The Guardian. Bethany Campbell
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and Charlie followed as if fastened to him by a string.
“Did you ever guard the president?” Charlie asked in awe.
“Sometimes,” Hawkshaw said. “Mostly I guarded other people.”
“Did you ever shoot anybody?” Charlie asked hopefully. “Did anybody ever shoot you?”
Hawkshaw’s lean face seemed to grow leaner, starker and sterner. “Outside, kid,” he ordered, holding the door.
And Charlie, dutiful as a page in training to a great knight, obeyed.
IN THE YARD, next to a cluster of flowering shrubs, Maybelline squatted modestly. Kate stared off in the opposite direction, trying to seem too dignified to notice.
She saw Hawkshaw come out on the deck. He tilted back the bill of his cap and stared down at her.
Self-conscious, Kate tried to ignore him. She was a mess, of course. She was pale with a Northerner’s pallor, and she hadn’t fastened her hair back, done anything to it except brush it.
Her jeans were baggy, her shirt mannish, and Hawkshaw probably wondered why anyone, least of all a stalker, would want her.
His gaze seemed to settle on the slight thrust of her breasts under the shirt, and, in embarrassment, she looked away. She was imagining things, she told herself. And if she wasn’t, the last thing she needed was anybody’s sexual interest. She’d had enough for a lifetime.
Her son was chattering a mile a minute to the man, and Hawkshaw answered with grunts and nods. But when she stole a glimpse at him, she saw his eyes were still on her.
Maybelline plodded a few steps into the shade and sat down among the deep-red phlox. Delicately, she began to gnaw at her haunch, as if besieging a flea.
Kate knelt beside her, slipping her arm around the dog affectionately. She nuzzled one of the velvety ears. Maybelline kept pursuing the flea.
Kate raised her eyes and stared toward the patch of sea that showed between the trees. The sun beat on her face, and she thought of Charlie, who was as fair-skinned as she. The both of them would need hats and sunscreen, or they’d be burned and blistered.
She turned to look at Charlie again and saw Hawkshaw take off his own cap and adjust it to make it tighter. “Here, kid,” he said, setting it on Charlie’s head. “You want to wear this?”
“Wow,” Charlie breathed, reverently fingering the bill. “You’ll let me?”
“Sure,” said Hawkshaw.
The boy smiled more widely than Kate had seen him smile in weeks. She swallowed.
He was a nice-looking boy, she thought, handsome, even. He had his father’s straight brown hair and angular, masculine features. But his eyes were the same color brown as hers, and in them shone a lively intelligence, a bright imagination.
But sometimes, because of his attention deficit, Charlie’s liveliness was too unfettered; it needed taming.
It seemed profoundly unfair to her that the boy had faced so many problems. The loss of his father, the insanity of her being stalked, his own disability—some—times her feelings of protectiveness for him almost overwhelmed her.
Hawkshaw turned his attention back to Kate. She dropped her gaze to the dog and started to unfasten the leash.
“Wait,” Hawkshaw ordered. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
She looked up, surprise mingled with resentment. His tone had been abrupt, even imperious.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded.
He made his way down the narrow stairs, Charlie tagging behind him like a puppy.
“I just wouldn’t let her off yet,” Hawkshaw said. “The Keys aren’t like the city. Nature gets a little snarky down here.”
“Snarky?” she asked dubiously. It seemed an unlikely word for him to use.
“Dangerous,” he amended. “Come on. Let’s walk her around the yard. I’ll explain what I mean.”
“Look at me, Mama,” Charlie said, fairly dancing before her, adjusting the oversize cap on his head. “I’m a Secret Service man—I guard people.”
He dived on the unsuspecting Maybelline and caught her in a possessive embrace. “You’re a spy!” he informed the startled dog. “I got you!”
Maybelline sighed, martyrlike, and let him wrestle her to the ground. Kate stared down at the boy in shock. “Charlie! Where’s your shirt?”
He had been wearing a shirt only a moment before, she was certain of it. Now his thin, white back was as bare as Hawkshaw’s tanned one.
“Charlie, Charlie,” Kate said, pulling him off the dog. “I asked you—where’s your shirt?”
“I don’t remember,” he said carelessly. He picked up a stick and aimed it into the trees like a gun. “Bang!” he yelled. “Stick ’em up—you’re under arrest!”
Kate knelt before him and pushed the stick down firmly. “Why?” she said, very clearly, very carefully. “Why did you take off your shirt?”
“I don’t have a shirt because I don’t need one,” Charlie said, echoing Hawkshaw exactly. “This is the Florida Keys. It’s warm all year.”
She looked back toward the deck and saw the boy’s polo shirt lying inside out on the bottom stair. He had stripped it off and tossed it aside.
“Charlie,” Kate said firmly, “you have to wear a shirt. You’ll get a sunburn—a bad one.”
“I don’t need one,” the boy repeated stubbornly. “This is Florida.” He adjusted the cap again and looked up at Hawkshaw with shining eyes. “I like Florida better than I did,” he said.
Hawkshaw put his hands on his hips. “Charlie, your mother’s right. Put your shirt back on. Go on. Do it.”
Charlie stood, his face indecisive for a moment. Then he brightened and said, “Okay.” He dashed away and ran back to the stairs. He struggled with his shirt and at last got it on, but inside out.
Kate dropped the dog’s leash, rose to her feet and gave Hawkshaw a sarcastic look. She strode to where Charlie twisted and wriggled. She pulled the shirt off and then expertly put it on him again, right side out.
He jammed the hat back on his head and ran over to Hawkshaw. “I got my shirt on, see?” he said eagerly.
Hawkshaw nodded, keeping his face impassive. “That’s good,” he said. “A boy should mind his mother.”
Kate picked up Maybelline’s leash. She made her voice controlled, almost frosty. “You were going to give us the safety tour, Mr. Hawkshaw?”
“Yes,” Hawkshaw said. “Now the Keys are a special environment. This island we’re on—”
“We’re on an island?” Charlie interrupted, tugging at Hawkshaw’s bare knee. “An island? Where’s the ocean?”
Hawkshaw pointed between the trees. “Over there,” he said.
“I can’t see it,” Charlie almost wailed in disappointment. “Where?”
Hawkshaw hoisted him up easily, so the boy’s head was as high as his own. “Over there. See it?”
“Oh,” Charlie said with disappointment. “I thought it’d be bigger.”
Hawkshaw laughed. “It is bigger. You can’t see much of it from here, that’s all.”
“Can we go closer?” Charlie begged.
“Sure,” Hawkshaw said. “Why not? You better ride on my shoulders. There’s