“You don’t have to do this, then,” the woman insisted, her words were thick with an Irish brogue that would always beset her when she was emotionally distraught.
“Yes, I do,” the man answered her with a calm note in his voice.
Her long, spiral curls of auburn hair were piled atop her head in a loose Gibson girl, and her green eyes flashed wetly with deep concern. She’d tried anger already and it hadn’t worked. She’d even been willing to try guilt, but he still hadn’t budged. He knew her too well.
Now, she was back to making demands.
“What did Ben say?” the woman contended, as if the answer to her question would somehow make a difference.
“The same thing you just said,” the man replied.
She watched as he ran his hand across the lower half of his face, thoughtfully brushing his bearded chin. She noticed that he winced for a moment as his fingers caught the still healing wound on his upper lip.
She took on a pleading tone. “Then why are you doing it?”
“Because we can’t keep living like this,” he answered. “Because I want us to have our lives back.”
“How can we have our lives back if you get yourself killed?”
“I’m not going to get myself killed.”
She was crying now. “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant, you’d better not, then. Aye, you’d better not.”