The Lawman's Secret Son

Thanks to Brady.

Now word was that Bill Armstrong had taken to drinking, his wife had threatened to leave him and his job was in peril.

“I heard you almost killed another kid tonight,” Armstrong said, coming to a halt six feet away from Brady. The overhead lights illuminated the thatch of sandy hair that continued around his face in a trimmed beard.

“You heard wrong,” Brady said. He didn’t want to waste time with Armstrong, but he didn’t want to turn his back on him, either.

“I heard Jason Briggs got shot and that you were there.”

Brady waited.

“That little gal who left when you murdered my son is back in Riverport.”

“Who told you that?”

He tapped his forehead with a finger. “I just know. Maybe it would have been better for her if she’d stayed away.”

Brady advanced a few steps. “She was a counselor to your kids,” he said. “She tried to help them. She’s an innocent in all this.”

Armstrong backed down a little. He looked in the direction of his shoes as he said, “Do you suppose she’d miss you if some concerned citizen took it in his mind to eliminate a public menace?”

Brady’s gut tightened. His decision to stop carrying a gun suddenly seemed shortsighted.

“I don’t, either,” Armstrong said. “But killing you is too easy.” His voice caught. “I want you to know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” Armstrong continued, his eyes moist now. “If you had a son it would be perfect. An eye for an eye. Poetic justice.”

“Where were you tonight?” Brady said softly.

Ignoring the question, Armstrong said, “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a kid.”

With total sincerity, Brady said, “I’ve told you a dozen times how sorry I am about your son. I had no choice. There was no time. He pulled a gun.”

Please, God, let that be true…

For a second, Armstrong looked ready to throw his weight at Brady. And then he rocked back on his heels and steadied himself by grabbing the hood of the closest car.

Brady picked his helmet up off the seat. “Stay away from Lara Kirk and Jason Briggs,” he said.

Armstrong shook his head. He took a deep breath and glared at Brady. “You’re not a cop anymore, Skye. You’re a washed-up has-been just like your old man. Maybe the other cops let you off the hook for murdering my kid, but I won’t. You’ll pay for what you did to me and mine.”

“I know,” Brady said. “You’re going to take me for every dime I have.”

The smile that broke Armstrong’s face was worse than his sneer. “That’ll be a start. We’ll see where it ends.”

Brady got on the bike and started the engine.

Was Armstrong a grieving man, more bark than bite, or was Brady’s gut feeling Lara was in terrible danger more than his guilty conscience at work?

At any rate, he wasn’t going to leave her alone tonight. He’d swing by his place and grab a toothbrush and some dry shoes and clothes. Trade the Harley for his truck in case they needed to go somewhere. Like it or not, she had a guard tonight.

WHAT WAS KEEPING Brady?

Lara stood by the front windows, freshly showered, wearing old sweats she’d found in a bottom drawer. She was still cold even though she knew it was a warm night, summer at its apex. When she closed her eyes, the cold river flooded her head.

Before the night was over she would tell Brady what she’d come back to Riverport to tell him.

She’d wanted to tell him forever.

The sitting room, as her mother called the room to the left of the foyer, was typical Victorian with very high ceilings and tall, stately windows. A rose and ivory Oriental carpet, its silk soft against Lara’s bare feet, covered the hardwood floor.

“Lara?” Lara turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. “Everything is quiet upstairs,” Myra added. “I think I’ll turn in.”

“Of course. Thanks for your help today. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m just glad I didn’t go on that cruise with your mother like she wanted. I did that once a couple of years ago and if you don’t mind my saying, it wasn’t much of a vacation for me.”

Lara nodded. She could imagine. As Myra left the room, a pair of headlights pulled up in front of the house. Lara recognized Brady’s green truck parked under the streetlight and she left the room, headed for the front door, suddenly aware her feet tingled and her palms felt sweaty. She took a deep breath as she pulled open the door.

He looked up as he took the last few steps. He’d obviously taken a shower and changed clothes and in the porch light, dressed in black jeans and a gray Henley, he looked lean, capable and focused.

She stood aside and he entered the house. He paused in the foyer, his gaze traveling up the broad, curved staircase as though looking for an invading army. Then his eyes met hers.

“You left the hospital.”

“Myra called. She was having trouble—”

“What kind of trouble?” He covered the few steps between them and caught her arm. She recoiled and he dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry. I forgot about your wound.”

“It’s okay. There’s a huge bandage on it. The doctor said there might be a scar but there was no permanent damage.”

“Good. What kind of trouble did the housekeeper have?”

She looked away for a second, then back at him. “It didn’t have anything to do with tonight, Brady, honest. I found a cab outside the hospital and took it home. Myra had to pay the man. I’d forgotten I no longer have a purse or a wallet. Do you know how Jason is doing?”

“I called from my place. He’s out of surgery, but it’s still touch and go.”

She nodded. Touch and go. “Poor kid.”

They each stared at the floor for a moment, then spoke at the same time.

She said, “Let’s go sit down—”

And he said, “I’m staying here tonight—”

They both stopped talking, he turned his hand palm up as if to give her a turn first. She repeated herself. He sat down on the second from bottom step and patted the space next to him.

Lara understood that he felt uncomfortable in her mother’s house and was reluctant to stray too far inside.