Some minutes passed before he remembered the one call he had to make—to Zach, letting him know about the prosecution's new witnesses.
Ten minutes later when he had Zach on the line, Cole asked how he was doing.
"Fine," came Zach's response over the line. "Cut to the chase, Counselor. I know you didn't call for that."
"You're right," Cole admitted, succinctly relating his conversations with the D.A. and, subsequently, the two witnesses. He finished with, "The D.A. told me to call him back after I had interviewed them. He's pretty damn sure we're going to want to plea-bargain this."
"I could get nailed at the trial. Be found guilty."
"You could," Cole agreed. "Or you could be acquitted."
A moment of silence stretched across the line, then Zach asked, "Are you positive—one hundred percent positive—we can win this?"
"Life doesn't come with that kind of guarantee," Cole said.
"I'll be looking at some hard time if we lose."
"Yes."
"And we could lose."
Cole propped an elbow on the desk, tunneling his fingers into his hair when he rested his head on his hand. This was a case he believed in, dammit. And he was on the verge of urging his client to toss in the towel. How many ways would he lose today?
"Cole?" Zach prompted him a second later.
"Yeah." Cole cleared his throat. "We could lose. And if we do, you're the one who pays the price."
"See what the man is willing to offer," Zach said. "Then bargain it down as far as you can."
The directive didn't surprise Cole though he supposed it should have. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"I don't think he's going to agree to any suspended sentences."
"I'm not expecting him to," Zach returned. "Bargain it. Do the best you can."
"Are you admitting to driving while under the influence?" Cole asked.
"I'm admitting I was irresponsible," Zach said. "Like I told you before, driving while you're angry isn't any smarter than driving drunk. If I hadn't been so mad … it might have turned out differently." He cleared his throat. "Call me back and let me know what the damage is."
After Zach hung up, Cole sat staring at the phone, wondering if he had a tenth of Zach's personal integrity or grit. A moment later, he called the D.A. Within another hour, they had struck a deal. An involuntary manslaughter charge with a two-year sentence, the first year in prison, the balance in a halfway house. And the D.A. agreed to schedule the appearance in front of the judge after Zach finished his thirty-day stint at Maizer's.
It wasn't the end to the case Cole had wanted. It didn't seem fair. How was it fair that a man like Zach MacKenzie went to jail and a man like Harvey Bates got away scot-free?
The question of fairness haunted Cole long after he went home, long after he spent the evening digging postholes for the fence he'd started months ago. His grandmother had been fond of telling him that fair was a weather report, not a promise from God or his parents. Inevitably his thoughts drifted back to Brenna. The total unfairness of her situation ate at him. He began to dissect every conversation he could remember. Through them all, she had shown inquisitiveness and intelligence. Enough to compensate for not reading? Enough to have functioned in spite of not reading?
All of her expressions haunted him, as well, from her complete seriousness to her smile as the first rhythms of ecstasy pulsed through her, from her tears the other morning, to her joy when he took her sailing.
Over the next days, Cole worked by rote. No longer in the intense cycle of preparing for Zach's trial, Cole found himself unable to concentrate. A dozen times a day, his thoughts strayed to Brenna. The more he thought about her, the more edgy and angry he became. Gradually, his anger became more sharply focused, and he realized he wasn't mad at her because she couldn't read. He was mad because she had lied to him.
Or had she?
The night they had gone to the theater, he clearly remembered her saying, Aren't you more than the sum of your job? Is what you do to earn a living the most important piece?
Like his grandmother, Brenna was wise. Her jobs weren't what he thought about when he was with her.
He tried to imagine what she must have gone through trying to decide how to tell him she was illiterate. Especially if she loved him. He had pursued her, even though she had been reluctant to see him. And look what it had cost them both.
By Friday afternoon, Cole was restless and tense, knowing he had put off calling her long enough. When he finally dialed her house, he wasn't even sure what he would say to her if she answered. Instead he reached her sister-in-law, Jane, who told him Brenna was out and not expected back until late. Did he want to leave a message? He didn't.
He loved her, and she deserved to be told that face-to-face.
His eyes burned. He had walked away from her rather than listen. He had judged her rather than understand. He had run away rather than cherish her. He hadn't faced the plain, unadorned truth when she gave it to him. No evasions. No omissions.
No deceptions.
* * *
Chapter 23
« ^
Saturday morning Brenna awoke early. Sitting up in bed, she pulled aside the curtain to gaze outside. The world beyond her window was washed in the shades of gray that came an hour or so before the sunrise. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling.
Another day of survival.
This one would be busier than most, since she was moving into her own place again. A scant three days ago, she had recruited Nancy to go apartment-hunting with her, and they found a place that fit Brenna's budget. Since it was immediately available, Brenna saw no reason to put off moving.
Reestablishing her independence ought to have been a red-letter day. Instead, she felt like she was running, something she had vowed never to do again. The Colonel's visit had intensified the feeling. Somehow when he was around she always felt like the bungling six-year-old who had never once lived up to his expectations. So far, she had managed to avoid being alone with him and she had been able to steer their few conversations toward Teddy's or Michael's and Jane's activities.
The Colonel was staying at the Marriott downtown, but Brenna knew he would be by shortly after seven to meet Michael for breakfast and a game of golf. Weekend mornings had always begun at seven, and she would bet he hadn't changed that routine, though he had been retired from the service for several years now.
Unable to sleep, Brenna finally got out of bed. Only the cat, Penelope, was awake, and she wound her way through Brenna's legs. She picked up the cat and petted it a moment before making coffee. While the coffee brewed, she went to take a shower. When she came back to the kitchen a few minutes later, her father was striding up the walk, carrying a paper under his arm. Brenna went to the door and let him in.
"Hello, Dad," she said, managing a civil smile.
"Brenna," he acknowledged, stepping over the threshold without touching her.
Unbidden came the images of Cole's mother and father and grandmother each hugging him when he came into the room, even after they had been there for a couple of days. Brenna doubted her father had hugged anyone, even Teddy.
He didn't smile, and she had the urge to look away. Her mother had once said his gray eyes were like her own. Brenna had always hated looking at his eyes. Surely hers weren't hard like his, cold like his.
Preceding him into the kitchen, she poured them both a cup of coffee. He sat down at one of the kitchen chairs and snapped out the newspaper. She always had the feeling he used the newspaper as a shield, but she was equally sure he was aware of her watching him.
"You're right on time," she said, glancing at the clock. Seven-fifteen.
"Old habits die hard."
She sat down across from him, noting he wore his casual slacks and golf shirt like a uniform, all crisply pressed as though he might be asked to stand for inspection. Brenna resisted the urge to check her fingernails for dirt
. Instead, she wrapped her cold hands around the warm ceramic surface of the mug.
The silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and taut and reminding Brenna why she had done her level best to avoid being alone with him. A moment later, he folded the paper and set it on the table, then took a sip of his coffee.
He inclined his head slightly, studying her. "Have you found a job yet?"
Brenna took another sip of her own coffee and shook her head. How like him to get straight to whatever point he wanted to make. No small talk, no setting the other person at ease.
"I'm in no hurry to find one," she said. "I have enough housecleaning customers to keep the wolf from the door."
"You can't expect to clean houses for the rest of your life."
"I don't." She glanced at him. "I've decided to go back to school." Her decision had been one of the small steps to grow into the person she wanted to become. She had already contacted Adult Ed to find out the requirements to earn her GED.
The Colonel folded his arms across his chest. "It's a little late for that, isn't it?"
"Better late than never."
"What makes you think you'll do any better in school now than you ever did?" he asked.
Brenna met his gaze over the top of her cup. "Now I want to."
"Just what do you plan to study?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."
"That sounds to me like the same problem you've always had," he said. "I suppose you haven't really enrolled yet, either."
"Not yet, I've just—"
"You're looking for yet another way to avoid your responsibilities. Getting a job—a well-paid job is the important thing here. It's high time you started pulling your own weight."
Brenna set her cup on the table and folded her hands to keep them from trembling. "I am pulling my own weight," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "And I have been since I was fifteen years old. I'm not asking for any help."
"Not now. But you always get around to it sooner or later."
Brenna gave her father a level stare, remembering too well where their conversations inevitably led. "Just how many times in the last ten years have I asked you for help?" When he didn't immediately answer, she repeated. "How many times?"
He stared at her, his eyes clear and hard.
"Not once," she answered for him.
"And how many times have you asked Michael for help?" he countered. "It takes a lot of nerve to sponge off your brother, expecting him to pick up the pieces."
"I didn't run to him," Brenna replied, her temper beginning to fray. "He offered. He knew I needed help, and he offered. There's a difference." Her hands clenched into fists beneath the table. "And as for support—you've confused emotional support with financial support."
"Only weak people need either one."
Brenna sighed. Whether she agreed with him was immaterial. Their differences would never change, and hoping for something more was futile. She stood up to leave. "I've got a lot to do this morning. I'll talk to you later."
"I haven't dismissed you," he said.
Brenna stopped at the kitchen doorway. "I'm not a child to be dismissed."
"You've never stopped being a child," he said, his voice harsh. "In all the ways that matter, you never matured into an adult. When things get tough, you turn into a pansy. And why your brother puts up with—"
"Maybe he loves me."
"Something you take advantage of every chance you get."
"I've never taken advantage of Michael." Brenna felt her discipline slip, the calm mask behind which she hid her temper dissolve. She had to leave now before they both said things they would regret. At that she winced. She might have regrets. She doubted her father had a single one.
"You've been doing just that for months, without earning enough money to help him out."
She folded her arms across her chest, feeling compelled to defend herself though every ounce of logic told her to do so was tilting at windmills.
"That's not true." Without realizing, she extended a hand to her father. "What's really the problem here? I'm moving out, and that proves I can support myself again. I'm getting my life back together, and I don't intend to make the same mistakes I've made before. I want to go to school. All the things you've said time and again I had to do. Okay. I'm doing them." She touched her chest with her hand. "For me. Not for you. Not for anyone else. For me."
"That's the way it's always been for you, Brenna. You don't think of anyone else. You broke your mother's heart when you ran away from home. And now." He turned in his chair. "Michael told me you spent the money she saved for you. You just couldn't wait to throw it—"
"That money was a godsend," she retorted. "It got me out of the bottom of a hole I would have spent the next ten years in."
Brenna felt movement behind her, and glanced over her shoulder. Michael stood there, dressed only in jeans, his dark hair sleep-tousled.
"Yesterday you told me the money didn't matter," Michael said. "That you didn't care how she spent it."
"You stay out of this!" the Colonel ordered. "She's been wasting her time, her talent, and taking the easy way out for years."
* * *
Cole approached the door of the apartment, the sound of angry voices carrying through the open window of the kitchen. Though he had never heard the voice, he recognized it at once. Clear, decisive. Each word enunciated with clipped precision. Brenna's father.
Brenna's voice, when it came a second later, was calm in comparison to her father's, and filled with sarcasm. "That's right, Dad," she said. "My life has been real easy."
Cole knew as surely as the sun blazed in the morning sky he had arrived just in time. Right, he mocked himself. If you had been in time, she wouldn't be in there facing this alone. If you had been in time, she wouldn't even be here.
Cole knocked on the door as the scalding voices continued to pour from the kitchen.
"You've shirked from every challenge you've ever faced," the Colonel said. "It's high time you planned instead of running off on some harebrained scheme."
Teddy, still in pajamas, opened the screen door. "Hi, Cole."
Cole touched the boy's hair. "Hi."
"I know what I want," Brenna said.
"They're having a fight," Teddy said to Cole, his glance straying to the kitchen.
Cole picked up the child and stepped into the apartment. "That they are. Why don't you go back to your room and play. Okay?"
"School?" the Colonel scoffed. "This is just another whim. You're going to school, but you haven't applied."
Teddy looked up at Cole. "Do you want to come with me?"
He shook his head. "I'm going to stay and help Brenna."
"Dad," Michael said, "C'mon, arguing won't accomplish anything."
Teddy smiled at Cole. "She'll like that. She's been real sad."
Teddy's reply went through Cole like a knife. He set the boy down. "I know. Now scoot."
"Michael, stay out of it," the Colonel said.
"Like hell," Michael responded. "For years, I've watched you belittle every single thing she ever tried to do. Not once did you tell her you were proud of her. And you know what I hated most about that? I was the stick you used to beat her up with."
Cole moved to the kitchen doorway, unnoticed by the three people inside. Michael's broad back hid Brenna from his view.
"I just wanted her to live up to her potential," the Colonel shouted. "Which she never did. She could have done anything you did if she had just once tried."
"That's always been your bottom line, Dad," Brenna said. "Take a good look at me. I'm not Michael. I'm me. Michael is my brother, and I love him, but I'm not like him. I'm not a genius. Not gifted. And not worthless. And I don't have to stand here and listen to you rant at me."
She brushed past Michael and collided with Cole.
He put his hands on her arms to steady her. "Hi."
What little color was left in her face drained a
way, leaving only a faint line around her lips. Michael glanced over his shoulder, his expression nearly as stunned as Brenna's. Behind Michael, Cole could see Brenna's father, his expression full of irritation and derision.
"Who the hell are you?" the Colonel demanded.
Cole offered the man his hand. "Cole Cassidy. You must be Colonel James. I've heard a lot about you."
Cole was positive only sheer reflex made the Colonel take his hand. When he released it, Cole glanced back down at Brenna who watched him with wide, pain-filled eyes.
Casually as he could muster, Cole said, "I hear you're moving today. Need any help?"
Brenna stared at him. She expected to blink and find him gone. She closed her eyes. When she opened them a moment later, Cole was still there, his hand gently holding her arm. Being with him the other day at the library was the most painful moment she had ever endured. Knowing Cole could hurt her so deeply almost made the pain her father inflicted a preferable choice. Only Cole, no one else, only Cole could break her heart.
He held out his other hand to her. Slowly her eyes lifted from Cole's hand. A hand that knew her intimately, a hand that was warm and strong, a hand that had never given her anything but comfort and pleasure. Cole's mouth was deeply bracketed by creases, and though his expression was grim, she recognized the plea in his eyes asking her to trust him. In that blinding instant, she knew he would not deliberately hurt her.
She placed her hand within Cole's. His fingers wrapped around hers, offering her warmth and reassurance.
He took a backward step toward the door and she followed him.
"Running again?" the Colonel taunted.
Brenna turned around to stare at her father as a stunning realization crystallized for her. "Yes. I am. Sometimes it's the only way to keep myself safe."
She turned her back on her father and led Cole toward the door.
"You're not finished here," the Colonel said.
Cole glanced over his shoulder then turned around to face Brenna's father. "Oh, but she is."
CASSIDY'S COURTSHIP Page 24
