He checked his in-patients one more time, wadded his lab coat for the laundry, and headed out. This time the late afternoon sun didn’t hurt his eyes. His throbbing headache had settled to a dull pain he could tolerate. As he locked the clinic’s door, his cell buzzed against his hip.
“Scott?” Parker Milligan’s voice sounded strained. “I need to ask a favor of you.”
Within twenty minutes, Scott was sitting beside Parker on a weathered wooden bench outside the juvenile detention center. Parker looked as though he’d dropped ten pounds since Spencer’s arrest. His eyes were shadowed, and his lips maintained a grim, rigid line, as if the moment he relaxed, they’d quiver. He didn’t seem to know what to say.
Scott started. “Did you find a lawyer for him?”
“Yeah, good one, too, I think.”
“Look, I know it’s none of my business, but if you need help...you know. If I can pitch in and help pay...”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it.” Parker rubbed the back of his neck. “You remember the anonymous source who helped that kid with cancer?”
Scott nodded.
“I guess whoever it is has decided to help me. I got a letter. Recommended some big-name lawyer and held a check for his retainer or to use on an attorney of my choice. After that, the lawyer is supposed to charge whoever this person is. I’ll never see a bill.”
Scott nodded. He’d received such a check too, for an “equine clinic.” It held no clue showing who it was from on the envelope, the check, or the letter. Totally anonymous. But only two people knew his dream, and his mother didn’t have that kind of money. “Well, that’s one thing off your mind.”
“Yeah.” Parker stared at the juvenile detention center’s entrance. “They said I could visit him today.”
“Have you been in yet?”
Parker shook his head. “I went yesterday, but he wouldn’t see me.”
Scott waited, watched Parker breathe as if he had to remind himself to inhale. His gaze landed somewhere over Scott’s left shoulder, but Scott doubted he saw anything. Finally, he ran his tongue over his front teeth and focused on Scott.
“Would you go in? Would you talk to him? He’s always confided in you before. Maybe he will now.”
Scott hesitated, not sure he wanted the responsibility, but finally he nodded. “I don’t know that he’ll talk to me, either, but I’ll try. Anything you want him to know?”
“Yeah. Tell him...” Parker’s breath caught, and he pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing. “Tell him I love him.”
****
The room was gray. Gray walls, gray floor, gray metal table separating gray metal chairs. Even the light battling through the dirty fixture seemed gray. No windows.
The door scraped open and Spencer shuffled in, wearing a prison-orange jumpsuit and slide-on sandals.
“Fifteen minutes,” the burly guard grumbled and then closed the door as he left.
Spencer stood next to the chair opposite Scott and studied the floor while Scott studied him. A kid. He was just a kid. Scott had known him since T-ball and pizza parties. If the ache in Scott’s heart remotely resembled the ache in Parker’s, Scott hurt for him. How does a man survive seeing his son in a prison uniform?
“You want to sit down?”
Spencer plopped down and slouched in the seat, slinging an arm over the chair back. But he still wouldn’t meet Scott’s gaze.
“They feeding you good?”
A shrug.
“You sleeping all right?”
Another shrug.
“Your dad misses you.”
That earned a glare.
Scott shifted in his seat, trying to appear as casual as possible in these surroundings. “He does, you know. And he loves you. He doesn’t understand this.”
Spencer picked at something on the table, giving it his full attention, but his mouth twitched downward.
“Spence, look at me.” Scott waited. “Please.”
The boy glowered at him. “Why are you here?”
“Because I don’t understand, either. Why, Spencer?”
Nothing, just a dull, dispassionate expression.
“Your dad said you targeted houses you thought he insured. You were getting back at him for something? For taking your driving privileges away?”
Spencer snorted and looked away.
“It has to be something more than that...the divorce? Your parents split up years ago. Surely it’s not that.” Scott gave him a moment to say something, but he didn’t. “How can you carry around that much anger and hate? What did your father do to make you hate him so much?”
Red-faced, Spencer slammed his fist on the table. “Me hate him? Ask him why he hates me.”
“He doesn’t—”
“Oh, don’t give me that. He hates me. He let me believe it was my fault he left Mom in the first place. Do you remember when he left? Do you?”
Scott kept his tone level. “Maybe you should remind me.”
“Six years ago. I was ten and pitching against the Olta Pirates. Remember that game?” Spencer didn’t wait for a response, but Scott nodded anyway. “Last inning, we were up by two, but there were two on the bases. Gil Stevens was at the plate. He’d hit everything I’d thrown at him all night, so I decided to go to the split-finger fast ball.”He paused and looked at Scott as if he should understand.
“I remember the game,” Scott said. “We lost by one. But what does that have to do with your dad?”
“We lost by one because Gil hit a homer off my fast ball—the one Dad told me I wasn’t ready to use. He said I needed more practice, needed to work on it before I used it in a game. He was so disappointed in me he didn’t talk to me all the way home. Next day, he took a suitcase and moved out.” His gaze penetrated Scott. “You tell me. What kind of father leaves his family because his son didn’t win a little league game?”
Scott leaned back in his chair, flabbergasted by the way the kid’s brain worked. “That’s what you think? He left because of a stupid game?”
“What else was there? I lost, he left. What was I supposed to believe?”
Scott shook his head. “Your parents never told you why they split?”
“No. All Mom would say was ‘ask your dad,’ and Dad wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d just look at me and then get in some sort of mood. I finally learned not to ask. I just assumed it was my fault, and he never said or did anything that made me believe otherwise.”
Scott shook his head. How much should he tell the boy? After a moment, he said, “Spence, how soon after your dad left did Marcus move in?”
Spencer’s brow twisted. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“You were only ten years old when your parents split up. Adults don’t always tell their kids when they’re having troubles. Your dad told me things weren’t right between him and your mom, told me what he suspected—what he’d been able to prove. It had nothing to do with you. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“You’re saying Mom cheated.” He sneered. “I kinda have that figured out now. No thanks to him.”
“So you understand now that it wasn’t your fault.” Spencer nodded in response, leaving Scott totally confused. “Then why? Why start fires now?”
“Because he thinks he can rule me.” Spencer exploded from his seat, and his chair slammed against the floor with a metallic ring. “He thinks getting me on weekends and a few weeks in the summer gives him the right to order me around. Take my car keys. Tell me what time to be home. He lost his right to do that when he left.”
“He’s your dad,” Scott said evenly as he watched the boy’s angry prowl back and forth across the table from him. “He loves you, and part of that love means he has to raise you right. Even though you two don’t live in the same house, he’s still your dad, and disciplining you is still his responsibility. Maybe he made a mistake not explaining things to you earlier. Maybe you both made mistakes. It happens. You’re human.”
/> Spencer snorted.
Scott wasn’t getting through. He leaned back and shot out a hot breath. “He came to see me last week. You know that? You know what he wanted?”
Spencer shrugged, ran a hand through his hair, paced.
“He wanted to see Scotch Bonnet.”
Spencer stopped moving. His profile maintained a sullen, suspicious expression as he stared at the floor, but at least he was listening.
“There’s a terrific place to stable horses called Sorrel Ridge, and he rented a stall for her. He was going to give her to you for your birthday.”
Spencer’s lips quivered. He sniffed.
Scott moved toward him and stopped, an arm’s-length away. “He loves you, Spence. Even now, he loves you.”
The ragged breath Spencer drew exhaled on a whimper. His face screwed up and twitched between his refusal to cry and his inability to deny the tears already dampening his cheeks. With a sob, he sought Scott’s arms and cried until he could catch a smooth breath again.
Scott held him until the last tear fell.
The boy’s swollen, red face turned up to his. “Do you think he could ever forgive me?”
“He already has.”
37
After a two-day search, Emily finally caught sight of the folder at the very bottom of her lower bureau drawer. Why it hadn’t been in her filing cabinet along with the rest of her important papers remained a mystery. She eased her hand under the winter sweaters, pulled it out, and plopped on the bed.
Inside the slightly worn file sat the remnants of her two-year romance with Wade Coulter. She’d given her diamond-crusted wedding band to her attorney to return to him, but a picture of it on her hand rested inside the file, along with other photos of their private ceremony. She pulled out the shot of her and Wade—the happy newlyweds. Holding a small bouquet of red roses and pink lilies, she wore a white satin tea-length dress and the radiant smile of the foolishly naive.
In his dark suit, Wade looked like one of those famous bachelors in tabloids who had just been ripped from circulation. Wavy, walnut-brown hair dipped roguishly over his forehead and curled over his collar. Cunning eyes stared directly into the camera. His smile reflected victory more than happiness. What had he been thinking? And why hadn’t she realized the kind of man he was?
She flipped through the remainder of the photos and shuddered. No one needed to see these. Ever. She bounced off the bed and fed the pictures to the shredder in her office. She considered shredding the marriage license too, but thought better of it. It marked part of her history, and a lesson learned the hard way.
Paul popped into her mind, and she scowled. Everything she held in her folder, with the exception of the wedding pictures, he could’ve found himself. What kind of a reporter was he? What did he have against her that he was willing to take a convict’s word over hers? Still, he hadn’t published anything yet.
Maybe she had time to talk to Scott before he did. All this could’ve been avoided if she’d just told Scott what he wanted to know when he’d asked. If she had just spit it out and confessed, he wouldn’t have had to include keeping secrets from him in his list of things to forgive her for. She had to figure out some way to get him to listen.
Like catching him at church Wednesday night.
****
From her seat on the last row, Emily could scope out the entire congregation unnoticed while the announcements were being read.
Scott and Rita sat close to the front, with Roger and his daughter, Michelle, directly behind them. On the left of the sanctuary, Trey Norris, his girlfriend, Carla, and a dozen more teenagers filled the first two rows, the traditional seats for the youth group since Emily was a teen. She, Scott, Roger, Lauren, and a host of others had occupied those pews over the years.
A smile tilted her lips at the memory of Scott sitting next to her when they were kids. All it took to make his neck flush was a look from her. If she touched him, he’d reward her with a full-face blush and a goofy grin. He’d been so cute, even then.
Emily caught sight of Paul and Amber Goodrich a few rows behind the youth group and drew a shaky breath. If he turned a little farther to the right, he'd see her. What expression would cross his face if he did?
She didn’t want to know.
Knowing where he sat ruined her pleasure in the evening service. As they stood for the praise music, she carefully shifted to hide behind the taller man in front of her. When they resumed their seats, she slid to her left to eliminate the possibility of being accidentally spotted. She was out of his line of sight, but he wasn’t out of hers, and during the entire service, she kept refocusing on him.
Questions crawled like a ticker-tape through her mind. Had he interviewed Wade? What did he say? Did Paul believe him? Was he going to tell Scott the lies Wade fabricated...or had Wade told the truth? Dare she hope?
Paul seemed to be keeping an eye on Scott, just as Emily was keeping an eye on him. She noticed every time he glanced Scott’s way, and the questions running through her mind intensified.
When the service ended and the notes from the final song had faded, Paul headed toward Scott.
Emily headed for the door, her car, and the file resting on the front seat.
****
After the service, as Scott chatted with Roger, Paul Goodrich materialized at his side. “Got a minute?”
Inside, Scott cringed and prepared himself for more bad news, but he shoved a smile into place and shook hands with the journalist. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
Paul seemed hesitant to speak in front of Roger, so Roger excused himself. Paul nodded at him, looked around, and then spoke in a low whisper. “You know what I told you about Emily Taylor being married?”
“Of course.”
“I jumped the gun. Right after her house was vandalized, I found an old article in the Houston Chronicle about her and Wade Coulter, calling him her husband, but I didn’t check it out. Truth is, their marriage was—”
“—annulled?”
“Yeah, she tell you?”
“No.” Scott crossed his arms and widened his stance. The man’s accusation had busted a solid year’s worth of Scott’s attempts to get Emily back into his life. What was Paul going to say now? Oops, sorry? That wouldn’t cut it. “I haven’t spoken to her since I talked to you at the cat refuge.”
Paul winced. “Wow, I’m sorry. Look, I interviewed Coulter yesterday—”
“You went to the prison?”
“Just to confirm a few things.”
“The man’s a con artist.” Scott’s voice climbed with his anger. He checked the curious glances in his direction and lowered his tone to a whisper. “What makes you think he told you the truth?”
“I believe he did.” Paul kept his voice low. “He told me—”
He gaped at something over Scott’s shoulder.
Emily barreled toward them with a file in her hand.
“Here.” With an expression balanced between anger and pain, she shoved the manila folder at Scott. “Take it.”
“What’s this?”
“Your answers. Everything you need to know. This is what happened in Houston. Read it and decide for yourself what the truth is.” She glared at Paul and then returned her attention to Scott. “Decide whether you’re going to believe him or me.”
Before either man could say a word, she spun on her heel and raced out the nearest door. After a stunned moment, Scott rushed after her, but by the time he spotted her in the parking lot, she was driving away. Seemed he always caught her taillights these days.
Roger appeared at his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’d best leave her alone for a bit. Let her calm down.”
Scott clenched his jaw. “Did you know she was coming tonight?”
“Nope. Haven’t talked to her lately. But you should—just not right now.”
“How long you reckon I should wait?”
“Well, I’d wait until she was the one doin’ the calling. If I know w
omen, she’ll probably call you soon to get your reaction to whatever’s in that folder.” Roger shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s it about, anyway?”
“Houston, I guess.”
“I’ll be so glad when you two straightened this out. It’s gettin’ exhaustin’.”
“Yeah.” Scott gave the retreating convertible a final glance and then returned to the sanctuary. Paul and Amber were leaving, but Scott caught his arm. “You want to finish our conversation?”
****
Emily’s hands shook, whether from anger or shame, she didn’t know, but they shook enough she didn’t dare hold her glass of tea. Ever since she’d returned home, she’d passed the time alternating between fuming and kicking herself. She’d called Lauren the minute she walked in the door.
“I don’t even know if it was me they were discussing. I just marched up like I knew what I was doing and butted into their conversation.” She stopped her pacing and withered onto a chair. “My first official day back in church, and I make a spectacle of myself.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. Whether or not they were talking about you, Scott needed that information you provided. Maybe you finally got through to him.”
“I got through to him, all right. I illustrated what a high-tempered idiot I can be.”
“Stop that. You’re miserable. Scott’s miserable. What you did tonight may be just what he needed to bring an end to this mess.”
Emily felt certain the end to the mess loomed near—and how it was resolved rested entirely in Scott’s hands. She’d done all she could.
38
Emily took a break at a gas station, refilled her tank, and bought a bottled water for her parched throat before resuming her trip to the prison. She’d kept herself busy all morning with the caterer, the auctioneer, the decorations for the auction, but now she had nothing to do but drive and think. And the thoughts crossing her mind provided no comfort.
She’d finally checked her voicemail and heard the message from Scott telling her he liked the coupons, but whatever else he’d had to say was chopped off. He’d called her several times, but not since last night—which meant he’d taken Paul’s word over her own. Whatever that word was.
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