Mind Games

“No.” He kept one eye on Bray, who now sat in front of the chicken mansion with the dog. “No, I wouldn’t feel right selling her things. I’m hoping to donate them. Somehow.”

“Ah.” Sipping her lemonade, Thea nodded. “Miss Leona would like that. Let me talk to Maddy, my friend the doctor. The clinic does house calls, and she’d probably know who could use what you want to donate. And would accept the donation.”

“I really appreciate the help. I’ll let you get to work, and start on my own.” He set down his empty glass. “Damn good lemonade. What brand? I’ll look for it.”

She just beamed at him. “I guess it’s Lucy’s brand. My grandmother. It’s her recipe.”

“Lemonade from lemons. That’s a concept. Hey, Bray, we gotta go.”

“Bunk wants to come, too!”

“Bunk has to do his chores,” Thea said easily. “Here, have some lemonade and wait just a minute.” She gestured Ty toward the door. “I can let Bunk come down to see him this afternoon if you like.”

“Bray would sure like.”

“Okay, hold on.” She went inside and came back with two dog biscuits. “Why don’t you give him this one now, Bray. And put the other in your pocket. When he comes to see you, you can give him the other.”

An eye on the biscuits, Bunk sat.

Ty started breathing again when the dog took it politely out of the child’s hand.

“He’ll come back when I whistle,” Thea said.

“When you whistle.”

“He’ll hear me. If it’s time for him to go before then, just tell him to go home. Just Go home, and he will.”

After the child version of a bear hug for the dog, Bray climbed up to ride Ty’s back.

“Did you forget something, Bray?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“About dinner last night, and what to say to Ms. Fox.”

“Okay! Thank you. We ate and ate.”

“You’re welcome. You come back and see the chickens whenever your daddy says you can.”

“I like the chickens. Can I have chickens, Daddy?”

“And here we go.” But he shot Thea a smile before carting the boy off.

When they’d left, Thea sat where she was, one hand on Bunk’s head. “Nice to have neighbors again, isn’t it? Close enough to be friendly, distant enough to keep the quiet.”

But staring off into the wood, she thought about Riggs—nothing friendly there, and the distance could evaporate without warning.

She’d had that moment, that moment of breathlessness when Ty had sat on her back porch chair—the same chair in her dream. Riggs’s doing, she reminded herself. Twisting a silly little fantasy into a bloody nightmare.

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. Or doesn’t,” she corrected, “unless I let him.”

Fifteen years, she thought, and he stayed locked in a cell while she sat with her dog on her back porch.

That was reality.

“Time for work.”

After carrying the tray inside, dealing with the glasses, she went up to shower off the sword session. She dressed for her day in ancient jeans, a red T-shirt for color energy.