by Leigh Duncan
“Hey, Hailey. Hey, Mitch,” called the president of the homeowners association. She waved and picked her way down the mulched path, stopping to pull a dandelion out by its roots.
“Lydia.” He barely glanced up from the task of corralling loose, damp hair into a lopsided ponytail. “There you go,” he said, and watched his daughter scamper back to the play set.
“Are you coming to the HOA meeting this Friday? We’re trying to get that house over on Redbud repainted. The owners used the wrong shade.”
“Sorry. I’ll be in court all week.” Which was just as well. He tried to avoid the association’s somewhat petty politics. What did it matter if the painters used periwinkle instead of robin egg? Blue was blue, wasn’t it?
Lydia might be a little too Stepford Wife for his taste, but she knew their community better than anyone. While Mitch kept a close eye on Hailey, he learned who had landed new jobs and which houses were going on the market. Ten minutes later, Lydia glanced at her watch.
“Time for dinner,” she noted. “Emma, Reese, let’s go. Good talking to you, Mitch.” Her girls sped toward the car. “Gotta run.”
“Time for us to head for home, too,” he answered. But when he glanced over to the swings, all he saw was an empty seat rocking back and forth. His stomach sank and he hurried toward the monkey bars.
How Hailey had scrambled to the top of the highest set in the two seconds he’d taken his eyes off her, he didn’t know, but there she was. His daring little girl sat atop the middle bar, her feet dangling.
“Hailey, we’ve talked about this,” he said as firmly as he could. He moved into position beneath her. “Let’s get you down from there.”
She laughed at him. “Look, Daddy. I’m up high.”
“I see that, Hailey, but you know the rules. You’re not supposed to climb on those bars, not until you’re older.” Though he might be a pushover when it came to bedtimes, clothes or new toys, he didn’t compromise where her safety was concerned.
“But, Dad-dee.” Her legs moved up and down like pistons, her feet stomping the air.
Mitch, afraid she’d knock herself off her perch, grabbed for a foot. He missed, and her sneaker connected with his chin. Pain shot through his mouth and down his neck. For one brief second, he saw stars. “Ouch, Hailey.” He rubbed his jaw, sure it’d be black-and-blue by morning.
“Great,” he muttered. Walking into court looking as if he’d been in a brawl was just the image he needed. His voice dropped into the no-nonsense register.
“Hailey Jordan Goodwin, I want you down from there this instant.”
“Yes, s—”
One second, the pride of his life was hanging on to the bars with both hands, the next she’d tipped over the side and was plunging headfirst to the ground eight feet below. With no time to think, Mitch reacted. As his daughter dropped in front of him, he grabbed whatever he could get his hands on. An arm, a leg, what did it matter as long as she didn’t break her neck?
He managed to keep her from hitting the ground. Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, her screams knifed his gut.
“Daddy! It hurts! It hurts.”
Fear crawled up his back and lodged in his throat. One part of him yelled, Jump in the car. Rush to the nearest hospital. Another part, the parental side, the side that had been through a dozen bumps and bruises that turned out to be nothing, insisted he hold her close. He hugged his sobbing daughter to his chest, wrapped his arms around her, didn’t let her move.
“Let’s let Daddy take a look,” he said when her tears tapered off.
Gently, he stretched the neck of her shirt to one side. Nausea rolled in his stomach and he lost the ability to breathe at the knob of bone that stretched the skin off to one side of her shoulder.
Dislocated. He knew it without thinking. A similar injury his senior year had cost him a date with the homecoming queen and benched him for the rest of the football season.
He patted his back pocket and found nothing. An image of his cell phone surfaced. He hadn’t bothered to grab it from the charging station when they left the house. Without moving, he signaled the boys on the basketball court. One of them hustled over.
Mitch forced himself to stay calm. Any movement could worsen the injury, so he couldn’t carry Hailey home any more than he could drive to the hospital with her in his arms. “Do you have a phone? Can you dial 911. We need an ambulance.”
“Hey, Joey, grab the cell out of my bag,” called the pimply-faced kid. He craned his neck, probably hoping for gore.
In Mitch’s arms, Hailey whimpered.
“Shh,” he whispered. “It’ll be all right. Daddy’s got you. Everything’ll be okay.”
At the hospital, doctors and nurses hovered, treating Hailey with gentle hands while Mitch insisted on summoning the area’s best orthopedist. Amid X-rays and a thousand questions, he fretted over whether or not to airlift his child to the large children’s hospital sixty miles away. An overreaction, he knew, but nothing was too good for his little girl. In the end, he calmed at the specialist’s assurance that the injury was a simple one. Though she’d have to keep her arm in a sling for six weeks, they could avoid surgery.
“I’ll give her something to make her drowsy,” the doctor said after Mitch agreed to the procedure. “It’ll relax her enough to let me pop the bones back into place.”
Mitch willed his hands to stop shaking. Hailey was being very brave and he told himself he should do the same. He ran a hand over his own bruised jaw, wishing he could trade his pain for hers.
“Can I stay with her?” he asked.
“Of course,” the doctor replied. “It’ll be good for her to see a familiar face before she drifts off. Don’t worry, Dad. A lot of kids don’t even remember the accident after they wake up.”
At least that was something to be thankful for, Mitch thought when a nurse approached with a scary-looking needle. He felt himself blanch, but his daughter had used up all her tears and barely cried. Drowsily, she slumped against him. He thought he had a slim chance of coming out of the accident with his soul intact when Hailey turned to him and asked, “Daddy, why did you hurt my arm?”
An instrument clattered into a steel tray. The noise made him flinch.
“Sorry,” murmured a nurse. Her back to him, she headed out the door.
“You fell, baby,” Mitch reminded his child. “Daddy caught you before you hit your head, but your arm got hurt. The doctors are going to fix it, though, and you’ll be just like new.”
“Okay, Daddy.” A tiny bubble formed at the corner of Hailey’s mouth. “I’m sleepy.”
And then she went out like the proverbial lightbulb. Seconds later, the doctor and nurse were at his side. They helped Mitch ease the sleeping child onto the exam table.
“I think you should step outside now.”
The nurse scowled when he argued. The doctor remained firm—Mitch had to leave. He brushed a kiss across his daughter’s forehead and followed directions through a door to the chairs in the waiting area.
The slowest hour of his life passed before he heard someone call, “Goodwin? Relatives of Hailey Goodwin?”
Mitch set aside last January’s issue of People magazine and stood. His eyes narrowed at a redhead in a rumpled business suit. She strode toward him, a clipboard clutched against her chest. He stared, vaguely recognizing her from the home inspection she’d performed shortly after Karen had filed for custody.
“I’m Mitch Goodwin. Is Hailey all right?”
The woman flashed an official-looking badge. “Mr. Goodwin, do you remember me? I’m Sarah Magarity. With the Department of Children and Families. An allegation of child abuse has been raised regarding your daughter.”
“What?” Shock punched Mitch straight in the stomach. “That’s not possible. She fell. She fell from the monkey bars at the park. I caught her, but her shoulder popped out of joint.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “But once the allegation has been raised, the law is very specifi
c. I must take your daughter into custody.”
Mitch knew the law. He’d prosecuted men and women, fathers and mothers, whose misdirected anger had harmed their children. As far as he was concerned, they could rot in jail for the rest of their miserable lives. He’d helped put several of them there. But he hadn’t hurt Hailey. The thought was so ridiculous he could barely fathom it.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He reached for his wallet and brandished his own ID. “You know I’m with the state attorney’s office. Surely we can talk about this.”
“Mr. Goodwin, I’m sorry.” Ms. Magarity shook her head. “The fact that you’re an officer of the court actually works against you. We have to be doubly sure you didn’t harm your daughter.”
Mitch stared past the woman’s shoulder to the door he’d walked through. A manned and locked door. One that stood between him and his child. Quickly, he weighed his options. Any outburst on his part would only make the situation worse.
“Get in touch with my ex-wife then,” he growled, crossing his arms. “She lives at the Pineda Apartments on US 1.” He rattled off the phone number he’d committed to memory.
Ms. Magarity’s expression softened. “I’ve already called her. She’s on her way. We’ll take it from here, then. You might as well go home.”
He wasn’t the type to create a scene, but if the woman from DCF thought he’d blindly go along with her plan, Mitch had news for her. “Lady, you’re crazy if you think I’m leaving here without knowing my daughter is okay.”
Sarah shrugged. “Your choice, Mr. Goodwin. But I advise you to go home. There’ll be an emergency hearing tomorrow. You need to be ready for it.”
* * *
“SO, YOU’RE IN ARKANSAS, Dad?”
The phone braced against her ear, Amanda studied the contents of her refrigerator. A three-week-old apple, two cartons of yogurt and a package of ham were not the stuff rich Italian sauces were made of. Unable to replicate the delicious smells that had emanated from Mitch’s kitchen, she grabbed the milk jug, asking, “And next week you’ll be where?”
“Tulsa. After that, Texas. Then maybe I’ll swing by Melbourne. Visit for a while.”
Yeah. Right.
Amanda poured a glass without bothering to reach for a pen or paper. Her dad’s plans were as fickle as the weather. It was one of the things she’d disliked most about her childhood—never knowing if she’d wake up to find their motor home parked outside an arena in Lincoln or Tupelo. When she’d hung up her spurs and listed her goals for the future, “a house without wheels” had come right after “go to college” and “get my law degree.”
And now he thought he could just stop in whenever he wanted? She certainly wouldn’t welcome him with open arms. After he’d skipped out on the Saddle Up Stampede, she’d spent the weekend converting her guest room into storage space.
As expected, her dad had a veritable litany of excuses for why a trip to see his only child might not actually fit into his schedule. He followed those with the usual invitation for Amanda to chuck her mundane existence and join him on the road.
“I’m still holding out for a Markette father-and-daughter reunion tour.”
“’Fraid not,” Amanda answered. “The dust settled on my rodeo days a long time ago.”
Thanks to him, she’d made one exception, and all it had brought her was trouble.
“Well then, I’ll be seein’ ya,” he said, though they both knew he wouldn’t.
“Keep your—” The phone made a clicking sound.
“Boots in the stirrups,” Amanda muttered into
dead air.
Nothing new.
She settled the phone on the cradle. Milk calmed her and she helped herself to a long swallow. She wandered into the room where she’d stored all the paraphernalia from her rodeo career. Sure, she had a few regrets. She missed the velvety soft muzzle of her horse, the exhilaration she felt after a good practice run, the smell of fresh hay. None of that was tempting enough to lure her away from the life she’d built.
And Mitch. How does he figure into your plans?
She worried her lip. The last thing she needed in her life was another man like her dad. Mitch had walked away from her twice already. Seeing him with his daughter this afternoon might have softened her heart just a smidgeon, but it didn’t change the facts. She’d done her homework, talked to his coworkers, his neighbors. Everyone told the same story: Mitch was more committed to his job than his family. Thus, her attraction to the wickedly handsome lawyer had no more place in her future than another run at the top of professional rodeo or a starring role on the Markette Ropin’ Team.
She straightened a photograph of herself in the crowded Las Vegas arena. In the picture, she was smiling and holding barrel racing’s top prize aloft. Even then, she’d known she’d taken her last ride. Striding across the room, she closed the door on her past.
The phone rang again. Amanda finished her milk and almost let the call go to voice mail. A glance at the caller ID changed her mind. Before the headset cleared the cradle, she heard a woman’s shrieks pour from the earpiece.
“I warned you something like this was going to happen. Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me? I need a ride to the hospital. How soon can you get here?”
“Karen, slow down. Take a breath,” Amanda ordered. “Are you hurt?”
“No, it’s not me. It’s Hailey.” Somehow, she managed to sound exasperated and afraid in the same breath. “Mitch hurt her. Broke her arm or something. She’s in the hospital, and I’m supposed to be there right now.”
Time slowed to a crawl. “He…what?” The milk in Amanda’s stomach soured.
This simply didn’t make sense. Less than four hours ago she’d dropped Hailey off with her dad. If there’d been a sign the man was anything but thrilled to have his daughter home, she’d missed it completely. Praying Karen had the facts wrong, Amanda wondered if she should have paid more attention to her client’s claims about Mitch’s temper.
“Who?” she asked. “Who called you? And what did they say?” This time, she did grab a pen and paper, certain they would come in handy.
“I don’t know.” Karen whined so forcefully Amanda could practically see the blonde shoving her hands through her hair. “Sandy or Susan. Somebody from family services.”
Amanda ran through a short list of names. “Sarah Magarity from the Department of Children and Families? She did the home study to approve your apartment.”
“Yeah, her. She said Hailey can’t go back to Mitch’s and there’d be a hearing. I don’t know anything more. Just that I need to get to the hospital. You know I’m out of gas, and I don’t get paid till next week.”
Amanda glanced down at the shorts and T-shirt she’d worn all day. A change of clothes was definitely in order. She’d make it a fast one. The art of stripping out of one costume while stepping into another was one of the few talents that had made the transition to her new life.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Meet me outside. In the meantime, I’ll make some calls and let you know what I find out.”
By the time Karen climbed into the Suburban’s passenger seat, Amanda had answers to some of their questions and a bad case of heartburn. She replayed what had transpired at the hospital and informed her client that Judge Dobson had agreed to an emergency hearing in his chambers. Hailey would spend the night on the orthopedics ward. She wasn’t allowed visitors—at least, not until they all met with the judge. So instead of going to see her, Amanda steered her car toward the courthouse.
“But what does it all mean?” Karen asked. For once she wasn’t wearing one of her designer outfits. Dressed simply in slacks and a pullover, the woman stared out the car window.
“It means you might get custody of your daughter a lot sooner than we expected.”
Karen threaded her hands through her hair. “Full-time? That means Mitch’ll have to pay child support, doesn’t it? How much, do you think?”
The misplaced concern left
a bitter taste in Amanda’s mouth and she swallowed. “The important thing is Hailey’s safety. If you don’t take her, the judge will put her into foster care rather than risk another injury.”
If Mitch had hurt his daughter.
To justify an emergency hearing, proof had to point its finger at the man who paced the corridor outside Judge Dobson’s office. Though Mitch started toward them the second they stepped from the elevator, Amanda didn’t dare meet his imploring look. She allowed herself only a single glance at his rumpled clothes and disheveled hair before she steeled her heart, draped her arm around Karen’s shoulders and guided her client into the judge’s chambers. She still didn’t want to believe the man who’d held her in his arms could be capable of cruelty, but she’d worked with Sarah Magarity often enough to know the woman didn’t make unfounded accusations.
Apparently Judge Dobson thought so, too. Once all the interested parties had gathered in his office, he ordered a restless Mitch to take a seat before turning to the young redhead. “This is your show, Ms. Magarity. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Mitch leaped to his feet. “Your Honor, this is all a simple misunderstanding. I can clear it up if you’ll just let me—”
The judge turned a flinty look on the man. “Nice outfit, Counselor,” he said with a nod to Mitch’s shorts and flip-flops.
In a move that was oddly self-conscious, Mitch smoothed a T-shirt that had seen better days. “I mean no disrespect, sir. I came here straight from the hospital. If you’ll let me explain…”
“You’ll have your turn, Mr. Goodwin,” Dobson said drily. “Ms. Magarity?”
Glad she’d taken the time to change her own clothes, Amanda ran her hand over the linen slacks she’d grabbed from her closet. She gave Karen a tight smile and turned toward the thin woman, who’d chosen to stand by the windows rather than sit near either parent.
“According to Dr. Scarletta, the orthopedist called in to treat Hailey Goodwin, the little girl and her father arrived by ambulance shortly after six this evening. Mr. Goodwin claimed the child fell from monkey bars at a playground. Just before Hailey was sedated, a nurse overheard the child ask why her father had hurt her.”
