Little James’s lids were half closed over vacant blue eyes. His rusty locks were matted with darker, bloody stains. His tiny fist lay nestled in his big brother’s palm. They had been trying to flee the horror of the brutal attack together when they were cut down by the murderers’ bullets.
I carried Libby to where James stood helplessly watching Andre grieve for his dead wife. I handed the baby to my companion and motioned toward the end of the porch.
For a moment, I thought James would collapse, but he cradled Libby in his arms and straightened his shoulders. My lover was a steady man in a crisis. He would do his grieving in private. I whirled and went for Patch.
“I’m coming too,” James called in a steely voice.
“You take care of them.”
“Don’t be foolish, man. You don’t know how many got away.”