He stopped working and looked up at her. She could never really understand what his childhood had been like, and he was glad for it. "I expect you would."
Piper's eyes popped open, her heartbeat surging as she stared into the pitch dark. Something had jarred her out of her sleep. She remained very still, listening, uncertain of what had awakened her. An owl. The wash of the tide. She could smell the mustiness of the tent and feel Clate next to her and the hard ground beneath. Had she simply had a bad dream? She couldn't remember dreaming at all, remembered only Clate making love to her. That was the only way to describe what had happened between them. He understood that she was wrung out, empty, and he'd given himself to her, slowly, tenderly, asking for nothing in return but her shimmering release. She'd been so tired, so utterly relaxed, that she'd fallen off into a dead, restful sleep.
There it was. A different sound, one not of nighttime along a sea marsh. But she couldn't identify it.
She sat up on her elbows, alert to every sound.
Clate reached out gently and touched her upper arm. "It's okay," he whispered.
"What—"
"Shhh."
He'd heard something, too. As she listened carefully, she could distinguish the sounds of movement out in her yard. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. A scrape of what sounded like metal against dirt. They weren't steady sounds. They came intermittently, as if whoever was out there was trying desperately not to make any noise.
Clate eased up into a sitting position and leaned toward her, whispering, "He must have parked down the road and walked in. I heard him on the road."
"Who is it?"
"Someone who doesn't know you and I are up here in a tent."
She tried to control her racing pulse. "I wish I'd brought my baseball bat."
"Not to worry." He spoke in a whisper as he fumbled in the darkness, quietly, and produced something that he held up. Piper couldn't quite make it out. "I supplied myself with some nasty-looking tool out of your studio."
She reached over, found his hand, and felt the smooth, cool metal outline of his intended weapon. "It's an antique whalebone knitting needle."
"Figured it couldn't be new. Well, it'll do for my purposes."
He threw off their blanket and managed to pull on his jeans without making a great deal of noise. Skills learned in his youth, Piper thought. There was so much she still needed to learn about him, wanted to learn.
She heard his fly zip, then came the flash of his grin as he kissed her. "Wait here. I'll be back."
He crawled to the end of the tent, unzipped the screen flap, and was out.
Piper pulled on Liddy's jeans and sweatshirt, grabbed the flashlight—a serviceable weapon in a pinch—and slipped out after him. The order for her to wait was just a reflex on his part, she rationalized; if he thought about it, he'd assume she'd pay no attention.
The stars and nearly full moon cast the landscape in a silvery light that produced long, eerie shadows across gardens, lawn, and marsh. She could see well enough to make out Clate's glare when she caught up with him after a few steps.
But she saw the dark silhouette down toward the hedgerow and pointed.
The moonlight, their shifting shadows, must have given them away. The figure went still for a breath, said nothing, then bolted.
Clate Jackson's was not a subtle temperament. He shouted, "Hey! Hold on!"
He didn't wait for an answer. Using his sprinter's body to advantage, he shot down across her meadow with his antique whalebone knitting needle tight in his fist. Piper didn't dare turn on her flashlight in case it blinded him or startled him and threw him off his stride, tripped him up in any way.
She followed at a half run, her mind reeling. Who were they chasing? A man. Definitely. She hadn't made out his face, couldn't put a name to the thick body she'd seen silhouetted against the night sky. It was someone, obviously, who didn't want to deal with Clate Jackson.
A stitch in her side slowed her down. Too much stress, not enough sleep and proper food. Should she run up to Clate's house and call the police? She didn't know if her own phones were working. What if whoever was out there managed to elude Clate and came after her instead? Suddenly her flashlight seemed less like a suitable weapon. She wished she had the knitting needle. But cowering in her tent would have been worse. At least out here she had room to run, if necessary.
The dark figure slipped through the break in the hedgerow. Clate streaked after him. Piper hesitated for a beat, debating her options. She spotted a shovel cast off on the path, picked it up along with the flashlight, then followed the two men through the hedges.
Two yards ahead, Clate already had the man on the ground and the knitting needle up against his captive's eyeball. "Don't move. Got it?"
Piper jerked to a dead stop, gulped in air as she stared down in shock. "Tuck!"
Tuck O'Rourke remained focused on Clate and his knitting needle. "I didn't do anything." His voice was near panic. "I swear."