"Is there any chance they might return soon?" I asked the pressing question.
"Who can tell with those two? They're fickle with their plans," the woman sighed.
"I'll never see that bike again," I replied and stood up. "Still, thank you for your help, Justina."
I took the empty glass from Oscar, set it on the table, and pulled the boy along:
"Let's go, Oz."
"Justina, what are these uninvited guests doing in our house?"
Cold steel pressed between my shoulder blades, and I instinctively held my breath, realizing it was a rifle.
Apparently, standing behind me was none other than Vance himself, and right now he had me in his sights.
Vance did not look like an unbalanced aggressor. Perhaps it was his bushy dark eyebrows, with gray hairs every other one, that diminished their thickness. Perhaps it was the brown freckles that abundantly covered his face, tanned from working in the sun. Or maybe the reason was his frail physique with a large belly and short legs, creating that very deceptive impression that this kindest soul of a man, who had just been fussing with a foal, couldn’t possibly be so full of rage at the world.
And yet, the gun in his hands—which completely clashed with the overall image of a balding middle-aged man in a cowboy hat with a pedigreed beauty of a wife (which, by the way, also caused utter bewilderment)—had been pointed at my back just a couple of minutes ago. Even the presence of a child didn’t seem to faze the man in the slightest.
"Darling, please, be more lenient with our guests. Show some hospitality."
Justina gave her husband a soothing, almost maternal smile and tapped the couch seat beside her, gesturing for him to sit down. But Vance paced back and forth across the room, impatiently casting scrutinizing glances at us as we settled back into our armchairs.
I felt like I was in a pen with a wild beast, one that was surveying its territory, deciding whom to start its meal with.
"I, Justina, am in no hurry to send our guests away. On the contrary, I’m asking them to stay, as I have not yet had the pleasure of getting to know them."
Vance had a small lower jaw, set far back, and at times, there was a lisping quality to his voice that was hard to mask. Though Vance tried, enunciating each word slowly. It was entirely possible that this very thing drove him into a frenzy—the necessity of constant self-control.
"Well? Speak up, what do you want?" Vance finally stopped pacing restlessly along the stained-glass windows and took his place behind his wife, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
"I wonder, does he even sleep with it?" crossed my mind.
"Sorry for the trouble," Oscar was the first to break the tense silence. "My friend and I got into a scrape. A most unpleasant incident happened to us. As you know, around these parts, you can't always trust people."
"Oh, do tell me," the man snorted and took a closer look. "Oscar, didn’t recognize you at first. How’s your grandfather doing? I adore that old man. So fiery, so headstrong. I remember going hunting with him. Ahh…" Vance looked down dreamily, "those were great times. Your grandpa—a born marksman."
"He’s doing fine," the kid answered curtly.
"Well, and you—cat got your tongue?" the man turned to me.
"The thing is," Oscar continued, not giving me a chance to open my mouth, "Constantin is new around here. Doesn’t know the local customs well, and that’s why we keep landing in trouble."
