucks rumble up the driveway. Two engines, on the gravel at the same time. Jesse’s diesel I know by sound. The second one belongs to Mason.
Sophie’s chopping slows, but she doesn’t stop. “You called them?”
“No.”
“Eli then.”
“Probably.”
She wipes her hand on a towel. “He’s been refilling his coffee all day when he has a pot at the store. Guess it’s time to tell them what’s going on.”
The trucks park behind the cruiser. I open the front door before they reach the porch because I’m not making the Wildes knock when Sophie is inside and in danger.
Jesse has his hands in his jacket pockets. Mason follows behind him, his jaw set. Eli’s at the back, eyeing the tree line.
“Sophie here?” Jesse asks.
“In the kitchen.”
Jesse and Mason walk past me. Eli stops on the porch.
“I told them,” Eli says, not apologetic. “I don’t know what’s happening, but something’s going on.”
I know her family loves her, but they won’t want to sit on the sidelines and let me handle this. “Sophie won’t like that.”
“She’ll get over it.” Eli comes inside.
Sophie stands at the counter with the kitchen knife in her hand and her three favorite Wilde men in a half-circle around her. Mason has his arms crossed. Jesse has pulled his hands from his pockets, and they’re fisted at his sides.
“You drove all the way here for an onion?” she says.
Jesse sits on a stool. “Soph, please, talk to us.”
Nora must be a good influence because before her Jesse would have been cussing and demanding answers. Maybe love can soften even the hardest of men.
Sophie sets the knife down and looks at me. I don’t say anything. This is her story to tell.
