Shiver(49)
“I hope they do. Then I’ll find out what they were looking for.”
“Aidan—”
“Don’t worry about me, Raven. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”
Her eyes met his, and he stood his ground.
“What about food?”
“I have groceries in the rental. I’ll be fine for a few days.” He pulled the gun free. “Give this back to Pike for me.”
“You’d better keep it.”
He pointed to the full gun cabinet left untouched near the front door. “I have enough firepower to take on a small country.” He cocked his head. “Surprising that whoever broke in here didn’t help themselves. Which means they were after something specific.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Raven sat at her wheel, a lump of clay on the bat, water in her bucket, Stevie Nicks singing on the CD player. She anchored an elbow on her hip and used her palm to raise the clay, her other hand she steadied, then pressed the clay back down. She repeated the movement until the clay was a large centered mound on her wheel. She breathed in rhythmically as she moved the clay, coaxed it to her will, and became one with the elements pulled from the earth. Wetting her hands, she opened the body of clay. All the while trying to forget what had happened with Aidan that morning. Not that she was successful.
Why had she let him kiss her? Touch her? Why had she wanted more? Almost pushed him into taking more? As if by doing that, the decision wouldn’t have been hers. If he took, then she didn’t have to face giving of herself. But Aidan hadn’t fallen for that. Instead he’d wanted to know why she wasn’t pushing him away, demanding he leave her alone. She had obviously confused the hell out of him. Fitting since she was confused as well.
She opened the clay further, pulling the walls up into a thick cylinder, wondering what the piece wanted to be. She loved to sit down at the wheel not knowing what she was going to throw, leaving it up to the clay to decide what it wanted to be. She had a feeling this five pounds wanted to be a large pasta or fruit bowl. Something that would stand alone, not part of a set. The glaze would have to be dramatic, she decided as she pulled the walls up with steady pressure while the wheel continued to spin.
She hadn’t liked leaving Aidan at Earl’s place by himself. The rundown cabin was a hellhole. Earl had lived like an animal, not caring for the civilized things in life. No utilities, no mail, no modern day conveniences.
Aidan had grown up that way. He knew what he was in for, and she shouldn’t worry about him. The best thing would be for him to do what he came here for. Clean up Earl’s sorry life and then clear out.
The thought made her sad and the walls on her bowl wobbled. She released the thinning clay, rewetted her hands, and lightly placed one hand on the inside, the other on the outside and slowly coaxed it back on center. The bowl spun around and around, like her thoughts.
What if she told Aidan about Fox? He might decide to stay?
Oh hell, what was she thinking?
She didn’t want Aidan a part of Fox’s life. She didn’t want the evil kind of influence she knew lived inside of him to touch Fox. He’d admitted to killing Earl. But he had been forced to in order to save a woman’s life. Wouldn’t she have done the same? Maybe? Hopefully she’d never know.
Raven finished shaping the walls of the bowl and then pressed her trademark swirl in the bottom as the wheel continued to spin. She cleaned up the foot of the piece and then stopped the wheel. Grabbing her wire, she ran it under the bowl, disconnecting it from the bat. Then she lifted the bat off her wheel and set the bowl on the shelf to dry. It was nice. Just the kind of piece to sit on a table with a bounty of fruit, bread, or filled with salad or pasta for a large family.
She loved that her art was useable, had function. Someone would fall in love with this bowl, maybe even hand it down from generation to generation. An heirloom.
Raven secured another bat onto the wheel and then grabbed a ball of clay that she had previously wedged, throwing it onto the center. She went through the motions of centering the clay. Her days were filled with throwing piece after piece. At least her best days were. Then there was the cleaning of the pieces in preparation for bisque firing, glazing and firing again. When she opened the kiln—which always seemed to take forever to cool—it was like Christmas, seeing her babies, colorful and shiny and ready for use. Her life was good. She was able to make a living at what she loved. She loved being a mother to Fox. The kid constantly made her proud and was growing up into a fine young man. Though he did have his moments. But then she’d be worried if he didn’t. No child was perfect and sometimes those imperfections is what set them apart, made them special.