by Angel Smits
The boy looked as if he’d lost his best friend. Which—if he was who Wyatt thought he was—he probably had. The world the boy had always known was about to change, irreversibly. Forever. Wyatt swallowed the lump in his throat, dreading the role he had to play in this mess.
The boy rested his chin in the palm of his hand and smacked a stick against the sidewalk in an uneven beat. Wyatt reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letter he’d received nearly a week ago. The paper looked small and white against his suntanned hand, but what snagged his attention was the picture. Damn, the kid looked so much like DJ had at that age. It was spooky. He refolded the letter and slipped it back into his pocket.
He stared at the boy as his thoughts spun. How had this happened? How could DJ have had a child he’d never known about? And why the hell had the woman decided now to contact him? No answers came to Wyatt, which frustrated him even further.
It wasn’t the boy’s fault who his parents were, or how they’d behaved. But Wyatt knew he’d probably be the one to pay the heaviest price.
The hot Texas sun beat down on Wyatt’s shoulders as he climbed out of the truck. A warm wind slipped past, seemingly unnoticed by the glum boy.
The kid did, however, look up as Wyatt crossed the broken walk. The old metal gate creaked when he pushed it open. The boy’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “Who are you?” His words sounded more like an accusation than a question.
Wyatt stopped. “I’m your uncle, Wyatt Hawkins. You’re Tyler?” Silence. For a second Wyatt wasn’t sure if he’d get an answer.
“Tyler Easton, yes, sir,” the boy whispered, and continued smacking his stick on the sidewalk.
“Is your mother around?” The woman he’d talked to on the phone yesterday had assured him she’d be here. She had a lot to answer for.
The boy looked up again, and Wyatt swallowed the sucker punch that hit him. No child’s eyes should hold that much hurt.
“She left.”
“Left? When?”
“S’morning. Said someone from my dad’s family was comin’ and I was s’posed to go with ’em. Is that you?”
Wyatt didn’t know how to answer. He pulled the paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “I suppose I am.”
“I was ’fraid so.” The boy looked back at the ground, slowly drawing circles with the stick.
Wyatt read the letter again. How did you tell a child that his mother didn’t want him anymore? That she’d waited until his dad, a man he’d never met, shipped overseas? A man who couldn’t speak for himself from a thousand miles away.
Men didn’t deny their flesh and blood. Wyatt and DJ might have their differences, but at the core, he knew DJ took his responsibilities seriously. His brother would claim the boy, but until he could, Wyatt was all he had.
“You ready to go?” He didn’t think twice about his role in this boy’s life. Responsibility had always been something Wyatt easily shouldered, and he didn’t hesitate now.
He’d already gotten Jason’s legal advice, and his brother was working to contact DJ. Just looking at the kid, there was little doubt Tyler was DJ’s son. And Addie would be thrilled to have someone to take care of once Wyatt told her about him. But right now his sister needed the vacation he’d finally convinced her to take.
“I packed my stuff.” Tyler used the stick to point at two plastic grocery bags beside the door.
“That’s all of it?”
“Yep. Mama took the rest. She told me to be ready and not tick you off.”
“Is that so?” Wyatt’s chest hurt, for himself, for the boy and mostly for the man who didn’t even know he had a son. DJ was in for one heck of a surprise when, and if, he ever got back home.
Slowly, Wyatt stepped toward Tyler and sat on the step beside him. He figured he could take a few minutes to start to get to know his nephew, an apparently angry little boy of eight years old, who’d been totally unknown to him—to anyone in the family—until last week. If only Mom had gotten to meet him. She’d have loved Tyler, but would have killed DJ. Wyatt smiled and refocused on the boy.
Where did he start the conversation? But before he could say anything, Tyler jumped up. “Guess we’d better get goin’.” He grabbed a grocery bag in each hand and returned to stand next to Wyatt.
Wyatt stood. “Guess so. Need any help with those?”
“Nope.” The boy marched down the steps and was halfway across the bare yard before Wyatt moved. The wind had died down and the only sign of life in the battered neighborhood was a flutter of curtains in the house across the street.
Wyatt hurried to catch up and open the gate for Tyler. The sooner they got out of here and left this mess behind, the better. He helped settle the bags on the truck’s floorboards and buckled Tyler in before either of them said another word.
“Ready?” Wyatt met the boy’s stare.
“Yep.” Tyler looked straight ahead, not even glancing toward the old house as they pulled away from the curb. Wyatt glanced in the rearview mirror and thought perhaps Tyler was wiser than his years. It wasn’t much to look back on. With nowhere else to go, and not much else to say, they headed through Austin and on west to the ranch where Wyatt lived...and where Tyler would be living, too.
The hot Texas wind followed them, reaching in the window and ruffling the boy’s blond hair just as Wyatt used to ruffle DJ’s hair. DJ had always hated anyone touching his hair. Now he was in some godforsaken corner of the world with all his blond hair long gone to the barber’s razor.
Wyatt leaned back and returned his gaze to the two-lane blacktop.
What in the world were they going to do now?
CHAPTER TWO
EMILY JANE IVERS liked—no, demanded—predictability in her world. Unfortunately, few people or events lived up to her expectations.
Just like every other morning, she headed to her office. She checked with the clerk, scanned the docket and arranged her day’s schedule. She loved the consistency of her calendar. It shook up her whole day if there were cross outs or Wite-Out on it.
Today, she could only stare at the normally orderly page on her desk. The bright yellow sticky notes were not expected and she felt herself tense at the events spelled out on them.
“I don’t do juvenile cases.” She ripped one sticky from the page and headed to Dianne’s desk. “I don’t do juvenile cases,” she repeated to her clerk’s face.
The tiny, bespectacled woman behind the counter peered over her dark frames. “You do this week. Judge Ramsey is out sick and we’re covering any emergency situations.”
“Emergencies?” No one really had emergencies; they just thought they needed something done now and called it an emergency. She and Dianne had had that conversation often enough.
“There are already two cases scheduled.” Dianne rounded the desk, her arms loaded with files. She moved from desk to desk, delivering a few to each clean blotter.
“Can’t they be rescheduled?” Emily picked up the datebook that served as the department’s master calendar, needing something to hold on to.
“No.” Dianne grabbed the datebook and slapped it back on her desk. “It’ll be good for you.” Dianne’s blue eyes sparkled behind those infernal glasses.
“No. It won’t.” Emily knew there was no way this was going to end well.
No case was simple, not in family court, and certainly not in the juvenile arena. Emily didn’t like messy cases, and it drove her crazy whenever she had to preside over one. That was why she’d left that division. Well, part of the reason, anyway. “Do I even have any of the reports?”
“Nope.” Dianne glanced up at the old clock on the wall. “You’d better hustle if you’re going to get over to Ramsey’s courtroom in time.”
How did Dianne take control like that? Who was in charge around here, anyway? Emily re
sisted the urge to smile. Dianne, of course. Magistrates and judges came and went over the years, but good law clerks were priceless and Dianne was the best. She’d been in the building for nearly twenty-five years.
As Emily hurried through the familiar dim halls of the courthouse, her mind worked. She’d never had second thoughts about her job. Heck, she’d never been one to look back or second-guess her actions, period. Right now, though, she was tempted.
Reminding herself that she knew how to do this, she headed to the second floor. Still, as she climbed the steps, her hand curled tightly around the cool bar of the handrail, her heart raced.
To save time, she cut through the common area. She wasn’t supposed to mingle with the public on court days, just in case she ran into one of the case participants. But she didn’t have time to go all the way around to the back stairs.
Still, all the people crowding around her set her on edge. By the time she reached Judge Ramsey’s chambers, her palms were damp and her heart had hit a painful pace.
She barely had time to catch her breath before Rita, the judge’s clerk, descended. The distraction shook Emily out of her impending panic.
“Oh, thank goodness.” The older woman jumped up. “I’ve tried to get hold of you, but didn’t have your cell number.”
Emily refrained from telling her that no one had her cell number.
“The first case begins in ten minutes.”
“But I haven’t reviewed the files yet,” Emily protested.
“That’s okay. There aren’t any. Just listen. The first is a pretty obvious bad situation we need to get the kids out of ASAP. The one this afternoon is pretty cut and dried. You can look at those files over lunch.”
The woman grabbed the file and put it into Emily’s hands, then guided Emily toward the inner door. Was People Moving 101 a class in law clerk school?
“Then why is it an emergency?” Was that her blood pressure going through the roof? Rita looked over her glasses, much as Dianne always did. Emily frowned, reminding herself she was the magistrate, but they both knew she abhorred situations where a child was at risk.
“Mother’s missing. Dad’s overseas with special forces. The uncle’s requesting temporary custody until Dad’s back.”
Emily’s entire body tensed. Her heart froze in place. No she could not, would not do this. Images of William Dean’s face came to mind.
“Not permanent?” Her mind worked even if the rest of her seemed frozen in place.
“No. He’s convinced his brother is coming home and will take over full parental responsibility. He just wants it temporarily.”
Shadows from her last juvenile case stretched out to her and she shivered.
Cut and dried, indeed.
“The first participants will be here any minute.” Rita’s voice pulled Emily out of her thoughts.
Opening a small closet, Rita grabbed a thick black robe and helped Emily slip it on. Before she could ask, Rita explained. “Dianne sent it over first thing this morning.”
She’d always loved her judicial robe, and today it felt like the shield she often envisioned it to be. A shield that could protect her from all the hurt and pain that entered her courtroom each day. A shield that kept her emotions hidden from the people sitting in the seats below her bench.
The ritual complete, Emily met her reflection in the door’s glass. Gears in her mind shifted, and she left behind Emily Ivers and became E. J. Ivers, magistrate.
* * *
WYATT DRESSED EACH morning in jeans, a button-down shirt and his hat. Black Stetson in the winter. White straw in the summer. He was a traditional cowboy.
Over the past two weeks, he’d struggled to understand his nephew’s enchantment with T-shirts. Seldom-white T-shirts with words, pictures and at times, sayings that could be taken more than one way. Every day, Tyler pulled the T-shirt down over his worn jeans and slipped on battered tennis shoes that he never tied.
In the kitchen, filling his morning’s first cup, Wyatt leaned against the counter. He had to admit he looked forward to each day’s billboard or insult.
Today, Tyler didn’t disappoint. He came barreling into the kitchen at breakneck speed. Across his thin chest was a tabby cat, ears perked, fangs exposed and claws extended. Wyatt took a deep swallow of his coffee as he read the bold orange words: Stressed out! He smiled. It wasn’t typical for most eight-year-olds. But then, Tyler wasn’t a typical eight-year-old.
Tyler wasn’t exactly stressed, but he was definitely in training to lead a type-A-personality life. The pockets of his jeans bulged and Wyatt wondered what he’d stuffed inside.
“That what you’re wearing to court?” Wyatt asked softly, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter to him. He’d learned that pushing Tyler was like pushing DJ at that age. A waste.
“S’all I got.” Tyler didn’t look at Wyatt. He busied himself dragging a box of cereal out of the cupboard and grabbing the milk carton from the fridge.
“We could stop at the store and pick up a button-down shirt for you. We have time.”
Tyler stilled. “I ain’t got no money.”
“You know, your dad does. We’ll use his.” Wyatt had learned early on that Tyler didn’t like taking money from him. He’d sworn he “wasn’t no charity case.” That backbone would serve Tyler well, later. Wyatt had circumvented the boy by telling him it was DJ’s job to support him. Tyler liked that idea. Wyatt used it all the time now.
“Well, I s’pose I should look businessy.”
The kid seriously needed grammar lessons, but Wyatt knew that was the least of their problems at this point. “Then it’s settled. Hurry and finish breakfast so we can get going.”
“I can wear my jeans, right?” Tyler looked up, panicked, from his cereal.
“Yeah, those are fine.” Wyatt wondered what was important about those particular jeans.
Another thing he’d learned was that Tyler’s emotions weren’t hidden, they just didn’t always make adult sense. Settling in the kitchen chair, Wyatt finished his coffee as Tyler worked out the games on the back of the cereal box.
Again, Wyatt cursed DJ as he reminded himself that DJ didn’t even know he had a son.
Taking care of Tyler until DJ came home was all Wyatt could do right now, and this afternoon’s court date would get that ball rolling. As he looked down at the boy, Wyatt realized it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had.
Tyler was silent the entire trip into town but by the time they reached the courthouse, the new white shirt already had a dirt smudge on one elbow. Wyatt could only shake his head and smile.
Despite the quiet trip, the whole process of getting into the courthouse fascinated Tyler. His eyes grew wide with wonder as they went through security. The guards smiled at his questions, and Wyatt felt an innate sense of pride for his new nephew.
Now both of them stared at the double doors leading into the courtroom. “Well, here we are.” Wyatt spoke with as much reassurance as he could.
“Yep,” Tyler whispered.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with.” The sound of Wyatt’s boots and the scuff of Tyler’s tennis shoes seemed loud as they pushed open the doors and walked across the marble floor.
The courtroom didn’t look at all like the intimidating rooms he’d seen on TV. This room was smaller with only two tables, a desk that sat up on a dais and a high chair, which he presumed was a witness chair. A brass tag on the desk read, E. J. Ivers, magistrate.
“That desk is big.” Tyler’s eyes were still wide with wonder.
“Sure is.” Just then, the young attorney Wyatt had met with a few days ago arrived. She smiled distractedly and guided them to the table on the left.
Soon a woman came in and sat down at a small side desk and a man in a uniform opened a door at the back of the room. The judge entered and
the entire mood of the room became formal.
Wyatt saw Tyler swallow, and he resisted the urge himself. He put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder and squeezed.
* * *
“YOUR HONOR.” THE attorney finally spoke. Emily forced herself to concentrate on the young woman’s words instead of on the faces of the man and boy seated at the big table. They weren’t the ghosts in her mind, she reminded herself.
“We’re asking that Mr. Hawkins be given temporary custody of Tyler Easton until his father, David James Hawkins, returns from overseas.”
“Temporary?” Emily looked over at the boy, Tyler. “What about the mother?” The sadness that filled the child’s eyes was quickly blinked away.
“She’s abandoned him.” The attorney lifted a thin sheet of paper. “I’ve labeled her letter Exhibit A.”
“Could you bring that to me?”
The woman’s heels were a sharp staccato on the tile floor as she approached the bench.
Emily read the letter and frowned. “Is this correct?” She faced the man sitting beside the boy. “Your brother doesn’t even know he has a son?” Mr. Hawkins looked surprised at being addressed.
“Uh, yes. We’re trying to reach him. He’s special forces, so it’s tough. He hasn’t been informed yet, as far as I know.”
“What makes you believe he’s going to be willing to take on a child, when and if, he returns?”
“My brother will accept his responsibilities.” The man’s voice was hard, telling Emily that even if his brother didn’t want Tyler, this man would do everything in his power to make him accept the boy.
She leaned back in her chair, the swivel giving her a better view of the man. Her stomach did a strange little flip-flop and she struggled to ignore it. “Who’s the caseworker?”
“Elizabeth Morgan is assigned to this case. Unfortunately, she just went out on maternity leave,” the attorney said.
Messy, Emily reminded herself. Juvenile cases were always messy. She knew the answer to her next question, but needed it in the record. “Can’t we get another caseworker on it?”
