Apprentice Father

“I’m sorry to give you such bad news. We notified a Clayton Adams in Iowa as well. However, he’s ill and unable to assist with any arrangements.”

His father’s illness was news to Clay. But he didn’t keep in touch with his holier-than-thou old man. And he couldn’t care less what his physical condition was. Thanks to the pressure he’d exerted, Anne had stayed in a dangerous marriage.

Now she was dead.

As the full impact of the officer’s news began to sink in, a wave of nausea swept over Clay. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow obliterate the reality. But it couldn’t alter the facts. Anne was gone.

“What happened?” He managed to choke out the hoarse question.

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “According to the report, it appears she died from a blow to the head. The autopsy will confirm that.”

All at once, Clay’s shock gave way to rage. A rage that went at light speed from simmering to boiling. “I hope you lock up that monster and throw away the key,” he spat out.

“Unfortunately, the suspect had disappeared by the time we arrived.”

A muscle in Clay’s jaw clenched. “You mean he’s gone?”

“For the moment. But we’ll find him. He took the family’s car, and we’ve issued a BOLO alert on him.”

“Did Anne report this before she…before she died?”

“No. From what we’ve been able to gather, the suspect locked the children in a bedroom when the dispute began. One of them climbed out a window and ran next door for help. The neighbors called the police.”

Clay hadn’t even thought about Josh and Emily. “Are the kids okay?”

“Physically, yes. But as you might expect, they’re pretty traumatized. A friend of Mrs. Montgomery’s is watching them until family arrives.”

Meaning him. There was no one else.

Wiping a hand down his face, Clay tried to think. The construction project he’d been sent to Washington to oversee was in the critical start-up phase, and a late February snow had already put them behind schedule in the two weeks he’d been on site. His boss in Chicago wouldn’t be too thrilled about his taking time off. But that was tough.

He glanced again at the clock. “I can be there by noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll pass that on to Mrs. Montgomery’s friend. Let me give you her name and address.”

Flipping on the light, Clay fumbled in the drawer of his nightstand for a pencil and paper. He jotted down the information in a script so shaky he hoped he’d be able to read it later.

“And give us a call once you arrive,” the lieutenant finished. “We’ll need you to fill out some paperwork. Is there anything else we can do for you in the meantime?”

“Find my sister’s husband.”

“We intend to. And if it’s any comfort, your sister’s friend told us she would notify their pastor, and that all of you would be remembered in the prayers of her congregation.”

With an effort, Clay bit back the disparaging comment that sprang to his lips. Instead, he thanked the officer and hung up.

Clasping his shaky hands, he leaned forward and took several long, slow breaths as the lieutenant’s last comment echoed in his mind. He’d grown up in a so-called Christian home. A household where the slightest transgression was punished. Where hell and damnation were preached, and guilt was ladled out in generous portions. Where the God of vengeance and punishment held court, and where unrepentant sinners—like him—were dealt with harshly and told to pray for mercy.

Back then, Clay hadn’t thought much of prayer. He thought even less of it now, the taste of bitterness sharp on his tongue. Anne had prayed. But where had God been when she’d needed Him a few hours ago? And what good were the prayers of her congregation now? Anne was gone, leaving a four-and five-year-old motherless.

As for him…he didn’t need God’s help. He’d learned long ago to take care of himself.

Of course, if God wanted to lend a hand, that was fine. He was going to need all the help he could get in the days to come.

But he sure wasn’t going to count on it.

Chapter One

As the service for Anne droned on, Clay checked on the two children sitting beside him, who were huddled close together in the pew, holding hands. Emily’s long, dark hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and her eyes were huge in her pale face. Fair-haired Josh looked uncertain and lost, his freckles standing in stark relief against his pale skin, one finger stuck in his mouth. He hadn’t said a word since Clay had arrived in Omaha.

Redirecting his attention to the sanctuary, where Reverend Phelps was presiding over Anne’s funeral, Clay tried not to appear too hostile. He hadn’t been inside a church since his sister’s wedding almost ten years ago, and he’d prefer not to be in one now. But Anne would have wanted a church service. That’s why he’d thrown his one suit into his suitcase in the early morning hours preceding his long, solitary drive to Nebraska.

He’d always been a sucker about giving his gentle, loving kid sister what she wanted, he recalled. His favorite comic book, his last piece of chocolate. He’d been her biggest fan when she’d had the leading role in her grade school play, and her staunchest defender when bullies had plagued her in middle school.

Yet he hadn’t been able to save her from the ultimate bully. From the man who, ironically, had pledged to love, honor and cherish her all the days of his life.

As he looked at the coffin resting beside him in the aisle, Clay’s throat tightened. A tear leaked out the corner of his eye, and he dipped his head to swipe at it with the back of his hand.

May Martin rot in hell for all eternity, Clay thought, the bitter wish twisting his gut.

And his feelings toward his old man weren’t much kinder.

Nor were they tempered by the memory of their brief conversation after he’d arrived in Nebraska. He hadn’t seen or talked with his father since Anne’s wedding, and he hadn’t recognized the querulous voice on the phone. But though his father had sounded old and feeble, he’d been as self-righteous, demanding—and disapproving—as ever.

“Listen, boy, I can’t make it to Nebraska for the service. I have pneumonia.” His father’s hacking cough, followed by audible wheezing, had interrupted their conversation. “You’ll have to handle the arrangements.”

Clay had always hated how his father called him “boy.” His jaw had clamped shut and he’d gritted his teeth. “I plan to.”

“There has to be a church service.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Who has the children?”

“I do.”

“I guess there’s no other option right now.”

He must think I’ll corrupt them in a week, Clay had concluded, compressing his mouth into a thin line.

“I’ll take them as soon as I’m well enough,” his father had continued. “I’ll call you.”

And with that he’d hung up.

There hadn’t been a lot of opportunity to think about his father’s last comment, but as the organ launched into a hymn and the people around him began to sing, Clay considered the two children beside him. He’d been so mired in grief, so bogged down in paperwork and funeral arrangements, he hadn’t given much thought to their future.

But as he regarded their innocent, anxious faces, his heart contracted with compassion. How could he relegate these little children to a cold, joyless life with his strict, hard-nosed father? After the trauma they’d been through, they needed love and tenderness, and a stable, supportive environment. They needed a caring parent figure and a real home. His father would offer none of those things.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t equipped to offer them, either, Clay acknowledged. He didn’t know much about love or tenderness, and less about how to create a comforting haven. The home of his youth wasn’t a good prototype. Nor were his twelve years in the Army, where the focus had been on structure and discipline and honor. And his current job kept him on the move, making it impossible to establish ties of any kind—or even a permanent home. And that’s the way he liked it.