Colton Family Rescue

“I am.”

He couldn’t help smiling again, rare enough in these days of worry and mystery that he appreciated it. “I should give you a raise.”

“You already did. I’m quite sufficiently compensated, Mr. Colton.” But she was smiling as she left the office.

He realized after she’d left that one of the reasons he liked her was that she imposed a sense of order on things, and amid the current chaos, that was no small accomplishment. She—

The door opened once more, and Hannah leaned in. “Hurricane Fowler headed this way,” she said.

He grimaced. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Five minutes?”

He gave her a grateful look. “Ten. I’m feeling strong today.”

She nodded and backed out once more.

His brother at full force was not how he’d wanted to spend this afternoon. He needed a back door, T.C. thought, not for the first time. He even considered a dive into the adjoining bathroom, but knowing Fowler he’d barge in anyway. He smothered a sigh and braced himself. It was easier, knowing that in ten minutes Hannah would remind him of some urgent piece of business that had to be attended to immediately. It felt cowardly to him, but sometimes it was the only way to deal with the steamroller that was his half brother.

There was a thud as the door was shoved open; the formality of a knock was usually absent when Fowler was involved. He felt—and acted—as if he owned not only the entire building but everyone in it.

“I know who killed Dad!”

T.C. stood up; he’d expected some business-related demand, or another lecture on his lack of bloodthirstiness on the Wainwright deal. T.C. believed in healthy competition, and the occasional solid partnership; Fowler believed in wiping the competition off the field.

“We don’t know,” T.C. reminded his brother, “that Dad’s dead.”

“Never mind that. I know who did it.”

T.C. groaned inwardly. Great, he thought. Here we go again. It’s not enough that Mother accused Alanna of all people. Now Fowler’s got some other crackbrained theory?

“I presume your glee means you’ve found another suspect for them to chase after besides yourself and Tiffany?”

“Oh, yes.”

Foreboding sparked in T.C.’s chest. Fowler was too gleeful. This was more than just some harebrained idea to throw suspicion off him and his self-absorbed, money-conscious girlfriend. T.C. waited silently, refusing to rise to the bait, denying Fowler some of the pleasure he seemed to get out of making people jump to his tune. Irritation flickered in his eyes.

“You’re so cool now, but you won’t be. Not when I tell you who it is, who I saw right here in town, not an hour ago.”

He’d been right. This was more. And it was aimed at him. “Just get it over with, Fowler. I have a busy schedule.”

Fowler folded his arms across his chest and smirked. “I’ve already called the sheriff, so don’t think you can stop that.”

T.C. frowned. “Why would you think I would want to stop you?” He wanted his father found, and while he doubted whatever wild claim Fowler was making now would prove true, he also felt every avenue should be explored.

“Because you’re a pushover and always have been when it comes to her,” Fowler said, in that nasty tone T.C. had learned meant he was about to spring his trap.

The foreboding exploded into full-blown apprehension. “Her?”

Fowler’s smirk widened. He was clearly taking great pleasure in this.

“Jolie Peters.”

Chapter 3 (#ulink_89895cf5-4408-53cd-ab3b-00e3fed5e6f7)

Jolie clutched her still-weeping daughter close, rocking her, cooing at her, trying to soothe her. The police were being kind, but as grim as she would have expected them to be, dealing with a cold-blooded murder. The Central Business District had its own dedicated police. They knew the area inside out and were coolly, briskly efficient. If she wasn’t in such shock, Jolie would have been impressed.

And if it wasn’t for Emma, she might feel safe.

“It’s all right, honey,” said the uniformed woman kneeling before them as they sat on the edge of the police unit’s front seat. Jolie had purposely put their backs to the bloody scene. The sight of a woman who just a couple of hours ago had been alive being put in a cold, dark bag and loaded in the back of a van was not something she wanted added to Emma’s already horrible images.

The woman’s voice was soft, gentle, and Jolie liked the way she looked at her for permission before she reached up and brushed her fingers over the child’s tearstained cheek. “Maybe you’ll remember more later when it’s not quite so scary.”

“I’m sorry,” Jolie said, “but she’s too upset.”

“Of course she is. Who wouldn’t be? And just knowing we’re looking for a woman helps a lot.”

“You believe her?”

The other officers had seemed to doubt Emma’s account, which Jolie understood, given that the girl had been practically hysterical. Although she seemed to be calming down now. As if the quiet, adult conversation going on over her head was soothing her. Jolie’s gaze flicked to the woman’s face and saw she knew that and was doing this intentionally. She glanced at the name tag over her left pocket, which read T. Wilcox.

“I have a three-year-old boy, Tyler,” she said, “and I know when he’s making things up. I trust you do, too.”

Jolie gave her a grateful smile. “I do.” She glanced at the people both in uniform and civilian clothes clustered around where the body was, at last, being removed. “But I’m not sure they believe her.”

“It’s not that they don’t believe her, it’s that she’s able to give so little to go on. And no one else saw a woman in the area. Plus, a crime like this isn’t usually the way a woman would go about a murder. But I heard John Eckhart caught the case. He’s a good detective, one of the best. He’ll—”

“Liddy,” Emma said suddenly.

Jolie looked at the child on her lap. “What, honey?”

“Her eyes were like Liddy’s.”

Officer Wilcox looked at Jolie, clearly puzzled.

“Lydia,” Jolie explained. “She’s an anime character Emma loves.” Her brow furrowed, and then she smoothed back Emma’s tousled hair. “Do you mean the color, honey?”

“Green.”

“Well, now,” Officer Wilcox said with a wide smile. “That’s brilliant, Emma.”

The flicker of a smile curved Emma’s mouth. Wilcox was obviously a very kind woman. Jolie gave a brief, silent thanks, as she always did, to Art Reagan, the beat cop who’d pulled her out of a morass of trouble and helped set her on a better path. And who had kept her from forever being wary of anyone who wore the uniform and badge. It was he who’d gotten her the job at the Colton Valley Ranch. He was distantly related to Bettina Morely, the cook there, and she’d given Jolie the chance on his say-so.

She felt a sudden burst of longing, something she hadn’t felt—hadn’t allowed herself to feel—in a very long time. A longing for the safety and happiness and hope she’d felt for that idyllic and painfully short time. Right now especially for the safety. And for the man who’d made her feel that way, that she—and her little girl—would be safe. She wanted more than anything to feel that way again.

She yanked her frazzled brain off that fruitless path.

“Do you know who she is?” Jolie asked. Was, she amended silently, grimly.