The Last White Knight by Tami Hoag Page B

the sink, half his face lathered with shaving cream. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, the white beard of foam making him look as if he was in disguise, but he couldn’t hide from the scrutiny of his own blue eyes. He’d done exactly what Lynn had accused him of from the first. He had gone to Horizon House concerned with onlywhat was on the surface. They were having trouble with their housing. He would sweep in like the proverbial white knight, save them, and ride on, with the cheers of the grateful echoing behind him. But Horizon’s problems went deeper than housing.
    He hadn’t given much thought to the residents of the house before he’d gone there. He had simply taken up the banner for right, the defense of the defenseless, carelessly believing that that was enough. And once he’d met the girls he’d reacted in a way that put him just a scant notch or two above Elliot Graham on the international scale of cretins. What a hypocrite. He’d fashioned himself as a champion of the oppressed and then looked down his nose at them just as everyone else did. Erik couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so ashamed of himself.
    I made Regan look like an honor student
. Lynn’s words rang in his ears and he leaned against the marble countertop and groaned at his own stupidity. By disapproving of Regan he had condemned Lynn as well.
You don’t want to win me, Sir Erik. I’m no vestal virgin
.
    “Aw, Lynn,” he whispered, shaking his head. He’d hurt her. They hadn’t known each other a full day and already he’d hurt her. He gave his reflection a look of disgust. “Some white knight you are.”
    The only thing he could do was start over, hethought as he brought his razor up and plied it carefully to the plane of his cheek. He would just have to go back to Horizon House and prove to himself and Lynn Shaw that he could care.
    “I just love working with an audience,” Lynn said dryly as she hefted a box down from the stack in the back of the rented moving van. She handed it to Martha, who handed it to Tracy. The girl trudged off toward the house with a stormy look on her face, dodging the protestors who paraded up and down the sidewalk, signs bobbing.
    Lynn watched them, taking a moment to get her breath in the stifling heat. A very organized bunch, these demonstrators. It seemed they had a schedule. This was the afternoon shift, comprised mostly of people Martha’s age, with a few young mothers thrown in for balance. They had come up with a chant, which droned on and on in a bland midwestern monotone: “Save our family neighborhood. Runaways go home. Save our family neighborhood. Runaways go home.”
    Martha scowled at them. “I’ll bet they were a grubby bunch of peasants in a former life,” she said as Lynn handed down another box. “Probably the same horde from the Salem witch hunt.”
    “Well, we’re safe for the moment,” Lynn said, her resentment evident in the sarcasm that crackled in her voice. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, brushing her damp bangs out of her eyes. “I’m sure there must be a city ordinance against burning infidels in public. That kind of thing is bad for the image of Camelot.”
    “So are we,” Martha reminded her. She passed her box to Barbara, watching protectively as the girl ducked through the line of demonstrators and all but ran for the house. Shaking her head in disgust, Martha turned and rested her forearms on the bed of the truck. “Speaking of Camelot, I wonder what became of our knight?”
    “Oh, I imagine he’s gone home to spiff himself up for his next photo opportunity.”
    Martha absorbed the jibe, her gaze steady and speculative. Lynn could feel it on her, soaking up her expression, her manner, her tension. She turned away on the pretense of looking for a particular box in the jumbled mess in the moving van.
    “You were a little hard on him this morning,” Martha commented. “Considering he’s our only real help so