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eyes for recognition. “That’s his name.”
    “AIM-High was on his license plate,” he said.
    “That was Alan.” A grim edginess invaded her along with a need to keep moving. "How far are we from Richmond?"
    "Three hours on a good day, but several roads are still blocked with downed trees and debris.” He consulted his watch again then glared. “Because of you, I'll never make curfew now." Uncurling his length from the booth, he went to the freezer and removed a plastic-wrapped chunk of red meat.
    “If that’s for the swelling on your eye, I have an anti-inflammatory in my duffle.”
    “This is dinner.” She received a hard flinty look. "Remember, once we arrive in Richmond, you're on your own. Got that?"
    Any remorse she had regarding his injury evaporated. "Are you always this magnanimous?" she snapped then regretted her sarcasm. She couldn't afford to rile him. Shawn needed the camper's shelter and comfort.
    Holt shoved the meat into the microwave and punched the defrost button. "We'll drive for now then find a campground."
    Her weighty transportation dilemma had been temporarily solved. Shawn would sleep in a bed. They would eat good food, not dinner from a paper bag.
    She pointed to the microwave. "What was that?"
    "A roast but I'm not much for cooking."
    "I’ll fix it," she offered and saw the glimmer of a smile.
    "A change from my cooking will be welcome. See what you can find in the refrigerator. There are canned foods in the lower cupboards too." He pointed to the sink. "As a rule, I don’t drink the tap water, but it’s safe for washing dishes. Save the bottled water for cooking and drinking."
    After they hooked up at a campground a mile from the highway, Caprice served the roast with what Holt had available: instant rice, canned green beans, and she sliced fresh peaches. Shawn kept Mr. Punch in his lap and eyed Holt who sat across the table from them.
    Holt shifted. His knee rubbed her thigh, sending shock waves at the unexpected contact. She met his penetrating gaze. Holt couldn't help it, but she wished there was more room.
    “When you’re not casting spells or spitting incantations on innocent men, such as myself, what do you do for a living?”
    She hesitated unsure if she had just been complimented or insulted. “I paint murals.”
    His brows lifted. “With oils?”
    “No, but I originally started out painting portraits…oils on canvas.” She grimaced. “Now I can’t tolerate the smell of turpentine.”
    Her thoughts skewed. Even after six years, the vivid images of the olive-skinned Sandra Lovelace and her beautiful mother punished her. Guilt and self-loathing stormed her stomach. They were the last clients she’d painted. Her inflated ego and demands for the mother and daughter to attend sitting after sitting was the reason they were dead now, and why she would never attempt oils again.
    She shuddered then pushed her dark thoughts aside, and hoped Holt hadn’t noticed. “Now I paint children’s murals.”
    “Disney characters?”
    “Yes and anything else.” She appreciated his interest as she cut a juicy piece of the roast. “Last summer before the school year started, I designed and painted a Davy Crocket theme on the lunchroom walls in a Charleston elementary school.”
    “So, what do you prefer, painting murals or portraits?”
    “Murals,” she said, finding a modicum of enthusiasm for her growing mural business. At the same time, she experienced a certain sinking. She had hit him with Shawn’s conch, and now Holt’s eye could hardly open. “Where in Florida do you live?”
    "Elixir. Okaloosa County. I raise Limousin cattle for the feed lot." He pointed to her plate. "I finished this steer on a special grain-mix that I've developed and plan to market next year."
    “You butchered him?"
    "Sure. Tasty, isn't he?"
    She studied her plate and found she couldn’t chew or swallow. Instead, Holt's steer sat in a distasteful wad on her tongue. The creature had once vibrated