Temperance is an anomaly. She should be crying and begging me to find her brother. Offering up anything and everything to get Rafe back right this very minute. The fact that she’s not tells me a hell of a lot.

First off, she’s far more aware of how Rafe’s world works than I realized, even though I know he keeps her on the periphery. Her questions are pointed and intelligent.

All of this just makes me want her more.

Over the last fifteen years, I’ve convinced myself that no woman walking this earth, except possibly one in my same line of work, could fit into my life or overlook what I do. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking that Temperance could, but based on this limited amount of information, I am.

“Depends. Rafe’s good at disappearing. He knows those swamps better than most, I’d say, and if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be for a long damn time.”

She rubs her face. “So, how does this work? What’s the real threat?”

I give it to her straight. “If they can’t get to Rafe, they’ll try to use you to draw him out. They’ll kill you both. If they find him before we come up with a plan, they’ll kill him.”

“So, what the hell is the plan, and when are you coming up with it?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I’m not second-guessing your skills, but it sounds like there’s a whole hell of a lot up in the air right now.”

“There is, but Mount called me in to keep you safe. You’re not part of this. You don’t need to suffer for what your brother did.”

“But you have to keep him safe too. I can’t . . . I can’t lose him. Rafe’s all I have left.”

I can’t tell her that there’s very little chance this is going to work out with a happily-ever-after.

“Can’t you just kill all the bad people, and then he can come back?”

I meet her gaze. “We keep you out of their hands, and I’ll work on Rafe. That’s all I can do.”

When she tips back the rest of her liquor, I rise and retrieve the decanter to refill her glass, and then splash another measure into mine.

“That’s the plan, then? Wait and see? Why not hunt them down?”

I don’t answer, and she somehow works it out in her head.

“Oh, wait. That’s not the job you’re getting paid to do.”

“I’m not getting paid for this job. Mount owes me a favor now.”

“You know what I mean.”

We both go quiet, sipping our drinks and no doubt considering similar things.

“I can’t make you any promises, except I’ll do what I can, and at the end of the day—you will be safe.”

She studies me for long moments. She must realize that’s all she’s going to get from me, so she nods. “Okay.”

Now I have to change the subject before she twists herself up about this anymore. There’s nothing either of us can do tonight. I’ve put out the word I need carried, and now I wait.

“How did you start making metal sculptures?” I ask.

The question has been hovering in my subconscious since she confessed to being the artist of the piece I bought. I would have made the donation to Mary’s House regardless, but the piece hooked me. Once I saw it, I had to own it. Knowing Temperance made it . . . that made both it and her even more incredible.

Temperance’s gaze drops to the liquor in her glass as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the entire world. “When you grew up how I did, there weren’t a lot of options to keep a kid busy. Rafe loved to hunt and fish and explore the swamp. He told me a story about an eighteen-foot gator he saw and scared the hell out of me one summer. I wouldn’t get in a boat for months, no matter how much my dad yelled at me. Instead, I hung around his workshop and collected scrap metal, and started to put it together to make stuff. Eventually, when I got older, I learned to solder and then weld, and it kind of took on a life of its own. I never intended to sell it. It didn’t occur to me that people would pay, especially that kind of money, for things like that.”

I think about how much all the other bidders had been willing to pay. Temperance’s work has a market. There’s no doubt about that.

“And now that you have? What does that mean for your job at Seven Sinners?”

She looks up at me from beneath long, dark eyelashes. “I’m pretty sure this is a case of don’t quit your day job.” She smiles, but it looks more like a grimace.

“But you don’t sound like you love your day job.” To myself, I add, and you don’t light up when you talk about it like you do your art.

“Parts of it,” she says, correcting me.

“So even if you make enough to live on from your sculptures, you’re going to keep working at the distillery?”

She pauses like she hasn’t even considered the possibility. “It’s not a reliable source of income. Plus, it’s not as respectable as being a COO.”

Her response surprises me. “Respectable? Really? You give a shit about that?”

Her eyes narrow on me. “You try being bayou trash and tell me how it feels.”

Ahhh. And another piece of the puzzle that is the fascinating Temperance Ransom falls into place. “So you’d keep a job you don’t like over quitting to do what you love, just because of what other people think?”

“You don’t get it.” She takes another sip.

“No, I guess I don’t. After all, I’m pretty sure I don’t have what you’d call a respectable job, and it doesn’t bother me a damn bit. Actually, fuck respectability and what anyone else thinks. It doesn’t matter. Having a respectable job doesn’t make someone a good person.”