She should have known that detail from last night would make it back to Tom at warp speed. Especially since it only had one generation to travel. The sharp-edged thought cut through her mind. Shaun had raced to her rescue last night—no argument—but why wouldn’t his loyalties ultimately line up with his family? Then again, Crocker was just as likely the source. Or even Trent. Everybody knew Tom was in tight with the sheriff’s department. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d given him a heads-up about Justin.
No matter how the news got to Tom, the cold, hard, and very bitter reality was she had to watch what she said. She shoved her sense of betrayal aside, because
Tom was in her face now, and she needed to deal with him, not try to figure out who’d stuck the knife in her back. This wasn’t exactly how she envisioned entering into her first public debate, but Tom put the Justin issue out there, and she wasn’t about to back down.
“Maybe you should get your ear off the ground and keep your eye on your kid instead?”
A few people behind her snickered.
Tom straightened to his full height, aligned his tie, and she became painfully aware he was standing over her like a principal with a disobedient schoolgirl.
“You’re new to politics, Ginny, so I’ll give you some advice. Free. There’s a legal term for defaming a person with a false statement. It’s called slander, and it will land you on the wrong end of a very expensive court judgment.”
Was he filing a lawsuit? Her heart rattled in her chest and her palms grew damp at the thought of hiring a lawyer and spending thousands of dollars defending herself over one hastily spoken accusation, but letting him smell her fear would be the same as conceding defeat, so she raised her chin and returned his stare. “Thanks for the advice Tom. I’ve always been a little fuzzy on when something is libel and when it’s slander, but I know one thing for certain.”
“What’s that?”
“Truth is an absolute defense.”
“You don’t have one shred of proof against Justin.”
“Yet.”
Tom shook his finger at her. “You’ve been warned. The next time you disparage my family, I’ll see you in court.”
Satisfied with the ultimatum, he turned and continued to his table. Silence reigned in the diner for several seconds, and then a low hum of conversation rushed in to fill the void.
Ginny exhaled and turned to LouAnn, Melody and Ellie. They stared back at her like she’d sprouted a second head. “What?”
“You’re good,” Melody said.
Ellie nodded. “My stomach’s in a knot over here, but you stayed calm and sharp and you held your own. Tom walked away sputtering threats like a whiny crybaby.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but what you can’t see is my stomach’s in a knot, too. This little interaction drove two things straight home. First and foremost, I’ve got to watch my big mouth, or it’s going to land me in court.”
“What’s the other?” LouAnn asked.
“I need to stay far away from Shaun Buchanan if I want to win this election.”
Chapter Eight
If you’re so intent on staying out of the local battles, why the hell do you keep putting yourself in the line of fire?
Shaun’s caustic inner voice berated him as he strode down Main Street toward the salon, lugging the four foot fiberglass step ladder he’d borrowed from the cabin in one arm and carrying his toolbox and a nondescript black shopping bag in the other. Although it was barely five o’clock, storm clouds darkened the sky, throwing downtown into an early dusk. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He quickened his pace, and reached the salon just as a tiny, white-haired lady opened the door from the inside. After leaning the ladder against the wall, he grabbed the handle and held the door for her.
She squinted up at him through thick, frameless glasses, and smiled. “Thank you, sonny. Then she called over her shoulder, “Ginny, dear, I think you have a customer.”
“What did you say, Ms. Van Hendler?” Ginny called from the back of the salon. A second later she appeared around the corner, drying her hands on a towel. She stopped short at the sight of him.
He didn’t miss the way her eyes narrowed, but the older lady continued talking, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “Though I must say, his hair looks just fine. I don’t think he needs a trim.” She lowered her voice to a not-very-soft whisper. “Maybe he wants some…what do you call it”—she turned and assessed him—“manscaping?”
Okay, yes, he was a mission-hardened SEAL, but every soldier had his breaking point, and he might have paled at the thought of having his body hair slathered in hot wax and ripped out at the roots.
“Ms. V,” Ginny admonished, and the deceptively sweet-looking woman laughed.
“Just a guess, dear.” She shifted her owl-eyes back to him and grinned. “I don’t know what you young folks are into these days, with all the tattoos and body piercings and what-have-you, but I imagine it takes quite a bit of grooming.”
“Ah. No, I’m good.”