Barrett Cole

by Christa Wick

  Quinn brought her hand up to her mouth, the gesture itself secretive because she wanted to hide the pleased smile that Barrett already thought of her as a friend. She wanted to think of him that way, too, but she had a hard time trusting people—especially anyone being nice to her.

  “So, how exactly does this work? I mean, if we get to three and I want to tell you a fourth, do I have to call up your mom and confess?”

  “Nope, doesn’t matter if or how the secret comes out. It still counts as one of three.”

  Her brows shot up. That was a tough rule.

  “Is there any wiggle room?” she asked.

  “Well, don’t call it a secret, silly,” Barrett teased. “Just say something like ‘let’s not mention…’”

  “Doesn’t that completely undercut the rule?”

  Grinning, he leaned in and threw her a wink. “Not at all, but I’m still completely free to mention it…as opposed to swearing to take it to my grave.”

  Deflecting his wink with a mock pout and a roll of her eyes, Quinn opened the passenger door and stepped out. Barrett made quick time of unfastening his seatbelt and jogging around the truck, handing Quinn the keys to the rental just as a woman around the age he had mentioned for his mother opened the screen door and walked onto the front porch.

  “Morning, Mama.”

  Coming down the steps, she smiled at Quinn and then at her son.

  “Morning, Baby Bear.”

  Quinn threw a side glance at Barrett just in time to catch a thin veneer of soft pink glossing his tanned cheeks. Clearly, mother and son had only reached an agreement about his childhood nickname at a level of “let’s not mention.”

  “You must be Quinn,” the woman said, offering her hand. “I’m Lindy. We all loved Jester dearly. I’m so sorry to hear of the fire.”

  Quinn bobbed her head, her throat thick from the kindness the woman extended and from the sense of growing loss she felt over never meeting her grand uncle. He must have been a good person because these good people thought so much of him. She couldn’t imagine any acquaintance of her mother genuinely trying to offer the comfort of condolences.

  “Mr. Cross called and said he needed to push the meeting to eleven, that gives us half an hour.” Lindy waved them up onto the porch. “We’d best get inside before Leah finds a new distraction.”

  “Leah?”

  Quinn kept the question simple and the delivery casual. She didn’t want to sound nosy and she wasn’t about to ask if it was a puppy and find out it was Barrett’s grandmother or something. It was bad enough suggesting his mom must be old enough for a retirement home. But she wasn’t used to houses this palatial being lived in by nice, normal people.

  “My granddaughter,” Lindy answered. “She turned three this summer. I thought she was a handful at two—”

  Stepping through the front door, Lindy gasped then growled.

  “Leah Grace Ballard!”

  Something clattered to the ground. Quinn surreptitiously lifted onto her tiptoes to see what had caused the growl and the noise.

  A little angel with honey-colored hair sat on the floor, yarn coiled around her shoulders and head like she was a kitten on crack. Next to her on the floor, a wooden bowl held what was left of the skein.

  Instead of breaking into tears, the little girl shook her finger.

  “Inside voice, Gam-Gam.”

  “I’ll inside voice you, young lady.”

  Lindy marched toward the toddler. She bent down as if to pick the child up then turned around and tidied an oversized side chair.

  “Come here and bring the bowl.”

  The toddler obeyed, her expression warping from a mock scolding to absolute contrition.

  “Leah was helping.”

  Shaking her head, Lindy began to unravel the yarn from the child. “Did I ask for help?”

  Leah cupped her grandmother’s cheeks. “You don’t know how.”

  Barrett laughed, his body shaking with enough amusement that his shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

  “She’s got you there, Mama.”

  “Don’t encourage the child or I’ll suggest to Jake you mind her in the offseason.”

  “Barrett!”

  “What?” he chuckled at his niece. “Are you just now noticing me, Honey Bee?”

  She nodded, then pointed at Quinn.

  Barrett settled his hand against the small of Quinn’s back and invited her to approach the couch.

  “This is my friend Quinn. She’s from…”

  Rolling his lips, he stopped and looked at Quinn.

  “Los Angeles,” she answered, her gaze darting to where Lindy was untangling the yarn from the child...or the child from the yarn.

  What did the woman think about her son bringing home a stray without even knowing where Quinn was from?

  “That’s right,” he said, as if he had known but forgotten. “That’s where they make the movies, Honey Bee.”

  “Movie Town?”

  Quinn nodded. It was a nicer name than she would ever give the valley.

  Leah clapped then made a half-twist, a turn, another half-twist and a quarter turn to slip completely free of the yarn. Lindy held up what looked like a spider’s web of the crisscrossing strings that had been tangled around the little girl.

  “Okay, Houdini, you got me stumped on that one.”

  Cupping her hand, Leah lifted it in the air and shook it back and forth. Barrett leaned close to Quinn and whispered in her ear.

  “That’s Leah’s version of sign language for when she thinks someone is talking crazy.”

  “Houdini did magic,” Lindy explained to the child. “He was a magician.”

  “Leah is a fairy, not a magici…kan.”

  Free, the little girl barreled toward Barrett and Quinn. He bent to scoop the toddler up, but she wrapped her hands around Quinn’s wrist.

  “Show you playroom.”

  Sighing, Lindy took her scissors to the tangled strings.

  “If you haven’t been around toddlers much,” she joked. “You basically treat them like short, drunk tyrants.”

  Barrett glanced at his watch.

  “We’ve got a few minutes. Sage in her office?”

  Lindy nodded.

  Leah tugged.

  Mesmerized, Quinn let the little girl lead her.

  Before they cleared the room, Lindy called after them.

  “We’ll have time to chat after the attorney, dear. I rounded up a few photo albums that I’m sure have some pictures of Jester in them.”

  Quinn stopped and looked back, her nose suddenly stinging so hard she couldn’t stop blinking.

  “It’s alright, dear. You may not have known him, but, in a way, you will.”

  Nodding, Quinn surrendered to Leah’s soft tugs.

  Passing out of the great room, they entered a long hallway. Leah released Quinn’s wrist and sprinted ahead. She disappeared through a doorway then popped her head back into the hall, waving her hand for them to hurry up.

  “She’s adorable,” Quinn whispered.

  “Don’t let her know,” Barrett whispered back. “If she finds out, we’ll never get her trained.”

  “I think the training is all over,” she laughed. “And she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

  He shook his head, his denial almost as adorable as the toddler. Reaching the doorway Leah had disappeared through, he put a thick arm up and braced it against the frame, momentarily blocking Quinn from entering.

  “What makes you think she has me trained?”

  “The way your face is lit up, for starters.”

  His mouth did a little dance, shuffling back and forth between a pout and a smirk. At the same time, his gaze grew heavy, the eyelids sinking until they were at half-mast as he looked Quinn over.

  “Is it lit up?”

  She nodded, her cheeks hurting from her fixed, involuntary smile, her eyes threatening to water again, this time from too much mirth.

  “It kind of feels lit up
,” he murmured. “You might be onto something.”

  Stepping back, he waved her in. Leah was busy pulling stuffed animals from their chairs around a table. It looked like the motley gang had been having lunch, the table decked out with plates and glasses.

  A tall blonde, her hair a close shade to the little girl’s, appeared at the threshold of a door connecting the playroom to an office.

  “I see she rounded up some human test subjects.”

  “Funny, Sage,” Leah said, shaking her head and waving her cupped hand.

  Sage stepped into the room. Feeling the woman’s cool scrutiny, Quinn forced herself to relax as Barrett made the introductions.

  “Sage is Leah’s aunt, twice over.”

  Quinn offered a blank look.

  “My brother is Leah’s father,” Sage explained. “And I’m married to her mother’s brother. It’s only aberrant in a statistical sense.”

  Barrett leaned in, cupped his hand to Quinn’s ear and whispered.

  “It’s been a little more than a year, but my sister Dawn and our father died in an accident. Leah does okay as long as we skip mentioning the dead part.”

  “Oh…”

  A cold fist wrapped itself around Quinn’s throat before she could say anything else. Words would only be inadequate. The little girl had lost her mother—a great mother if she was anything like Barrett and Lindy Turk.

  She looked at the man who had already done so much for her and then at his sister-in-law. Mouth gaping like a fish yanked out of the water and onto the grass, Quinn finally managed to scratch out another few words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sage nodded, her smile warming, then walked into her office, the door remaining open.

  Leah grabbed Quinn’s hand and walked over to the table where the stuffed animals had been sitting. The little girl turned to Barrett next, but he stepped out of reach.

  “I need to talk to Auntie Sage for a second. Whatever you’re cooking, make me a double portion.”

  She nodded and let him go, her attention quickly re-directing to a child’s vintage style dream kitchen in petal pink enamel. Pulling out a skillet, she grabbed a spatula perfectly sized for her small hands and slid a rubber fried egg into the pan. Then she grabbed a mixer and pretended to make up some batter.

  Without trying to eavesdrop, Quinn heard Barrett talking to his sister-in-law.

  “I heard you might have a little glow around you.”

  Sage caught her breath in a backward hiss. “Want to tell me which someone can’t keep a secret?”

  Barrett chuckled, the warmth of the sound traveling down Quinn’s spine and forcing her eyes shut.

  “Nothing was said. I just saw the crocheting pattern Mama tried to hide under her cushion. She only makes that one for Turk babies.”

  Sage exhaled and settled into her office chair. “We haven’t said anything because we don’t want the news to reach little ears until the first trimester is done.”

  “Well, you are glowing.” Barrett said.

  From the corner of her eye, Quinn watched him lean over and kiss his sister-in-law on the cheek. Quinn didn’t feel jealous, knew she had no right to, but there was a moment of envy when she wished it was her cheek he was kissing—and not because she was his pregnant sister-in-law.

  “Mmm…” he rumbled, patting his stomach as he returned to the playroom. “Eggs and pancakes. My favorite.”

  Getting on his knees, he opened up the pretend refrigerator.

  “Need some milk—oh, cupcakes!”

  “No, Barrett,” the toddler admonished. Wielding her spatula with precision, she steered his hand away from the pretend cupcakes and shooed him toward the table to sit with Quinn.

  Before he could make it over, the phone in Sage’s office rang.

  “House line,” she said then picked it up. “Yep, I’ll tell them.”

  She put the phone down and leaned forward in her seat until she could see Quinn and Barrett.

  “Attorney is here. Lindy said she’s taking him to the library for you. The equipment’s still set up in case you need to fax or print anything.”

  “Sorry, Honey Bee,” Barrett apologized as Leah came over with a plate stacked with rubber pancakes. “We have to go talk to a man about some land.”

  Sighing, Leah put the plate on the table and walked back to the stove, her delicate hand cupped and twisting above her head.

  Chapter Four

  Barrett entered the library in front of his mother and Quinn, his arrival coinciding with the exact moment Charles Cross, Esquire, moved his body and his coffee cup to the head of the long study table in the library. Barrett didn’t bother hiding his smirk. There was never a chair at the head of the table. The man had moved that, as well. In the process, he had completely nullified whatever psychological bargaining power he had hoped to achieve.

  The smirk shifted to a thin, neutral line. This meeting was supposed to be about getting to the root of what Jester Carey wanted in terms of his land—hopefully with a resolution that best benefitted Quinn. But, if the meeting went south, Barrett had already decided he would find another way to help the young woman, preferably in a way that would keep her in Montana and not heading back to California.

  “Here, Mama,” he said, holding out a chair for her.

  Barrett had already convinced Quinn to let Lindy sit in on the meeting. As a lifelong friend of Jester’s, she could speak as to his probable wishes in altering the terms of his will. She was also the majority shareholder of both the family’s cattle and timber operations. If she only wanted the family business to work with other businesses that didn’t use Cross as their attorney, the man would be down to defending parking tickets tourists picked up on their way to the nearby national parks.

  Leading Quinn around to the other side of the table, he sat her opposite his mother then took the seat next to her, his location furthest from Cross. Turning sideways in his chair, he rested one thick forearm on the table and the other along the back of Quinn’s chair, his fingers lightly touching her shoulder for support.

  Seeing everyone settled, Cross launched the first attack.

  “Now, I contacted the Trust Lands Management offices this morning. There is little to no give on their side.”

  “Whom did you contact?” Lindy asked, a brow raised as her gaze wandered from the man’s face to his wrinkled business jacket and back up.

  “Hank Dupree—”

  She cut him off with a snort followed by a flick of her finger granting him permission to continue talking.

  Barrett hid his smile. Hank Dupree and Jester had locked horns a hundred times or more, Jester winning a good eighty percent of the time. More importantly, Hank was in Minerals Management for the Trust Division—and, even there, he wasn’t top dog. Barrett didn’t know which was the bigger problem: Cross knowing or not knowing he wasn’t talking to the right person at the Trust Division.

  “Based on my conversation with Mr. Dupree,” the attorney continued. “Miss Whitaker must remain overnight for each of the ninety days.”

  “Now, Jester wrote that provision into his will when his cabin was still standing,” Barrett objected.

  In replying, Cross looked at Quinn and ignored Barrett.

  “Miss Whitaker, anyone who has been to that cabin knows it was hardly any kind of shelter. The plumbing was only for the sink and tub. Hot water was from a pot on a stove. He used an outside facility for…other plumbing needs. That ‘facility’ was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a narrow shack and a bench to sit on.”

  “A cabin with a wood stove is no small difference between a tent come winter,” Barrett growled, his hand curling a little tighter around Quinn’s shoulder as he thought of how the last third of her ninety days would fall in November.

  “Tell that to the Cheyenne and the Kootenai,” Cross countered.

  He waved his hand in the air like everything he had just said was mere errata.

  “The point being, not fulfilling the demands o
f the will with the hope of successfully challenging it could be deemed a failure to perform. You wouldn’t get a do-over, Miss Whitaker. Even if you did, you’d be well into winter and still wouldn’t have a cabin. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Barrett wanted to reach down the table and shake the man’s arrogant tone straight out of him. Instead he took a deep breath and practiced holding it.

  “The only thing open to negotiation,” Cross continued. “Is how we determine that Miss Whitaker is there overnight until the cell tower is back up. The funds Mr. Carey provided for administration of his estate will not cover in-person visits even a few times a week for ninety days, let alone twice a day. Now, if you have funds, Miss Whitaker, for me to contract a service?”

  Even before Quinn scratched out a “no,” Barrett felt her stiffen and knew what her answer would be. Heck, he’d known from the tears she had cried sitting out on her tailgate after midnight that her resources were stretched thin or non-existent.

  “Does it have to be some service?” Lindy asked. “Could someone take it upon themselves to check twice a day and provide an affidavit under penalty of perjury that they witnessed Quinn there at the appointed times?”

  “I’d have to clear it with the probate judge, same for missing this morning’s check in.”

  Seeing the slow shake of Quinn’s head, Barrett wanted to turn the woman in her seat and kiss her worries away. She was probably thinking she didn’t know anyone who was just going to show up for free two times a day, ninety days straight.

  “That’s fine,” Barrett said before Quinn could throw in the towel. “When you talk to the judge, tell him I will be there at those times barring jump duty. My brother Sutton will fill in during those periods. And we’ll sign whatever affidavits are needed.”

  Quinn swiveled her head slowly in Barrett’s direction, her gaze wide.

  Grinning, he slid her a wink. “You didn’t think I was going to leave a Hollywood girl alone in the woods, did you?”