The Floodlands Free and easy

That he would be around was an instant comfort, a warm blanket over the cold feeling that covered her person. She looked at him, more than a little panicked, as he went on, and she did not so much as look at Tegan or Quixote as she gave him a look that bore her frightened core. It was strange, and though Colt would know why even Clover did not. He was safety. He was protection. Her head pounded as she tried to break down her own wall and understand her own feelings toward it and when she was able to make a portion of it crumble, the terror of it all made her rebuild. 

What she knew was that she could count on her uncle. She could not name why, but she did not feel so assured as he mentioned her brother and her father. Clover had never seen them when one they loved or cared for was in jeopardy. But she remembered one thing, had seen something—his snarling face. Not her fathers, or her brothers (the latter of which would have been in dire straits). And in not truly recalling the incident, she could find no reason to explain her insecurity or lack of faith in them in this particular matter. 

As he hugged her, she pressed close to him, closing her eyes tightly. Everyone who knew Clover knew she was as proud as they came, rude as hell, and would try and beat anyone's ass. Tegan especially, being her brother and bearing witness to her trigger-happy reactiveness to situations where she could attack and defend. She begged for nothing, or no one—though here and now, Clover was not at all herself. Not even a fraction of who she truly was presented itself here. 

I don't know, she answered, her tone wrought with disbelief. 

And if she could remember, she would know—if it were not for him, she would not be present for this rendezvous. She'd be ten feet under.