behind him drew closer to his tail and fanned out, blocking his retreat and parking in a loose semi-circle behind him. There were drainage ditches on both sides of the road, and the two flanking cars covered the shoulders. He wasn’t leaving.
The Chrysler had come to a full stop. Burton Moorfield was a shadowed silhouette inside, but Rory noted a scruffy beard, and the glitter of calculating eyes. Then the door opened, and he emerged.
He hadn’t missed a meal during his prison stay, a gut hanging over the waistband of his pants. Though Rory had done all sorts of practice runs in his head to ensure he could keep it together during this, he couldn’t keep the teenage memory from springing to mind. Daralyn changing her clothes, exposing the sharp jut of her vertebrae, the stark lines of her ribs. How she struggled to eat more than a half a cup of food at a time.
She wasn’t allowed to want.
Rory gripped his wheelrims and reminded himself of their purpose here. It wasn’t to kick the shit out of the man, much as he deserved it. And he took some admittedly mean-spirited satisfaction in acknowledging cancer would take care of that weight soon.
Burton’s clothes were worn, a stretched golf shirt, rumpled khakis, and a faded bill cap. His hair hadn’t been cut in some time. When Daralyn’s father had been alive, Burton usually looked clean and put-together. Oscar really had been the glue that kept this piece of shit from looking exactly like what he was. Good. It was better when bad guys looked the part, especially sexual predators.
Burton’s expression had tightened, because his gaze had lighted on Elaine. His mouth twisted, but before he could say a word, Thomas stepped even with Rory. His eyes were flint, his expression formidable.
“Say one word against our mother, and this is going to get ugly a lot faster.”
Burton’s jaw flexed. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just headed home.”
“You don’t have a home here.” Rory pushed his chair forward, making it clear Burton’s fight was with him.
Surprise crossed the man’s face as he assessed the chair, squinted at Rory. “Elaine’s boy. Didn’t know you’d ended up in a wheelchair. Sorry to see that.”
Rory offered a mirthless smile. “Hasn’t slowed me down any. And I’m not interested in your feelings about it. You’re not welcome here. Not now, not ever. You’re going to get back in your car, turn around and choose somewhere else to go that doesn’t take you through any part of our town. You won’t be coming back.”
Burton’s gaze shifted past him, took in the force rallying against him, the resolve in their faces. Whatever he saw rattled him; Rory detected the flash of uneasiness, but the man had a stubborn asshole streak. Or nowhere else to go, more likely. Also not Rory’s problem.
Burton’s mouth thinned. “I have a right to live in my own home. I’ve got a niece here. Family.”
“You don’t have shit here,” Rory said. “You gave up the right to call her family a long time ago. We’re her family now.” He shoved the chair forward another few feet, coming right up on Burton’s toes. “She’s with me.”
Burton blinked. “So that’s how it is. You think you have a claim on her. You don’t.” He leaned down, his eyes a hard glitter, the ugliness showing itself. “This isn’t your business, boy. You brought backup to keep me from coming back to what’s mine. But backup isn’t always there.” His gaze swept the chair. “And I’m not seeing how you’re going to stop me.”
Rory hooked Moorfield’s collar in one hand and jerked him forward. Which meant when his face plowed into Rory’s fist, the momentum came from both sides. The nose broke like glass under the blow, but Rory still had him, and he landed several strong punches. He was ready to break all of it. Eye socket, jaw. Turn the bastard’s face into a pile of broken pieces. He knew just how fragile bones could be under the right amount of force. But he made himself let him go after those three punches, shoved him away. Watched Burton fall on his ass to the pavement.
But he wasn’t done. Rory closed the distance once more, gripped his leg to lift it and drive it down, ramming his work shoe into Burton’s abdomen.
Air left the man in a wheeze. Reflexes had him curled up in a fetal ball, while self-preservation made him simultaneously try to crawl away, get clear