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So far, Ava was unimpressed with Boyd's new criminal enterprise. The mine—that had been forced on him, and he'd made a thing of beauty of it, outsmarting those idiots and coming away clean, with the money for her house. But this? Robbing Dickie Bennett's marijuana money and then sitting in a dingy cabin counting it while the Bennetts got good and mad? No, she didn't see the point.
Arlo Givens didn't, either, it was clear. He was sitting at a table full of money with a face as long as an elephant's trunk, thinking he got made. 'Course, Boyd had showed his face outright, so Ava wasn't sure it mattered whether Mr. Givens had been recognized, and the inconsistency bothered her.
She was staring out the window, having gotten a strong impression that the menfolk didn't want her crowding around while they were counting the money. For the moment, she let them push her aside, but that wouldn't be always, she vowed to herself. Once Boyd was used to her, sure of her, she'd find her place.
"That field you're lookin' at, Ava?"
She turned her head when Johnny called her name. He wasn't looking any too happy, either, she couldn't help but notice.
"When we were kids," he went on, "Boyd and me, we'd be out there sun-up till sun-down, playin' with this old Jordan Brand football that Bowman had."
Ava rolled her eyes at the mention of her former husband's name. Johnny appeared to think it odd that she had taken up with another Crowder, and she didn't blame him, but she could do without having Bowman's name pushed in her face.
He ignored her, lost in thought, and she realized he wasn't really talking to her at all—just directing his words toward her. "Bo and … my daddy, they'd come out and play with us from time to time, till Bowman got so big he started runnin' 'em over—"
"Hey, Johnny," Boyd said softly.
Sharply, Ava said, "I hope you understand if picturin' Bowman, and your Uncle Bo, here doesn't exactly make my heart sing." The world was better off without both of them. She found it strange but comforting that Boyd seemed to agree with her. Turning around, she looked back out the window. Last time she'd been here, people had been shooting at her. She could do without having to relive that, or any part of her past with Bowman.
"Johnny, finish countin' out these shares." She heard the chair scrape on the floor as Boyd got up, heard the firm clump of his shoes on the floor as he came toward her.
It was both exciting and comforting to have him come to her, touch her, hear the intimate tone of his voice as he said, "Hey," but it didn't make her feel any better about being here.
"Hey, hey, hey," Boyd repeated, taking her hand as she turned toward him. How had she gone so long without his touch? His hands were so gentle, his voice and eyes so soft. She held his hand, sinking down on a table near the window as he closed the space between them. "Johnny don't mean no harm," he assured her.
Ava nodded. She didn't believe it, of course—Johnny was eaten up with pain both physical and emotional and had always been a bitter, envious man. She didn't trust him and didn't much like him, but she understood him. Growing up in the shadow of Bo and his boys, always the tagalong, couldn't have been easy. But she wasn't going to add to Boyd's problems right now, or make it clear that she thought he should keep a sharper eye on his cousin. Not in front of Johnny, and not right yet.
"Okay?" Boyd asked.
"I know." She fidgeted, though, uncomfortable even with Boyd near her, holding her hand. "I just—I got some bad memories of this place."
"Well, we're not gon' come up here again."
"That a fact?" She didn't quite put it past Boyd to tell her what she wanted to hear until she got used to things. She might have fallen for him, but that didn't mean she was blind to his failings. "How long are we staying?"
"A day. Two, maybe."
She didn't miss the way the estimate doubled, or how quickly. "There any reason, in particular, we're stayin'?"
Boyd looked at her, his eyes dark, and she remembered lying in his arms last night, wishing they were back at her house so they could be that way again. "I'm just layin' low till I see how Dickie responds," he said eventually.
"If you're so worried about him, why did you take him on?" There was an intimacy between them, here in front of the men counting the money at the table, even talking business, that made Ava believe they would truly be partners some day.
"Oh, I'm not worried about him." Boyd's hands hovered over her shoulders, tracing them gently, as if in preparation for the way he would touch her later, when they were truly alone.
"Hm." Ava's response was as much for the phantom touch as for the boastful words.
Boyd's hands moved up, cupping her neck, his thumbs stroking her jawline, as he continued, "But how he responds will let me know whether or not his Mama's behind him."
It was almost like kissing him to be here talking this out, and it was in that spirit that Ava found herself saying, "I don't want you to keep anything from me."
He looked her in the eye, to see if she meant it, and when he found she did he kissed her, soft and gentle, giving and receiving. "As you please," he whispered when he pulled away, and she could feel how deeply he meant it all the way to her toes.
Partners. They were partners. Ava believed that with all her heart.
