She scowled and c****d the pistol. “Don’t even—”
I shook my head briskly. Not even. I’m not even.
And then she just relaxed—suddenly, inexplicably—lowering the hammer like a pro, like Marshal f*****g Dillon, letting her arm drop to her side.
“You’re not exactly ‘Danger Man,’ are you?” she said.
“No, ma’am. No, I’m not.”
“More like John-Boy Walton. Or Richie Cunningham.” She soured suddenly. “What good are you, then?” She disappeared into the house. “I’ll put something together—something high in protein; that you don’t have to cook. Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.”
She added: “I’m Naomi.”
I stepped into the home but paused immediately: taken aback by all the canvases and easels—the drop cloths and oozing paints, the tables covered with palettes and sketchbooks and small wooden
