Colton Family Rescue

by Justine Davis

  He didn’t answer that, just turned and swung up into the saddle. Then he leaned far down and held his hand out to the child.

  “I’ll pull you up,” he told her. “You just hang on and let me do it.”

  She nodded with an utter faith that sent another jolt of sweet memory through him. He’d so often thought of future times like this, of days of showing this precious child the things that he loved, of guiding her and teaching her. And he’d been more than a little surprised at how much he regretted that loss, after Jolie had taken her and run.

  The feel of her little hand in his, so trusting, the way his big hand wrapped around the delicateness of her arm as he grasped it to pull her up into the saddle, made him want to be all the more gentle with her, although he doubted the girl was as fragile as his heart was saying she was.

  He swung her up and settled her in the saddle in front of him in one smooth motion. The girl gave a delighted shriek, which settled into happy giggling once she was astride the big paint. A lesser animal than Flash might have shied away from the high-pitched sounds, but the big gelding remained unruffled.

  “Look, Mommy! I’m up so high!”

  Jolie gave her daughter a smile that nearly made T.C.’s stomach knot up all over again.

  “Yes, you are. He’s a big sweetie, Flash is.”

  Emma giggled again.

  “All right,” T.C. said, still having to work to focus on the matter at hand. “Now pay attention to how he moves, Emma. And how it feels. You’ll get so you can move with him, and it will start to feel natural.”

  “Are we gonna run?” She sounded both excited and fearful.

  “Gallop, and not yet. Slow first.”

  “’Kay.”

  He lifted the reins gently. Flash seemed to realize this was different, or else he’d taken the edge off in that moonlight run last night. The big horse set out sedately, once more taking Emma’s delighted squeal in stride.

  This was how it would have been, T.C. thought, if Jolie hadn’t given in to his parents.

  But she had. They hadn’t been worth fighting for to her. She hadn’t come to him for help, hadn’t trusted him enough to stand against his parents.

  “And you would have been trapped between me and your parents.”

  Jolie’s words came back to him then, and he knew there was truth in them, that it was part of her reason at least. How many times had she told him, when he would complain about his father’s authoritarianism or his mother’s smug snobbery, to lighten up? That at least he had his parents, and he should treasure that.

  Emma looked up at him, with that kind of untainted delight and happiness only a child seemed able to muster.

  “I couldn’t take that risk. Not with Emma.”

  No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. He knew that now. Because neither could he.

  He smiled back at the girl. The smile became a grin; he couldn’t help it. For this sweet moment, none of the rest mattered.

  Chapter 19

  “Where were you the night of July seventh?”

  Jolie’s brow furrowed. He’d spoken quietly without looking at her; all his attention was on Emma, who was standing atop a crate and busily brushing Flash. The horse was utterly trustworthy, he’d told her, but that didn’t preclude something startling the animal into a reflexive action, so he was watching them both like one of the red-tailed hawks she’d often seen overhead.

  “I don’t...that was three months ago, and July was crazy with banquets and summer stuff, plus Emma. I’d have to—” She stopped suddenly, realizing why he’d asked. “That was the night...your father?”

  He nodded, with a glance at her. “And you need...something that can be verified.”

  He was being careful for Emma’s sake, but she knew what he meant. An alibi. Something she’d never, ever expected to need, especially for something as horrible as kidnapping and possibly murder.

  “I think I know,” she said. “But to be sure, I’d have to look it up in my planner. And it’s at home. I didn’t think to grab it.”

  “No reason to,” he said equably, focused again on Emma, who was lovingly brushing the black-and-white mane now. Flash himself appeared to be dozing, as if the child’s ministrations were lulling him to sleep. “It’s not on your phone?” he asked.

  She gave him a sideways look. “A smartphone isn’t in my budget.”

  It stung to say, but it was what it was, and something that would never occur to a Colton. And his expression did change, but to her confusion it was to something that almost looked like admiration.

  “I’ll pick it up when I go in to see the attorney this afternoon.” He flicked a glance at her again. “If you trust me with the key.”

  She nearly laughed. “I’ve trusted you with my daughter’s safety. My house key is way down on that list.”

  Something changed in his voice then, and suddenly it was as if these last four years had never intervened; he was using that tone that told her he was deadly serious about what he was saying.

  “You can trust me with her, Jolie. I would never, ever let anything happen to her. Not by my mother’s hand or anyone else’s.”

  “How about the system she’d end up in if Fowler manages to convince them I did it?” she said, all the worries she’d been fighting off suddenly flooding out.

  “He won’t.”

  “Sorry, I’ve seen too many of your brother’s schemes succeed.” She sounded bleak even to herself. “And Emma has no one but me.”

  And then T.C. reached out and took her hand. He kept his eyes on Emma and the big horse, but he clasped her fingers gently, warmly in his long, strong ones. That he never looked away from Emma warmed her as much as the unexpected touch.

  “She has me, Jolie. And she will never go into that system you hate, even if the worst happens. If I have to use every ounce of power and money the Colton name can wield, she never will. I promise you that.”

  Shaken, Jolie stared at him. At the familiar and loved profile, dark hair, well-proportioned nose, the full, dark sweep of his lashes, the strong jaw, the mouth that could drive her insane. And she knew he meant every word. He would take care of Emma, if the worst were to happen.

  “And you keep your promises,” she whispered, her throat so tight she couldn’t have said it any louder anyway.

  He looked at her then, and all the memories, bliss and pain, fairly crackled between them.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  * * *

  It seemed strange to be so close to the office and not go in, but T.C. drove past with barely a glance. He was intent on his destination a few blocks over. Hugh Barrington had a large office in a glass-sided building almost within sight of Colton, a place furnished with an opulence and blatancy he didn’t care for. But Barrington made no excuses for it; in fact, often spoke of how he’d hired one of the most expensive interior designers in the city and told her to “Make it look like I’m the most successful attorney in Dallas, because I intend to be.”

  While he appreciated the philosophy and approach, T.C. also knew that a large part of the reason that gamble had paid off was that the newly minted lawyer had taken another risk early on: agreeing to work for onetime criminal Eldridge Colton. Barrington had been right there as Eldridge parlayed his first wife’s wealth into building up the ranch, then struck oil, and they had both ridden it to the top. Despite the twenty-year gap in their ages, the partnership had lasted decades now, and Barrington was T.C.’s father’s oldest and closest friend.

  Probably because they operated on about the same ethical level, T.C. thought dryly as he opened the heavy, solid wooden door deeply etched with just Barrington’s name—T.C. had always figured that was his way of saying if you didn’t know who he was already you had no business being there—in gold in an elegant script. No removable door plate for him; if
he went, the very expensive door went with him.

  Barrington didn’t keep him waiting, T.C. was a Colton and the man knew where his bread was buttered. In fact, he came out of his inner office—which was even more ostentatious than the reception area—himself to greet him.

  The fifty-two-year old Barrington was about Eldridge’s height, which made him noticeably shorter than T.C. His hair was determinedly dark, but still thick, and his silver-framed glasses masked slightly the flat, pale blue of his eyes. His handshake was just a bit on the too-strong side, and T.C. guessed the man couldn’t help himself. He wondered what it must be like to be at Barrington’s level and still feel like you had something to prove.

  In fact, T.C. had never cared for the guy, and wondered at his father’s continued trust. He’d finally decided each man knew where the other’s bodies were buried, and so could they trust each other in ways they could no one else. But, he reminded himself as he followed him into the office and took a seat on the end of the long, grand leather couch, he wasn’t here for the man’s honesty, or lack thereof. He was here for a referral.

  “It’s good to see you,” Barrington said as he took a seat in the chair at right angles to T.C. “I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, all this time with no word. It’s awful, just horrible. I have nightmares about him, wondering where he is, if he’s hurt...or worse. I can’t believe the sheriff hasn’t found anything. How can that be? Are they that incompetent? I thought Reid’s case was an anomaly here in Texas, but now I’m wondering. They should have found Eldridge long ago.”

  T.C. bristled at the reference to his brother, but he tamped it down. Rather easily, since he was astonished by Barrington’s string of unbroken words. The man was chattering. As if he was nervous. T.C. didn’t spend a lot of time with the man. He had other attorneys he preferred to work with, but they were corporate types, with little to none of the kind of experience needed now.

  Plus, he hadn’t wanted to put them in the awkward position of feeling compelled to call the police—something Barrington would have no compunctions about, he was sure—because thanks to Fowler, Jolie was now a person of interest in a major investigation.

  Not to mention that his faith in the system had been shaken by Reid’s situation, so he wasn’t certain of anything at the moment.

  “Are you in trouble?” Barrington asked when T.C. explained what he wanted.

  “No. But a friend might be, if my brother pushes the cops hard enough.”

  Barrington looked thoughtful. “I presume you mean Fowler?”

  “Who else?” T.C. said, his mouth twisting into a wry grimace.

  “Is this something to do with your father’s case?”

  “He’s going to try and make it that way.” He held the man’s gaze. “It’s not true, but that never stops Fowler.”

  “And this friend, you’re certain they’re innocent?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I could—”

  “No.” T.C. realized he’d cut him off rather abruptly and quickly added, “You’re too close to this. I just need a couple of names, just in case.”

  Barrington seemed relieved. “Thank you. Yes, I am. It’s so awful. Your father is my oldest and dearest friend, and I’ve been such a wreck, not knowing, and I just can’t....”

  His voice fading away, he gave a vague wave of his hand before putting it over his eyes, squeezing his temples between thumb and forefinger. He was, T.C. realized with a little shock, genuinely upset. In fact, he sounded near tears. T.C. felt a stab of guilt; apparently the man was truly grieving the fate of his old friend. He himself had been almost numbed by days upon end of no news, but the sight of all this emotion was bringing it all back for him.

  By the time T.C. left, with a couple of suggested names, he was almost convinced the man felt as badly as the family did. He would have been completely convinced if it hadn’t been for the split second when he thought he’d seen Barrington peek at him through the fingers in front of his eyes, as if to see how T.C. was taking his demonstration of grief.

  Maybe he was reading too much into that, he thought as he returned to his car. Maybe it had been merely a shift of position. Maybe he’d just been embarrassed, the cool, tough lawyer, displaying such emotion.

  He shifted his focus, heading back to Jolie’s apartment. Oddly he was more on edge about that than he had been about the meeting with Barrington. And once inside—after having to explain to a neighbor who he was and what he was doing—he had to admit he was tempted to snoop, not because he expected to find anything startling, but because of the urge to learn whatever he could about her and her life now. The moment he realized that was what he was feeling, he swore aloud at himself.

  “Damned idiot. Get it and get the hell out of here,” he muttered under his breath. First he checked Emma’s alcove, saw that the window was still boarded up. He’d make a call or two, make sure that was fixed soon; he didn’t want Emma coming back to that reminder. He noticed a couple of picture books carefully placed within reach, and on impulse picked them up.

  He walked quickly toward the small desk in one corner of the living room, opened the drawer she’d described and saw the edge of the compact, snap-secured book with some loose papers protruding slightly in various places. Jolie had always been a bit of a traditionalist anyway, so perhaps she would have stuck with this even if a smartphone had been in the budget. The budget that was probably tighter than she’d admit to, which made him uncomfortable. But she’d made a good home here for herself and Emma, and he admired her for that. But then she’d always been—

  It hit him the instant he picked up the dark blue, leather-bound planner.

  He recognized it. He recognized it because he’d given it to her, for the first—and only—birthday of hers they’d spent together. Until then she’d been using a large manila envelope to keep paperwork in, and loose calendar pages with appointments for her and Emma noted.

  He remembered the awe with which she handled the gift, and the way she’d investigated every part of it, calendar pages, note pages, pockets, with delight. You would have thought it was an expensive piece of jewelry, the way she reacted.

  But then, Jolie never had been impressed with sparkle. She was a practical sort of girl. She’d had to be, he thought.

  And she’d kept this. And cared for it well. It was softer, broken in now, but just as clean and unscarred as the day it had come out of the box.

  He couldn’t stop the questions from forming in his mind. Had she kept it because he’d given it to her? Or simply because she couldn’t afford to replace it? Had she thought of him, when she used it, as she obviously did on a daily basis? Or had she completely divorced the giver from the object, as she had so completely removed herself and Emma from his life?

  Irritated with himself now, he turned on his heel and headed back for the door. He locked it carefully; there was no sign of any further trouble, and he wanted to keep it that way. And once back in the SUV he forced himself to think of something else. Anything else. And settled on that moment when Barrington had given him that odd glance.

  It was just embarrassment, he told himself again. Or, he thought, rather cynically he admitted, perhaps even an exaggeration, to show his devotion to the Coltons to one of the next generation.

  The generation that might well be now in charge, T.C. thought grimly, the by now old worry about his father kicked in.

  Nevertheless, that instant of time niggled at him as he headed back toward the ranch.

  Chapter 20

  Jolie hadn’t wanted him to do it.

  There was no way she could afford the kind of lawyer that ran in Colton circles. She’d be reduced to a public defender if it came to that. Some idealist straight out of law school with no idea how the world really worked. And she didn’t want to be the case that became the object lesson.

  But how cou
ld she stop it? This time it wouldn’t be just the rich and powerful Coltons; it would be the entire system turned against her. And she had too much experience with that grinding machinery to take it lightly.

  And Emma. Emma would end up where she’d been, lost, in foster care, shuttled from place to place, some okay, too many more indifferent and some hideous. No real home, no one to love her the way Jolie’s sweet girl deserved to be loved.

  Panic shot through her. She tamped it down with a great effort. Even if T.C.’s words had only been talk, as so much in her life had always been, it wouldn’t happen. Not to Emma. She wouldn’t let it happen, she said to herself. She wasn’t sure how she would or could stop it, but she wouldn’t let it happen. She would never abandon her girl to the anonymity and callousness of the system she’d been trapped in. Even if she had to take Emma and run, she wouldn’t let it happen. People had done it, vanished for years, hadn’t they? Maybe they were found out in the end, but by then Emma would be grown and able to look out for herself.

  And what will she have learned? How to run from her problems?

  She veered away from that thought. She shifted in her seat atop the corral rail so she could keep Emma in plain sight as she sat atop Flash. T.C. had assured her it would be fine, and the horse did seem to pretty much ignore the small person clinging in delight to his broad back. He simply went about the business of slowly eating the flake of hay T.C. had tossed him before leaving, leaving the child to coo in delight and excitement as she stroked his mane and traced tiny fingers along the edges of the white patch that ran jaggedly along his neck in stark contrast to the glossy black.

  The child was as happy as Jolie had ever seen her. Which was amazing, all things considered. Which in turn was thanks to T.C. He’d done this, somehow turned a trauma that could haunt a child for life into an enchanting adventure for her. She would owe him forever for that.

  But could even he stop this? She couldn’t believe it was happening. Wasn’t it enough that a woman had been murdered, and her precious baby was in danger? Was Fowler Colton really so malevolent as to accuse an innocent woman just to throw the heat off his girlfriend?