Luke by Jennifer Blake

was obvious, in part because she’d trained herself to notice such nuances, but also because she’d half expected it. Defensively, she asked, “You, for instance?”
    â€œYou could say that. Though I’m not the only one.”
    Briefly, April wondered if Luke could be behind the threats to her safety. He’d shown up out of the blue just as they escalated, hadn’t he? Now he was in New Orleans at the same time she happened to be there. What if his whole purpose was to stop her from writing the book? What if he meant to entice her back into a relationship so he could use his beguiling ways to persuade her to drop the story?
    No, that was impossible. He’d shielded her from the acid, hadn’t he? Surely that proved he could not be involved. Or did it? With his understanding of women, he might have reasoned that playing the hero, saving her from injury at his own expense, would be the perfect way to redeem himself. But what reason for preventing the book from being written could possibly be worth the pain?
    Her voice tight, she said, “You mentioned others. Who else?”
    â€œMy grandmother, mainly. But there’s also a whole set of backcountry Benedicts who just might form a pickup posse if you show them in a bad light. Or even if they only think you might.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.”
    â€œNot to Roan. It’s his theory.”
    That put a different light on the subject. She remembered that Benedict family branch he’d mentioned. They’d been a wild bunch back in high school, a tightly knit group who lived deep in the Horseshoe Lake swamplands. They’d looked out for each other in the halls and on the athletic field. If one got in trouble, male or female, all that was required was a high-pitched whistle and suddenly Benedicts with knotted fists and fire in their eyes came out of the woodwork. They excelled at sports, but also had an artistic bent. Most of them could play any musical instrument they picked up, draw anything they saw. One of the quieter boys had become a nature photographer famous on a national level for his swamp studies. Another was a ballad singer with a huge cult following. A girl who had been in April’s class at school was a quilt designer with her own line of hand-dyed fabrics and a series of books featuring her elaborate fabric art patterns.
    However, there were other cousins who were armored in hidebound ignorance and proud of it. They spat their chewing tobacco on the sidewalks in town, carried hunting rifles in their pickup truck racks, trapped mink, raccoons and nutria in winter, and had been known to wrestle alligators for the fun of it. The words artistic license were unlikely to be in their vocabulary.
    â€œI’m not naming names,” she said defensively, “only using a little of the background. The Benedicts are a part of the history of the area. Their experiences reflect those of the earliest families to settle Turn-Coupe, only with a bit more color. I certainly don’t intend to libel anybody living now.”
    â€œThey don’t know that and they like their privacy. Besides, to their mind there’s not a lot of difference between libel and ridicule.”
    He had a point, as much as she hated to admit it. A frown drew her brows together as she said, “I’ll try to avoid either one, but with all the politicalcorrectness these days, it’s getting harder and harder to find a decent villain for a story!”
    â€œWe all have our problems,” he answered without noticeable sympathy.
    She gave him a dark look, but the effort was lost as his eyes were still closed. Finished with the ointment, she put the top back on it and set it aside, then cut several lengths of bandaging gauze. As she folded these and put them carefully in place, she asked, “How do you know it was sulfuric acid that caused all this damage?”
    â€œTom, down at the hardware, once sold me a mislabeled