Luke watched George step out in front with a kind of slack-jawed irritation. Didn't she know he'd gotten in front of her for a reason? If Silas had managed to do this, who knew what he could do now? And even beyond that, his years in New Jersey had made him mistrustful of guns; not so mistrustful that he couldn't use them on his own, but enough so that he could never really trust anyone holding one who wasn't family. And David wasn't. Who knew if he'd get nervous and start shooting?
Luke reached out with a firm but gentle hand, grabbing her by the sleeve. "Come on, George," he muttered. Get behind me. The moment was tender and totally inappropriate for what was happening -- he was supposed to be angry and scary and threatening -- but Luke went with it, stepping forward so that he was next to her at least.
"I don't care about your story," he told Silas flatly, returning a sharp gaze to the bloody culprit. "My uncle might, though."
He watched as the man struggled to stand, oddly -- frighteningly -- amused at the sight. Because it was true: even if he'd faltered before, it would be great if Silas was the murderer. It would all be over. No more. Nothing.
"Stop talking," he urged, starting forward in a movement that hinted at swinging. "Shut up."