“Wayne was just thanking me for bringing up his laundry,” she said into the silence. “I was helping Greta.”

“Who’s Greta?” Ben asked. He was looking at her, but Emma knew his attention was still firmly on Wayne.

“She owns the boardinghouse in town. She practically raised Kelly and me.”

“Greta Lavoie,” he said, nodding. “I remember now. Kelly took me over to her house for cake several times.”

Emma glared at Ben. He winked back and reached into the cooler. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey and cracked the seal, poured some in a cup of ice, then put the cover back on. Then he pulled out a bottle of beer for himself and looked back at Wayne. “I’d invite you to sit with us, Poulin, but I no longer share my dates.”

Wayne stalked away.

Emma quietly whistled between her teeth. “Are you lookingfor trouble tonight, or just trying to drive me crazy?”

Ben looked up from opening his beer, his gaze going to her shawl, then down to the red dress below it. His eyes stopped at the hem. Emma watched them widen before they rose to her face.

“Did you forget to put on the pants that go with that blouse?” he asked softly.

She tightened the shawl over her chest.

Ben walked around the table and held the back of her chair. “Sit,” he quietly ordered. “And remind me to hold down the back of that dress when we dance.”

“It’s not that short.”

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, effectively boxing her in against the wall, setting himself up as guardian of his domain.

Emma snorted just before she took a sip of her drink. He turned and looked at her, and caught her staring at him.

“What was that for?”

“You really are territorial. And either really brave or really dumb. Ben, if you want these people to accept you, you’re going to have to walk the greatest distance. You’re the villain here—not Wayne or Durham or anyone from sixteen years ago.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I was a kid on summer break, and I was working for something I believed in. Kelly just … she just happened.”

Aware they were being openly stared at, Emma reached up and touched his sleeve. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”

“Yes, you are. You and Mike. Everyone else can go to hell.”

She brushed at his shoulder. “Oh, Ben. You’re doing a better job of fooling yourself than me. It’s just as important to you that the people here believe you. If not for yourself, then for Mikey.”

He looked at her hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Emma pulled away and smiled at him. “Nothing. I just thought I saw a piece of moss clinging to you.”

His frown deepened. “I think we should dance.”

There were all of three couples on the dance floor when Ben pulled her to her feet. As soon as they reached the dance floor, his hand went to her back, under the drape of her shawl. It stilled when five calloused fingers and a wide scorching palm met bare skin. He stopped moving his feet to the rhythm of the music. “Don’t you dare take that shawl off tonight, or you’llbe the cause of any war that breaks out.”

Emma started dancing, but she had to shove Ben to get him moving again. “If you think the back’s bad, you should see the front,” she whispered, only to have his arms tighten around her with enough force to make her squeak.

“Oh, cut it out,” she said with a laugh. “I’m sure you’ve escorted plenty of women who’ve worn a lot less.”

His hand dropped low on her back, pulling her closer. Emma gasped when her belly came into contact with his arousal.

“Don’t act so shocked,” he whispered, moving them gracefully through the waltz. “This happens every time I get close to you.”

“Everyone’s staring at us,” she hissed.

“Then I suggest you cuddle closer if you don’t want them knowing how you affect me.”

“All hell could break loose any minute, and you’re turned on?”

He leaned back to stare down at her. “That was your plan, wasn’t it? To distract me—and probably your friends—from the real issue?”

Emma glared up at him. “I don’t know whyI bought this damn dress. I must have had a brain cramp this morning.”

“And another one this evening, when you put it on? And then fixed up your hair? And slipped into those heels?” He slashed her a feral grin. “At least you had the sense to wear the shawl.”

Emma leaned her forehead into his shoulder and sighed. “Yes, I still possess some semblance of sanity.”

The song ended and Ben spun her around and nudged her toward their table. “I need a beer.”

“Sinclair.”

Emma turned at the guttural sound. She tried to step around Ben to see who had called his name, but his arm came out and stopped her. Holding her firmly, Ben stood and waited as the four men approached.

The band didn’t start up another song. The musicians, along with everyone else, silently stared as Durham Bragg, John LeBlanc, Wayne Poulin, and Galen Simms stopped two yards in front of Ben and Emma.

Durham looked over at her. “Move away from him, Emma.”

Ben gently pushed her away, his eyes never leaving his adversaries.

Emma stepped to the side and stopped, crossing her arms under her chest. “This is neither the time nor the place for this, Durham,” she told him.

“I knew I recognized you, Sinclair.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t have walked away two weeks ago if I had known who you were then.”

“You spiked the trees,” John LeBlanc accused from beside Durham. “You’ve come back, bringing even more trouble with you this time.”

“I’m here for my son,” Ben said, his voice laced with steel.

Wayne stepped closer. “You’re welcome to take the little bastard and leave.”

Other than balling his hands into fists, Ben didn’t react.

“He’s wanting to ruin another Sands first,” Galen Simms added, and the four men took a collective step forward.

Emma quickly moved between them and Ben.

“You don’t have your shotgun this time, missy,” Durham hissed.

Ben’s powerful hands grabbed her shoulders and all but lifted her out of the way. Emma turned and looked up into the hard gray eyes of a man not pleased with her action. She slipped free of his grip and moved back in front of the men, out of Ben’s reach.

But he didn’t grab for her again, and Emma realized that Durham and John and Wayne and Galen were staring at her, their expressions turned from anger to shock. She looked back and understood why. Ben was holding her shawl in his hands.

Well, she certainly had everyone’s attention now.

“For the record, gentlemen,” she said, raising her voice to include the rest of the townspeople. “Benjamin Sinclair did not blow up the dam and kill my father. He didn’t even know about any plans to do so.” She lifted her arms and let them fall back against her sides. “Do any of you honestly believe I would let him in my home if I thought he was responsible for my father’s death?”

“You’re so blinded by your love for Michael, you probably would,” Durham said.

Emma pointed her finger at him. “Mikey knows Ben didn’t kill his grandfather. And I know it. Sheriff Ramsey did everything in his power to find the ones responsible. Even the FBI investigated, and theycouldn’t come up with a suspect. Every living, breathing male within fifty miles of Medicine Gore was questioned. Every tree hugger who had set foot in Maine that month was questioned. Including Benjamin Sinclair.”

“How do you know that?” Wayne asked.

“I read all their reports. It was myfather who died, and they kept Kelly and me informed.”

The men looked past her, as if expecting Ben to confirm her story. Durham was looking thoughtful, as was John LeBlanc. Galen wasn’t budging from his angry expression, and Wayne Poulin looked even more hostile than before.

But then, he had more reason to hate Ben.

“Every one of you has spent the last sixteen years focused on Benjamin Sinclair, blaming him for my father’s death. If you had turned all the energy you’ve spent hating Ben into finding the men who actually did it, we could have had a conviction years ago.”