Nick McGarrett marched into Fletcher Snowden Phillips’s law office in Haven, Texas. It was time the man stepped up and helped a member of his family. Fletcher’s secretary looked up and frowned. As Nick crossed to her desk, he glanced at his mud-splattered jeans and boots. When he’d received a tearful call from Corey Phillips, a ten-year-old second cousin of Fletcher’s, Nick had come straight from replacing a section of a fence on his ranch.
Nick owed Corey’s older brother, Doug. When they’d gone on their last mission together, Nick had promised his combat buddy that after he left the service he would watch out for Corey until Doug could. At the time Nick had thought it would be only a few months until Doug returned home. His friend was killed in that mission by a sniper. Young Corey looked like Doug, who’d always had Nick’s back when they had gone on assignments together.
Nick fixed his gaze on Nancy Collins, hoping it would convey his determination. “I need to see Fletcher now.” He’d lost all patience with the man.
Both of the secretary’s eyebrows rose, and her chin came up a notch. “Do you have an appointment?”
He peered at the closed door to Fletcher’s inner office—shut tightly like the lawyer’s heart. Although she probably knew the answer, Nick said, “No.”
“I can schedule one for next week. He’s leaving soon.”
“That’s okay.” Nick tipped the brim of his brown Stetson and then pivoted and strode into the corridor.
He planted himself against the wall, reclining back with his arms crossed. He was going to talk to the man one way or another. It was in times like this that Nick wished he had enough money to help Fletcher’s cousin financially. All he could do was be there for the ten-year-old who lived twenty miles away in a small town on the other side of Waco.
Today Corey had thought his dad was dead. Nick tried to go over to the small, dilapidated house whenever the boy called. If he couldn’t, Nick would call Mrs. Scott, who lived next door, to help. Today he’d been worried he wouldn’t make it in time if something worse had happened to Ned Phillips than drinking too much alcohol. Thankfully the older woman had stayed with Corey, assuring the child that his father would wake up, which he finally did. Truth be told, Corey shouldn’t even be living with his alcoholic father, who left the child practically to raise himself. Nick had been there as a kid and knew how hard that was.
The door to the office opened, and Fletcher came out.
Nick pushed himself off the wall and stepped in the man’s path. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t have time.”
Fletcher, tall with an imposing paunch, tried to skirt around Nick. He didn’t weigh as much as the lawyer, but his body was muscular from hard work. Fletcher’s idea of exercise was walking to and from his luxury car. Nick blocked his path. “Make time.”
Fletcher scowled. “Is this about Corey again?”
“Yes. You’re his closest relative. If you don’t want to take the boy and raise him, then at least help Ned buy food and clothing.” Nick nearly choked on the first part of the sentence. Fletcher wasn’t good father material either.
“I’m not giving Ned a cent. All he would do is buy more liquor. I’m a bachelor. I always have been. I wouldn’t know the first thing about raising a child. Check with Family and Protective Services. That’s their job.” Fletcher quickly sidestepped and charged down the hall, leaving Nick fuming.
As if he hadn’t tried contacting the authorities. The underfunded and overworked Family and Protective Services had more urgent cases to deal with.
Nick took several deep, calming breaths and then followed Fletcher outside to the parking lot. The wind held a fierce chill even for early January. As the lawyer drove away, Nick hurried his pace and welcomed what warmth still lingered in the cab of his old truck.
When Nick had first returned to Haven after being in the army, serving overseas in a war zone, Fletcher had said the same thing—that it was the county’s problem, not Fletcher’s.
Painful memories from the war zone inundated Nick. It had been over a year since he’d returned home to Haven. Too many comrades had died. He didn’t understand why there was so much death and hatred. At first he had prayed, but when he lost one friend while Nick was trying to save his life, he’d stopped talking to God. The Lord obviously wasn’t listening.
As Nick left Main Street and the small downtown area, he passed Fletcher parking his car in front of his large antebellum home a few miles outside of Haven. The large three-story house overshadowed everyone else’s place nearby. Although he came from a family with a long ranching history, Fletcher didn’t live on more than two acres of land. According to Fletcher, ranching was manual labor and beneath him.
The sun near the western horizon sent up streaks of yellow, orange and rose through the darkening blue sky. Even though sunset was less than a half hour away, Nick wore his sunglasses to keep the glare from impeding his driving. Through the last burst of brightness, he glimpsed a car coming toward him. The driver maneuvered it to the shoulder of the two-lane highway and then came to a stop.
As Nick approached, he eased up on the gas. The other car’s emergency lights began flashing. A blond-haired woman opened the car door, swung her long legs around and stood. Standing partially on the road in four-inch heels, she glanced at him as he passed her. He made a U-turn and parked not a yard behind her. The chilly wind blew even stronger than before. The moisture-laden air would produce snow later tonight.
Nick climbed from his truck and strolled toward the lady using her expensive sports car as a shield from the cold northern blast.
“Not for two hours? It’s getting dark.” Her throaty voice with a Southern drawl rose in panic.