Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

  Since he no longer had to slave away every day, all day long at Tweed Law, he’d had nothing else on his mind but Brooke Chadwick. Brooke’s legal case. Brooke’s family’s museum. Brooke’s future. What time Brooke got off work. Whether she’d eaten yet. What she might wear. How her next kiss might feel, each one feeling brand new.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d get another shot at kissing her, right?

  One cool thing about Brooke, she’d never even brought up The Relationship Talk with Dane. No relationship pressure came at him from her, ever. It was one of the things that made her so appealing— she was the lone flower blooming on the hillside, not the one by the road catching the dust of every passing traveler.

  The women he’d dated always insisted on having relationship talks with him. Sometimes on the first date. They tried to rope him in all the blasted time. But not Brooke.

  His breathing became uneven. He had to have her, like a drug. No, he needed Brooke like Brooke needed clear ownership of the Called Shot Ball.

  Knock, knock, knock. A rap sounded on the window of his truck, and he turned, rolling it down fast.

  “Hey, there, Mr. Dane Rockwell. Is that you?”

  Oh. That woman Brooke knew from church and Maddox. The hairdresser with the gossip addiction. Speaking of addictions.

  “Hi. It’s Pansy, right?”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “You remembered. Wow. That’s …”

  Dane sent a glance toward Fawn & Zimmerman. Brooke would be coming out any second.

  “So, wow. I usually just see you in Maddox, but here you are in Naughton. Wow.”

  “Right. The big city.” He tried to will her away. “Nice to see you again. Have a great—”

  But she interrupted. “So, you and Brooke Chadwick, huh?”

  This snared him. “Uh …” He didn’t know whether she had information or whether she was fishing.

  “Because it’s funny. I remember that steamy kiss in church right after she got engaged to Dr. Crosby.” She fanned herself. “I thought I’d burn up right there in the chapel. And now, everyone says they keep seeing the two of you together at little league practices and things.”

  “Our teams scrimmage.” He refused to offer this person any more ammo for her arsenal. He started up the truck, but he couldn’t exactly drive away and strand Brooke at the law office of F&Z, who were probably gnawing on her soul in there right now.

  “Oh, is that all it is? Then I guess you won’t mind that good old Dr. Ames Crosby is heading out of ‘the big city,’ as you call it, and moving back to his hometown of Maddox to open an urgent care next to the Piggly Wiggly.”

  Dane’s mouth might have twitched. He looked past this Pansy person’s head into the distant trees. “I’m sure Dr. and Mrs. Crosby will get a warm welcome in Maddox.” Not. Not after the way he’d treated Brooke, their town beauty pageant princess. They’d probably string him up. Or even better, boycott his business.

  Pansy glanced down at her purple fingernails. “Oh, there isn’t going to be a Mrs. Crosby. Didn’t you hear? They split up— right on their one year anniversary. How unromantic.” She pulled a grimace and waved a fingers-only goodbye. “Well, gotta jet. Sally Beauty Supply closes in fifteen minutes. Bye.”

  Back. That jackwagon was coming back. Dane’s stomach went hot and then sour, like some kind of Chinese soup.

  “Hey, friend.” Brooke climbed into the truck beside him. He hadn’t seen her walk up, too focused on his meltdown.

  He was not the meltdown type. Ever. But his insides roiled. Insecurity made his shoulder blades pull together and a muscle in his neck pulse.

  “I’m back,” Brooke said.

  “So?” Keep it together. Play it cool. Dane Rockwell was cool. He put his truck in gear and accelerated quickly so the two-windows-down air conditioning could take effect as they peeled away from the law firm.

  “So, Fawn said no. I couldn’t have it.”

  “Argh. I knew it.” Dane muttered a curse word under his breath and pounded the steering wheel with his palm, sweat forming on his brow, all his cool hissing away like a broken AC coil. “That’s just great. Great! Now we have no will. Old Cloyd over at the bowling alley kept a death grip on our handwriting sample for comparison, and because of my lockout from Tweed Law— thanks to that harpy Mrs. Jackson, I’ve been isolated from my contacts.” He couldn’t even ask a favor from a former colleague to help represent her. He was persona non grata there, couldn’t show his face. No one wanted to be tainted by association.

  With a balled fist, he punched the upholstery next to his left leg, anger raising his temperature about ten degrees. “And it’s killing me that I can’t go in there and shake down Fawn & Zimmerman for you.” His unhinged jaw kept flapping in all manner of uncool. “You deserve more than a friend, Brooke. I want you to be able to count on me.”

  “I can count on you, Dane.” Brooke, the picture of calm and cool reached a hand over and rested it on his arm. He could breathe again. “Look.” She pulled out her phone.

  There on her screen was a photo of the will.

  “You…took that? They let you see it?”

  “Yeah. They wouldn’t give me a copy— so I just made one when they weren’t looking.” She pulled a half-grin. “When you snapped that picture at the bowling alley, I paid attention. See? I learned from the best.”

  Dane exhaled, his back sinking into the seat. “Wow.” His pulse slowed back to normal, except for little spikes when he thought about how much of a fit he’d just thrown. “Impressive work.”

  Thanks to Brooke’s quick thinking, they— more or less— had the will. Add it to his photo of the scorecard, and they had the comparison sample.

  It might be enough for Norvin North of Chincoteague, Maryland.

  He swung the truck to the side of the road and pulled out his cell phone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I would be kissing you for being brilliant, but…no. I’m confirming your appointment with Norvin North.”

  “The handwriting expert?”

  North might have been known for his expertise, but he wasn’t known for his discretion. Loose lips sink ships. But they’d have to deal with that. The short timeline might work in their favor, as long as LaBarge didn’t call and ask North directly what Brooke had brought him.

  “That’s right. I hope he picks up.”

  This had to work. It had to. With Crosby back in town— without a wife— helping Brooke win this case was Dane’s only chance to prove himself worthy. To show her that she needed him and no one else. And definitely not Doctor Jackwagon.

  North answered his own phone. He sounded a hundred years old. Maybe he was retired, and that’s what took him to Chincoteague, a resort island, instead of an office in a crime-ridden city. Dane handed Brooke the phone, and she made the appointment.

  “Great,” Dane said as he pulled back onto the road.

  “Is there anything I should know?”

  For a second he was thrown by the question. Yes, she should know that Ames Crosby was back in Maddox. To stay.

  “Uh.” For a long moment he debated. Maybe he should tell her the truth about Crosby’s being back in town. Or not. Maybe telling her would be a mistake. What if it wasn’t even true?

  Secrets always had weight.

  Then he realized she was asking about what to do when she met with Mr. North.

  “I guess just take him the two photographs.”

  “We could print them out.”

  “That’s a good idea. Try to get a high resolution.”

  “We probably aren’t welcome back at the library to do that.” She had a glimmer in her eye. Yeah, she still wanted him— kissing ban or not.

  The rumor about Crosby wormed underneath his skin, biting him. She ought to know.

  They pulled back into Maddox, and Dane wheeled the Dodge into the alleyway behind Left Field.

  “Brooke, I heard something today while you were in Fawn & Zimmerman.” He le
t her out of the passenger side, and she looked up at him, her brown eyes dewy and wide. Everything about her he needed, wanted, desired.

  And to have her, honestly, he needed to be someone she could trust implicitly to always be open with her.

  “What was it?” she asked.

  “While I was waiting for you—”

  “Hey, there.” Aunt Ruth bustled toward them. “I thought you’d never come sliding into home plate. Here.” She extended a hand to Brooke. “Looks important. Two scruffy-looking guys who claimed to be officers of the court just dropped it off.”

  Brooke accepted it, but after a glance she handed it to Dane.

  “I have no idea what it means,” she said. “Is it a joke?”

  It was no joke. “They’re taking the ball.” %

  Chapter Sixteen

  Legal Custody

  “Who’s taking the ball?” Brooke’s confusion sent her voice to a higher pitch as they stood in the muggy evening air in the grassy backyard of Left Field. Her stress level had already been elevated by the dangling conversation between her and Dane before Aunt Ruth and her distressing papers walked up.

  What had he been about to say? It had seemed important. But it was gone from his face now.

  “The scruffy-looking people?” Aunt Ruth asked. “Because they can’t have it. It’s Brooke’s. It’s going to be the bedrock of Left Field.”

  And their whole financial future, Brooke could add. “But I have a meeting with Trae Earnshaw shortly.” Which— dang it. She couldn’t go see that handwriting expert over in Chincoteague. “I’m actually going to have to cancel with Norvin North.”

  Too many responsibilities competed for her attention. Court, funding for Left Field, all of it. She was slipping.

  “That sounds bad,” Aunt Ruth said, her eyes bouncing between the two of them. She could sense the tension, too.

  “The investor wants to see the ball again, bring another appraiser, make sure we’re not scamming him. Tonight’s meeting is for signing contracts and handing over the check. Nothing can go wrong.” She checked her watch. She’d have to reschedule with the Norvin North guy— and there was no time. “You picked it up from the safety deposit box before the bank closed, right?”

  Aunt Ruth nodded. “Which is what made me consider loading my shotgun when those two reprobates showed up with that letter. I thought they’d seen me get it from the bank and came by to mug an old lady.”

  In no way was Aunt Ruth old.

  Brooke leaned against the tall fence surrounding the yard to support herself. “Scruffy people?” She turned to Dane.

  “Process servers, most likely.” He was absorbed in the letter.

  “They can’t actually take it, can they?” She wanted to lean on Dane, but he had such a stern, distant look ever since they’d been in the truck, she wasn’t sure. He was out of sorts.

  “I’d have to look it up.” He glanced up from the letter, and the concern in his eyes dampened Brooke’s hopes. This was not good. So not good.

  “But then you’d be acting as my lawyer. Dane—” Brooke knew it would put him in a bad position. Probably worse than he had let on.

  “Let me deal with all that.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and got back into his truck. Her lips tingled with disappointment. “I know what I’m doing. And hey?” he said from inside the truck. “Be careful.”

  “With the ball? I’m not letting it out of my sight.” Whatever that letter said, no way could LaBarge and his henchmen legally force her to forfeit her ball.

  “I mean with yourself.”

  Cold fear washed through her. What did he mean, be careful with herself? Nothing was going to happen to her. Unless it had something to do with the scruffy people. She hugged herself against a sudden gust of night wind.

  What was he going to tell me before Aunt Ruth came out? He’d heard something while Brooke was in Fawn & Zimmerman. Maybe it meant danger.

  More than ever she wanted him to stay, but Aunt Ruth had charged into Left Field and then come rushing back out with the Called Shot Ball’s lacquer box in hand.

  “Here. You’re going to be late for your meeting with Earnshaw.”

  __________

  “Mr. Earnshaw. Good to see you again.” Brooke extended a hand to shake. No restaurant tonight, he’d insisted they meet at the lobby of Maddox’s nicest bed and breakfast, where he must be staying. “And this is your friend?” Brooke strained to make polite conversation, to remember what little questions to ask, as her mind jumped a hundred places. Exactly who were the scruffy people, and could they actually make her give up the Called Shot Ball? Her innards recoiled. But whatever that paperwork said, it couldn’t be legally binding. It had to be some kind of intimidation tactic— something without real teeth.

  Brooke refused to believe it could be legal to make her surrender her rightful property.

  “My associate, Miss Finch. She’s here to appraise the ball.”

  Miss Finch looked too young to appraise anything except fashion at Forever 21, but Brooke went with it.

  The second they sat down on the antique furniture, Trae insisted on opening the lacquer box. “As I told you,” he showed it to Miss Finch, “it’s got the right stitching and stamping.”

  “No signature?” Miss Finch looked up, eyes narrowed at Brooke.

  “Um, no.” Brooke assumed an expert would understand. “This isn’t some souvenir. This is the ball, caught by a fan in the stands.”

  The china doll face relaxed. “Just testing you.”

  Brooke’s pulse up-ticked. “Testing.”

  Trae Earnshaw shrugged it off. “I have to be wary of scams. As an investor, you know. And today I’m here to make the investment official.” He patted a pile of paperwork.

  But Brooke’s hackles had been raised. “I’m not here to scam you, Mr. Earnshaw. And if you don’t know that by now—”

  Miss Finch interjected. “Did you see this accompanying paperwork, darling? Provenance up the yingyang.” She batted her eyelashes, her eyes decorated with a thick schmear of sparkling dark green eyeshadow.

  Up the yingyang? “Yes,” Brooke said. “Its authenticity hasn’t been in question.” Although should it have been? “The signature of Franklin Delano Roosevelt is being looked at by an expert.” Assuming Dane had gotten in touch with an expert. Assuming she could hang onto the ball and all its accompanying documents long enough to get it examined, what with the scruffy people— whoever they were— nipping at her heels with their fake legal notices.

  Miss Finch pursed her burgundy-lipsticked mouth. “It’s got all the hallmarks.” This appraiser gave her blessing, and Brooke exhaled.

  “I’m writing the check now, Miss Chadwick.” Earnshaw pulled out his checkbook. “Let’s get this puppy on display as soon as possible.”

  Warm gratitude and relief lit Brooke’s insides. “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Earnshaw. With this investment, I’d say we should be open in a couple of months.”

  “Make it weeks, add my name to the display of the Called Shot Ball, and I’ll double it.”

  Angels sang in Brooke’s ears. “Excuse me? Are you serious?”

  Miss Finch answered for him. “Trae is always serious.” Her sleek black hair bobbed in emphasis.

  “Thank you!” Brooke clutched the ball, the check, and her heart. “Absolutely. It’ll be ‘Trae Earnshaw Presents: The Called Shot Ball.’”

  He put his feet up on the coffee table and got comfy in the overstuffed parlor of the B&B. “Let’s call it Trae.”

  The display? He could call it whatever he wanted. This was incredible. Brooke might explode with excitement. Dane would be so happy at their success. Oh, yeah. And so would Aunt Ruth.

  The bell on the front door of the B&B jingled, and Brooke turned to see who had come in, suddenly twice as protective of this ball in front of possible strangers.

  But this wasn’t a stranger. This was the best face she could hope to see.

  “Dane? Cool. I’m so glad to…wait. What are yo
u doing here?”

  He looked grave. And he was accompanied by two, as Aunt Ruth would say, scruffy-looking men.

  “Brooke, I’m sorry. It’s legal, what they’re doing. And there’s no way to stop it.”

  “John Poole. Process server for the Naughton Superior Court.” The taller Scruff stepped forward and handed her a typed notice.

  Notice of Detinue Action.

  “Detinue action?” She scanned the legalese. It took a second for the meaning to distill in her mind. The situation sank in. They were taking the ball. “Wait. No. It’s mine, as it said in the will.”

  “That’s for the court to determine. On Tuesday.”

  “Well, I’m not handing it over just like that.” Brooke’s heels dug into the pink plush carpet of the B&B. “How did you find me, anyway? Were you following me?” A worse thought hit her, sending white pangs of terror snaking through her. “Did you lead them here, Dane?”

  She stood blinking, waiting for his answer.

  “You have to give it to them. The court requires it.”

  “So you did lead them here.”

  “No. No, not at all.”

  “Your vehicle is known, Miss Chadwick,” the John Poole person said. “You’d be wise to comply with court orders.”

  “I came as soon as I could. These yay-hoos just happened to arrive at the same moment.”

  Up walked Earnshaw, the sexy appraiser on his arm. “What’s going on here?”

  “Writ of Detinue.” Dane’s mouth made a grim straight line. “Basically, someone has insisted the ball’s ownership is in dispute.”

  “And?” Earnshaw’s skepticism was growing.

  “And under detinue action, someone— one guess who— has paid the court twice the value of the disputed item, basically put up a bond, to have the court keep the item in custody until the ownership can be sorted out.”

  Brooke looked up at him. He was deadly serious. He must have gone immediately to research the law the moment she left. Earlier he’d said he wanted her to be able to count on him, and—

  “And so you better hand over the ball to us, lady. It’s not yours to keep at this point.”