He frowned.
“God isn’t kind.” She clamped her hand over her mouth, horrified at her own words. But she kept going, speaking through her hand. “He’s not kind. He took away Felicity—”
“I took away Felicity.”
“No. God could have protected her on that road. He could have . . . Why didn’t He protect her? Why didn’t He stop—?” Her voice grew soft. “She. Was. So scared.”
Jensen licked his lips, swallowed. “She never woke up, Claire. She died almost instantly.”
She closed her eyes. “I know.”
His touch on her cheek startled her. She opened her eyes and he cupped her face. “We’re not talking about Felicity, are we?”
She stared at him, began to tremble. “No.”
“We’re talking about you, in Bosnia. About the men who attacked you, beat you, scared you. Nearly killed you.”
She drew in a shaky breath.
“We’re talking about the fact that a terrible thing happened and you haven’t felt safe since. Even here in Deep Haven.”
He knew her that well? She swallowed, nodding.
“Because . . . it’s not about Deep Haven,” he said softly. “It’s about God. How can you trust Him, put your future in His hands, when He lets bad things happen to . . . people like you?”
She clenched her teeth together, but a moan emerged and her control broke. “Yeah. Me.” She gulped a deep breath. “It shouldn’t have happened to me.”
Jensen touched her forehead with his, his arms still around her. “You’re safe here, Claire. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I’ll figure out a way for you to stay. You don’t have to leave Deep Haven.”
Oh, she wanted to believe him. Especially when he pulled her to himself. They sat there in the pocket of the night as she listened to his heartbeat, strong against her ear.
It wasn’t until she finally looked into his eyes, ever so briefly, that she realized the truth.
She was jealous. All these years, despite her best efforts, she had hated Felicity, at least a little. Because Felicity had what Claire had always wanted.
The heart of Jensen Atwood.
Claire had turned Felicity’s gravesite into a debris field. Flowers littered the lawn, and tomorrow, the cemetery gardener would think wild dogs had trampled on Felicity Christiansen’s grave.
Unless—worse—someone had seen his Mustang parked outside the entrance, done the math, and again assigned blame.
Jensen had no doubt that there might be formal charges, at the very least some sort of probation violation cooked up.
See, he didn’t have to leave town to find trouble. But he didn’t care. Not really. Not with Claire in his arms.
Not that it didn’t seem a little awkward, sitting here at Felicity’s grave. He couldn’t escape the irony. Felicity, between them again.
He probably should have kept driving tonight. Should have put the past behind him, at least until the authorities caught him. But he’d seen Claire’s shiny red bike leaning against the entrance, and . . . well, he worried.
He always worried, just a little. Ever since her story, so many years ago. It kept him up at nights sometimes, how close she’d come to being killed.
Of course she felt betrayed by God. He did too, although he knew better. The only person who’d let him down was himself.
“I never asked . . . what are you doing here?” Claire said.
“Uh . . .”
He didn’t want to let her go. But she pushed away from him. “Jensen? Why are you here?”
He leaned forward, began gathering the flowers. “Can these be replanted?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll have to buy more.”
He scraped them all into a pile.
“Were you following me?”
“Nope.” He pricked his hand on a couple thistles at the bottom of the pile.
“Jens!”
“Okay, fine.” He got up, holding out his hand, the other still gripping the flowers. “I . . . I was out for a drive.”
She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet. “A drive.” Her gaze went past him, to the entrance. “Is that your Mustang out there?”
His attempt at a smile fell flat, so he walked toward a receptacle and dropped in the mutilated flowers.
She followed him. Then, quietly, to his back, said, “You were leaving, weren’t you?”
He closed one eye, a half wince. “No,” he lied.
“Please. Seriously? I know you, Jensen. You haven’t driven that car for three years.”
And how could he? First, the police had impounded it, and then he didn’t want to see it, even once his father had it repaired. It sat in the garage until today, when Gibs turned on him.