“You like baseball?” he asked.
Jamison nodded.
“I’m a Giants fan,” he said. “How ’bout you?”
Her son finally glanced up, his expression flat—something Savannah had dubbed the Hank effect. “I like the Rangers.”
Hank held out a hand to the new guy, pushing his arm right in front of Jamison. He hit their son’s hand and forced his crayon from its path. Jamison frowned up at Hank, but the narcissist didn’t even notice.
“We haven’t met,” Hank said, turning on that good-old-boy grin. “Sheriff Bishop.”
The new guy reached over Jamison’s head, forcing Hank to lift his hand to shake. That one gesture sent Mr. Anonymous to the top of the heap in Savannah’s eyes.
“Ian,” he said, holding Hank’s gaze as he gave a solid shake.
Ian—strong, straightforward, a little different. Kind of like the man himself.
When Ian tried to pull his hand back, Hank held fast, still grinning. “What brings you around?”
Dread coiled in her belly. Her fingers dug into the rag in her hand in anticipation of the confrontation just moments away.
Ian deliberately broke Hank’s grip and cupped his hands around his coffee. “Work, I hope.”
Hank crossed his arms and leaned on the counter with a chuckle and a condescending “Another drifter for the mine.” When Ian didn’t take the bait, Hank pushed. “Might want to rethink that. A man died in those tunnels a few days ago.”
Savannah let out a deliberate, slow breath, grappling with the anxiety Hank always induced. Still fearful the wrong word, the wrong tone, the wrong look would let the devil out.
Ian didn’t seem to notice. He reacted much the way he’d reacted to Savannah when she’d shared the news, with nothing but a nod. Jamison, on the other hand, darted a worried look at his father, then Savannah.
“Please don’t talk about that around Jamison,” she said.
Hank’s gaze cut to her, anger flashing. Her gut jumped in response. “Shielding him from reality isn’t healthy, honey. We’ve talked about this.”
Ian offered up another buffer, telling Hank, “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“I’ll take care of Jamison,” Savannah nudged Hank, needing a reprieve from the angst. “You can go.”
The cook slammed his palm against the bell behind Savannah, and the sound cut down her spine. She jumped and turned. “Jesus, I’m right here.”
He muttered an apology as she grabbed the plate. Savannah collected her frayed nerves before sliding the food in front of Ian. “Here you go. Can I get you—”
“Where you from?” Hank interrupted.
Savannah ground her teeth.
“No, thanks,” Ian answered Savannah first. “I’ve got everything I need.” He set down his coffee, picked up his fork, and looked Hank directly in the eye. “Drifters are generally from all over.”
His answer held just enough sarcasm, just enough challenge, to make Savannah tense again. Her nerves couldn’t take any more trouble for one day.
“Let him eat,” she told Hank. “Go. I’ll have Jamison call you later.”
That cold, sharp gaze of his cut into her again. “You know I like it when you get bossy, but let’s keep that in the bedroom, sugar.” Then he looked at Ian. “Seein’ as you’re new round here, you should know—”
“Hank.” Savannah was sick of this manipulation. Sick of being controlled. Sick of hiding all the ugliness. Sick of the constant fear. “Don’t—”
“Mom,” Jamison looked up, his pretty blue eyes swimming with unease and instantly turning Savannah’s heart to jelly. “Can I have toast?”
Diversion. Their son had taken a play from Ian’s playbook. Jamison’s one question reminded Savannah of just what was at stake. Of just what she had to do to make their life right—stand up to Hank.