Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) by Alex Bledsoe Page A

eyes were also a lighter shade of blue, filled with intelligence and compassion, along with something indefinably distant and sad. She said, “Well, your pupils aren’t dilated, so I reckon you’ll just have a lump. But you might want to get some aspirin and some ice.”
    Annoyed, he waved her hands away from his face. “Never mind that, where do you find the cops in this town?”
    Bliss said patiently, “Talking to the police about Tiffany won’t do you any good.”
    “So people can just attack you with a knife in broad daylight, right on Main Street, and nobody does anything?” He struggled to rise.
    “Calm down. I just meant—”
    All his life, people had told Rob to calm down when he got upset. It had led to conflicts with parents, teachers, friends, and the occasional law enforcement officer. He’d even punched the TV executive who told him to calm down after informing him that his contract required him to perform two days after Anna’s death. There was no surer way to send him over the edge into genuine, ranting fury than to tell him not to do it.
    So now he jumped to his feet and roared, “Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down!”
    Bliss jumped, startled by his vehemence, and for an instant her expression filled with such rage that it seemed possible she’d hit him, too. Then it was gone, and she said quietly, “Please.”
    Rob had to remind himself to breathe. The anger he’d glimpsed in her eyes had short-circuited his own, and that single, muted syllable slipped through his rage and ran a light, cooling touch over him. Bliss had also somehow changed in that same instant, and now he saw the woman who’d been onstage the night before, as gentle and soulful as a medieval painting of the Virgin Mary. He felt suddenly enveloped in an almost absurdly metaphysical calm that drained all his fury as surely as any therapist’s technique.
    He closed his eyes, disoriented by the rush of peace, and out of habit ran his hand through his hair. When he withdrew it, he saw blood on his fingers. “Uh-oh.”
    “Let me see.” Bliss turned him and stood on tiptoes to examine the spot where he bled. He found himself facing Rockhouse Hicks. He winced as Bliss touched his scalp. “Enjoying the show?” he said to the old man.
    “Ain’t nothing to me, one way or the other,” Hicks said.
    “You didn’t have to call for help.”
    “Son, I didn’t call nobody. We just watch out for our own.”
    Bliss finished her exam. “You need a couple of stitches.”
    “I’ll be all right,” Rob said. “Now, are you going to tell me where the police are in this town, or do I just dial 911?”
    “The police won’t do anything about Tiffany. She’s been that way her whole life, and nothing helps it. The Gwinns only come into town every three months or so, so it’s best to just stay out of her way.” He started to protest, but she cut him off. “And if the police went looking for her, they’d never find her. The Gwinns live way back in the hills, and the people up there take care of their own.”
    “Really,” he said, with a pointed glare at Rockhouse.
    “Really,” she said patiently. “You stood up to her, and most people around here don’t do that, so maybe she’ll skip the next couple of trips into town until she knows for sure that you’re gone. That means nobody will see her until next spring.” She waited for him to say something else, but he simply scowled.
    “Okay,” she said when it was clear he was done. “Come with me and we’ll get you stitched up.”
    “Oh, are you a doctor, too?” The back of his head began to throb.
    “I’m an EMT,” she said, and turned her shoulder to display the patch on her sleeve. “Nearest doctor is an hour and a half away. The local fire station is fifteen minutes up the mountain. Everything the doctor would have, I’ve got there.” Then she walked to her truck.
    Rockhouse’s eyes followed Bliss, and Rob thought he saw real, genuine animosity in them. That