Читать книгу P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission - Beth Cornelison - Страница 7

“Eyes on your own paper, Anthony.” Lisa Navarre gave the student in question a firm but kind look to reiterate her directive.

Cheeks flushing, Anthony DePaulo lowered his head over his geography quiz and got back to work.

Lisa checked the clock. “Fifteen more minutes. Pace yourselves. Don’t spend too much time on a question you don’t—”

Her classroom door slammed open, and a tall, dark-haired man—an extremely handsome man—burst through. His eyes were wide with alarm, his manner agitated. Even before Mr. Handsome Interruption’s gaze scanned the room and landed on Patrick Walsh, Lisa knew this had to be Peter Walsh. The father was the spitting image of his son. Or vice versa, she supposed. Dark brown hair roguishly in need of a trim, square-cut jaw and a generous mouth that was currently taut with concern.

“Mr. Walsh, I—”

“Patrick! “ Peter Walsh rushed to his son’s desk and framed his face, tipping his head as if checking for injury. “Are you all right?”

“Da-ad!” Patrick wrestled free from his father’s zealous examination, while the class twittered with amusement.

“Settle down, kids. Finish your work.” Lisa hustled down the row of desks to rescue Patrick from further embarrassment. “Mr. Walsh, if you would?” She tugged his arm and hitched her head toward the hall. “We can talk in the office. As you can see, the class is in the middle of a test.”

Peter Walsh raised dark, bedroom eyes—okay, not bedroom eyes. He was a student’s parent, so maybe that descriptor was inappropriate…but, gosh, his rich brown eyes made her belly quiver. Confusion filled his expression, then morphed to frustration or anger. Now her gut swirled for a new reason. She hated dealing with angry parents.

“Fine.” Mr. Walsh gave one last glance to his son before stalking out to the hallway.

“Keep working, kids. I’ll be right back.” Lisa swept her practiced be-on-your-best-behavior look around the room, meeting the eyes of several of her more…er, loquacious students before she joined Mr. Walsh in the corridor.

He launched into her before she could open her mouth. “What’s going on? You called me here because there’d been—”

“Mr. Walsh.” Lisa held up a hand to cut him off, then caught the attention of the school librarian who was walking past them. “Ms. Fillmore, would you mind sitting with my class for a few minutes while I talk with Mr. Walsh in the office?”

“Certainly,” the older woman said with a smile.

“They’re taking a geography quiz. You’ll need to pick up the papers at exactly two-thirty if I’m not back.”

“Got it. Two-thirty.” Ms. Fillmore gave a little wave as she disappeared into the classroom.

When Lisa turned back to Patrick’s father, she met a glare that would freeze a volcano. “You lied to me. You said Patrick had been in an accident. Do you have any idea how worried I was on the way over here? “

Patience. Keep your cool. Let him vent if he needs to.

Drawing a deep breath to collect herself, she flashed him a warm smile. “Let’s go to the office where we can speak privately.” She motioned down the hall and started toward the front of the school. When Mr. Walsh only stared at her stubbornly for a moment, she paused to wait for him to follow. Handsome or not, the man clearly had a temper when it came to his son.

Lisa could understand that. Most parents had an emotional hot button when it came to their children. Sweet, soft-spoken members of the quilting club became growling mama bears when they thought their cubs needed protecting or defending.

Finally, Peter Walsh fell in step behind her, his long-legged strides quickly catching up with hers. “Why did you tell me there’d been an accident?”

“I didn’t,” she returned calmly.

“You di—”

“I said incident. With an i. You hung up before I could explain the nature of the problem.”

Mr. Walsh drew a breath as if to mount an argument, then snapped his mouth closed. His brow creased, and his jaw tightened as if replaying their brief phone conversation and realizing his mistake.

“I’m sorry if I alarmed you. Patrick is fine, physically.” They reached the front office, and Lisa escorted him into a vacant conference room. “Please, have a seat.”

Patrick’s father crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed a suspicious gaze on her. “Thanks, I’ll stand.”

Okay. She faced him, squaring her shoulders and staring at his forehead…because looking into those dark eyes was just too distracting. Too unnerving.

Darn it all, she was a professional. She couldn’t let this man rattle her.

“Mr. Walsh, I called you because Patrick was disrupting class today and—”

“Disrupting how?” he interrupted, his back stiffening.

“He burped.”

Mr. Walsh’s eyebrows snapped together in confusion. “Excuse me? He burped?”

“Yes.”

He shifted his weight and angled an irritated look toward her. “You called me down here to tell me he burped? “ His angry tone and volume rose. “Kids will burp sometimes, lady. It’s a fact of life. Maybe you should be talking to the lunch ladies about the food they’re serving instead of calling parents away from important business to report their kids’ bodily functions, for crying out loud!”

Patience. Lisa balled then flexed her fingers, struggling to keep her cool. She made the mistake of meeting his eyes then, and her stomach flip-flopped. Good grief, the man had sexy eyes!

“It wasn’t just a small, my-lunch-didn’t-sit-right burp, Mr. Walsh. It was loud. Forced. Designed to get a rise out of his classmates.”

Peter Walsh rocked back on his boot heels, listening. At least, she hoped he was listening. Some parents wore blinders when it came to their kids’ behavior. Their little darling couldn’t possibly have done the things she said.

Lisa took a slow calming breath, working to keep her voice even and non-confrontational.

“He’d been disruptive all morning—talking, getting out of his seat without permission, making rude noises, even poking the girl in front of him for no apparent reason. The loud belching was just the final straw.”

Peter Walsh had the nerve to roll his eyes and shake his head. Lisa gritted her teeth.

“With all due respect, Ms. Navaro—” he started in a tone that was far from respectful.

“It’s Navarre, Mr. Walsh.”

“Navarre,” he repeated, lifting his hand in concession, but his disposition remained hard and challenging. “It seems to me keeping order in your classroom is your job. Send him to the principal’s office if you need to, but don’t drag me down here every time my son acts up in class…or burps. You shouldn’t have to call a kid’s parent away from their job to handle a minor behavior problem. If you can’t keep a ten-year-old boy in line for a few hours a day, perhaps you’re in the wrong profession.”

Lisa’s hackles went up. She’d already wondered if teaching children was the best place for her, but for reasons that had nothing to do with her ability to discipline her class. She suppressed the ache that nudged her heart and focused on the matter at hand.

“I’m perfectly capable of maintaining order in my classroom, Mr. Walsh.” She drilled him with a look that her students knew well, the one that said she’d reached the limits of her patience. “Especially if I have the cooperation of the children’s parents in addressing at home any issues that may be at the root of behavior problems.”

He scoffed. “My son does not have a behavior problem. He may be having a bad day today, but you know as well as I do that he’s not a troublemaker.”

“Which, if you’d let me finish explaining, is why I called you to come down for a conference. Usually Patrick is quite well-behaved. In fact, since the beginning of school, it seems he’s become more quiet, even withdrawn. His grades have slipped in recent weeks. Did you know that? I’ve sent home his test papers to be signed, but you never sign them. His grandmother does.”

“My mother babysits him most afternoons until I can get home from work. My job keeps me on the road a lot, and I’ve had to work longer hours lately, so Patrick’s grandmother handles his schoolwork.”

“But you’re his parent, Mr. Walsh. You need to be involved.”

His face darkened, and he narrowed a glare on her. “Are you telling me how to parent my kid?”

Why not? You were just trying to tell me how to do my job! Lisa bit back the caustic retort that would serve no purpose other than make her feel better for five minutes. Then she’d feel bad that she’d lost her temper and kick herself for being reactionary.

“No, sir. I’m not.” She purposefully infused her tone with calm and concern, enough to capture the agitated father’s attention. She had to be sure he heard and understood the importance of her next statement. “But earlier today, when I warned Patrick that I would have to call you if he didn’t behave, his response was, ‘Go ahead. Call my dad. He won’t care. He’s too busy to care about what I do.’”

Peter Walsh jerked back as if slapped, his expression stunned. “That’s…crazy! He knows I care about him. He knows I love him! More than anything in this world.”

“Maybe up here he knows that.” She tapped her head. “But kids need to see that love and affection in action to reaffirm what you say. He needs to see you express interest in his schoolwork, in his friends, in his life to really believe it here.” She moved her hand to her heart.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he shifted his glowering gaze to a bulletin board on the far wall. “The last few months have been…especially difficult for my family, Ms. Navarre. I’ve tried to protect Patrick from most of the fallout, shield him from the worst of it, but…” He heaved a sigh and left his sentence unfinished.

“I read the newspaper. I know about your father’s murder, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

His eyes snapped to hers. Pain shadowed his gaze, and her heart went out to him. She’d seen a similar sadness in Patrick’s eyes too many times since the school year had started. “The reason I called you here is not because Patrick was acting out. I can handle disciplining students when it is called for.”

Chagrin flickered across his face, and he shifted his weight.

“I called because I’m worried about Patrick. I think the recent events in your family have upset him, and he doesn’t feel he can talk to you about it. He feels alone because he thinks you’re too busy for him. He’s confused and scared.”

Worry lined Peter Walsh’s face. “He said that?”

“His withdrawal said that. His grades said that. His misbehavior today said that. I’ve been a teacher for six years. I’ve seen this before. He just needs reassurance from you that his world is safe, that you care, that he is your priority. Mr. Walsh, more than discipline, what Patrick needs is his father.”

Peter squared his shoulders, a bit of his temper returning. Obviously, he took her last comment as an indictment. “I’ll talk to him tonight. You won’t have problems with his behavior again.”

Lisa’s heart sank. Had he heard her at all?

Peter Walsh, his square jaw tight and his back stiff, turned to stalk out of the conference room.

“Mr. Walsh, I—”

But he was gone. All six feet plus of seething testosterone and brooding eyes. Lisa inhaled deeply, hoping to calm her frazzled nerves, but instead drew in the enticing scents of leather and pine that Peter Walsh left in his wake.

She had no business thinking of her student’s father in the terms that filtered through her head—sexy, virile—but with a man like Peter Walsh, how could she not?

Lisa dropped into a chair and raked fingers through her raven hair. She needed to collect herself before she returned to her class.

But five minutes later, as she headed back to her room, her mind was still full of Peter Walsh and his smoldering dark eyes.

Patrick tossed his backpack on the floor of Peter’s truck and gave his father a forlorn glance as he climbed onto the seat. “So I guess I’m in big trouble, huh?”

Peter shrugged. “Depends on what you call big trouble. I understand you gave your teacher a good bit of grief today. You were loud and disruptive in class. You know better than that, sport.”

“Am I grounded?”

“Do you think you should be grounded?”

Patrick hesitated, got a scheming glint in his eyes. “No? I think I’ve learned my lesson, and we can skip the punishment?” He lifted hopeful dark eyes to his father.

“Seriously? I think I hear a question mark in your answer. You know I can’t just let this slide. What if I’d been working a big case out of town when I got called to the school? Huh?”

Patrick scowled. “You’re always working big cases out of town. Why can’t you have a regular job like everyone else?”

Peter’s chest tightened. He’d heard Patrick complain about his work hours before, but in light of his teacher’s concerns, Peter took his son’s comments more seriously this time. “Patrick, you know I’d spend more time with you if I could. There’s nothing in the world more important to me than you are, but I have to earn a living and pay our bills. My job demands that I be gone a lot. I can’t change that.”

But even as he said as much, a niggling voice in his head argued the point. He could rearrange his schedule or be more selective in the cases he took on so that he could have more time at home with Patrick. Even if the more lucrative cases took him out of town, couldn’t they tighten their monetary belts a bit in order for him to be more attentive to his son’s needs?

He glanced over at Patrick’s long face, slumped shoulders. Guilt pricked Peter.

“Tell you what—I’ll make a special effort to cut back on my hours and do more stuff with you—”

Immediately, Patrick’s eyes brightened, and he snapped an eager gaze up to his father’s.

“If—”

Patrick rolled his eyes and groaned. “I knew there was a catch.”

Peter shot his son a stern glance. “Don’t interrupt. You have to promise me you’ll work hard at bringing your grades up. Mrs. Navarre said your work has been slipping.”

“Ms. Navarre, Dad. She’s not married.”

Peter quirked an eyebrow, mentally flashing to when he’d been corrected by the woman herself on the pronunciation of her name. He worked to school his expression and hide his intrigue with this new tidbit of information. He’d been too worked up, too worried about Patrick during his altercation with the attractive brunette to look for a ring. But even as upset as he’d been, he hadn’t missed Ms. Navarre’s shapely curves or model-worthy face.

Hell, he couldn’t blame Patrick for being distracted and having faltering grades with a teacher as hot as Lisa Navarre. Any male over the age of nine would be distracted by Patrick’s teacher.

Peter squeezed the steering wheel and cleared his throat. “Ms. Navarre also said that you were talking back to her, being rude.” Peter cast a disapproving look to his son. “Burping.”

Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, it was a good one, too, Dad. Really low and loud and—”

“Patrick,” Peter said, a warning clear in his tone. “It was rude and inappropriate.”

“But Da-ad—”

Peter raised a hand, anticipating the coming argument. “I know that we sometimes goof around at home and do stuff like that, but…there’s a time and a place for that kind of behavior and school is not the time or place.”

God, when had he started sounding like his father? No. Not his father. More like his mother. Egad. That was scary. Peter cringed internally.

But Mark Walsh had never been interested in teaching his son wrong and right. He’d been too busy cheating on his wife. Acid burned in Peter’s belly at the memory, and he swore to himself, again, that he’d be a better father to Patrick than Mark Walsh had been to him.

Mr. Walsh, more than discipline, what Patrick needs is his father.

“Patrick, I think the thing I find most disturbing about what happened at school today is that you sassed your teacher. I didn’t raise you to disrespect adults and especially not a lady.”

“That’s no lady, that’s my teacher,” Patrick said in a deep voice, mimicking the comedian they’d watched on television together the past weekend.

Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn’t laugh. He couldn’t encourage Patrick’s misbehavior, even if he did find his son’s sense of humor amusing.

Instead, he gave Patrick the look all parents have instinctively. The I-mean-business-and-you’re-treading-on-thin-ice look.

“Tomorrow, first thing when you get to school, you will apologize to Ms. Navarre for being rude and disruptive.”

Patrick gave a dramatic sigh and stared out the window.

“Look at me.” When he had his son’s attention he added, “And you’re grounded for…” Peter did a quick calculation. What length of punishment suited the crime? And why wasn’t there an instruction manual for parents? Raising his son alone was, hands-down, the hardest thing he’d ever done.

And the most rewarding, he thought as he held his boy’s dark gaze. “For the weekend. No video games, no TV, no going to your friends’.”

“What!” Patrick grunted. “What’s left?”

“Try reading a book, or catching up on your schoolwork. Or…going fishing with me.”

“Hello? Dad…it’s November. It’s freezing.”

“What, you don’t think fish get hungry in November?” He tugged up the corner of his mouth. “Okay, so…we’ll save fishing for spring, and we’ll…” Peter turned up his palm as he thought. “Catch a football game together.”

“You said no TV.”

“I know. I’m talking about going to a game. Live. I bet I can still get us tickets to see the Bobcats play. What do ya think?”

Patrick’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Montana State? Seriously, Dad? Can we?” Patrick whooped.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter chuckled as his son bounced in his seat. “But remember our deal.”

Patrick screwed up his face. “What deal?”

Peter shook his head in frustration. “You’re going to bring up your grades, apologize to your teacher and promise me that your days of clowning around in class are over. Got it, buddy?”

Patrick slumped back against the seat, a contrite expression pulling his mouth taut. “Yes, sir.”

On the way home from school, Lisa stopped at Salon Allegra for a pedicure. Sure, it was November and no one except her would likely see her bare feet until next spring, but after standing all day and dealing with Patrick Walsh’s aggravated father, she figured she deserved a little pampering. Heck, she might get a manicure, too.

Lisa pulled the collar of her parka up around her chin as she bustled into the beauty shop. The bell over the front door tinkled as she entered, announcing her arrival to the staff. The shop’s owner, Eve Kelley, looked up from the appointment book at the front desk and sent her a bright smile.

“Afternoon, Lisa. What brings you in on this blustery day?” Eve’s blue eyes shone warmly, her girl-next-door-meets-cheerleader friendliness in place as always.

“Hi, Eve. I need a pick-me-up in the worst way. I thought I’d get a pedicure if you could work me in.”

“Well…” Eve glanced to her beauticians, each with a customer already, and gnawed her bottom lip.

“If you’re too busy, I’ll—”

“Nonsense. I’ll get you fixed up myself.” She picked up a tube of salted crackers and motioned for Lisa to follow. “So…bad day at school?”

“Not for the most part. Plans for the rescheduled fall festival are going well. But one of my better students decided to act out today, and when I called his father in for a conference, I got an earful. Dad settled down a little once I got the chance to explain myself, but…whew! Confrontations with parents always leave me wrung out.”

“I bet.” Eve patted an elevated chair, showing Lisa where to sit, and set her crackers on a nearby table. As Eve took her seat, Lisa noticed the former prom queen and cheerleader had unbuttoned her jeans at the waist, as if they didn’t quite fit anymore.

Had Eve put on a couple of pounds? Lisa couldn’t really tell.

The beauty shop owner look as gorgeous as ever to her. Eve turned and caught Lisa staring, speculating. “So who was this irate father?”

“Oh, uh…Peter Walsh.”

Eve paused in her preparations for Lisa’s pedicure. “Peter Walsh? But Peter’s always struck me as the laid-back, easygoing sort.” Eve flashed her a devilish grin and wiggled her eyebrows. “The extremely hot, laid-back, easygoing sort.”

An image of Peter Walsh’s broad shoulders and rough-hewn jawline taunted her as Lisa returned a smile. “Oh, he is good-looking, no lie. But when it comes to his son, he apparently has a bit of pit bull in him.”

“Hmm.” Eve hummed as she nibbled a cracker and tipped her head in thought. “I’ve known the Walsh family for years. Peter has never been overly social, but also never anything but kind and polite. He’s had a tough road, raising Patrick on his own.”

When Eve paused to munch another cracker, Lisa asked, “What happened to Patrick’s mother?”

A shadow crossed Eve’s face, her sculpted eyebrows puckering with some dark emotion. “She died…in childbirth.” Eve’s gaze drifted away, across the room, as she recalled the details. She rubbed a hand over her belly almost without thought.

An odd tingle of recognition nipped Lisa’s nape. She glanced at Eve’s crackers then studied the pretty blonde’s glowing face. Could she be…?

“Katie and Peter were so young,” Eve said and shook her head sorrowfully. “Probably only nineteen or so, but they’d been high-school sweethearts and married right after graduation. Katie’s death crushed Peter. And after losing his father a few years earlier…well, we thought his dad was dead…”

Eve gave her head a shake and puffed out a breath. “But that’s a whole other can of worms. One more freak tragedy for him and his family to have to deal with.” Jamming one more cracker in her mouth, Eve turned on the jets of the steaming foot bath for Lisa to soak in.

Lisa slipped off her shoes and socks, giving her sore feet a little rub before sinking them in the warm water. Her fatigue now pressed on her with a more somber note, but she couldn’t blame Peter Walsh for her gray mood.

Mention of childbirth gone wrong and the subtle clues that Eve was pregnant stirred up painful memories. Memories that were better locked away where they couldn’t haunt her.

Shoving down thoughts of the baby she’d never have, Lisa wiggled her toes in the steaming foot bath and redirected her thoughts to the subject at hand. “So Peter has raised Patrick alone since his birth?”

“Yep. Although I’m sure his family gives him plenty of help and babysitting services. Jolene can’t say enough glowing things about Patrick when she’s in here.” Eve smiled wistfully. “Like any good grandma would.” She started working on Lisa’s right foot, buffing, trimming and shaping. “Anyway…don’t let this first impression of Peter Walsh color your opinion of him. He really is a great guy. Any gal would be lucky to have him.”

“Whoa! “ Lisa held up her hands. “I never said anything about dating him. I’m not looking for a husband.”

Eve flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and flashed Lisa a saucy look. “Who said anything about you? He might be ten years younger than me but…hoo-baby! When a guy looks that good, who cares about age?”

They both laughed, and Lisa felt a little of her tension melt away.

“So what color on the toes?” Eve asked, pulling out a large tray of nail polish.

“Oh, just a basic pink or mauve is fine.”

Eve scrunched up her nose. “Pink is so boring, girlfriend. How about this new sexy red I got in last week? Or…oh, I know! Electric purple!”

Lisa snorted. “Me? Purple?”

Eve wiggled the bottle and raised her eyebrows with enthusiasm. “Come on. Be daring! It looks really sexy.”

Lisa shrugged. “What the heck. Paint me purple. Not like anyone but my cat is gonna see my toes anyway.”

And thanks to her inability to have children, Lisa thought with a pang of sorrow, that was how things were likely to be for a long time. Even her attempt to adopt once had ended in heartache.

No children. No husband. No family.

A lonely ache settled over her. Her infertility hadn’t just robbed her of a child, but also the future she craved.

Peter flipped his wrist to check the time. “Better get a move on, sport. School bus will be here any minute.”

“Do you gotta work out of town again today?” Patrick asked around a mouthful of cereal.

“Nope. I wrapped up the legwork on a case yesterday, so I’ll mostly be working from home today to get the paperwork finished. Why?”

His son shrugged. “Just wonderin’ if you’d be here when I got home or if Grandma would.”

He feels alone, because he thinks you’re too busy for him.

Lisa Navarre’s assessment rang in Peter’s head, and he studied the droop in Patrick’s shoulders as he slurped sugary milk from his breakfast bowl.

“I’ll make a point of being here when you get off the bus today. Okay, sport? After you do your homework, we’ll do something together. Your choice.”

Patrick gave him a withering look that said parents were the stupidest creatures on earth. “Dad, it’s Friday. I don’t have homework on Fridays.”

“Good,” Peter returned with good humor. “Then we’ll have more time to do something together.”

“Can we play on the Wii?”

Peter was about to agree when he remembered yesterday’s punishment. “Aren’t you grounded for the weekend?”

Patrick’s face fell. “Oh, yeah.”

Outside, the bus tooted its horn.

“Time’s up. Grab your backpack! “ Peter hurried to the front door to wave to the bus driver, while Patrick struggled out. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something fun to do that doesn’t include the TV. And…I haven’t forgotten about taking you to see the football game tomorrow.”

Patrick’s face brightened as he rushed past. “Cool. Bye, Dad!”

“Don’t forget to apologize to Ms. Navarre!”

His son gave a wave as he climbed on the bus, and Peter sighed. Patrick wasn’t the only one who owed the attractive brunette an apology. He’d been pretty hostile, when Patrick’s teacher had only had his son’s best interests at heart.

Peter scrubbed a hand over his unshaven cheeks as he went back in his house. His only lame excuse for his shameful behavior was that he’d already been pumped full of adrenaline after the brush with Bill Rigsby’s shotgun-toting neighbor, and he’d been spoiling for a fight after his meeting with Craig, where the Coltons, his least-favorite family, had been high on the list of suspects. But he should never have let his bad mood taint his treatment of Patrick’s teacher.

Peter took Patrick’s half-eaten cereal to the sink and ate a few bites himself before dumping the rest.

Jamming his thumbs in his jeans pockets, he headed into the den where he had his PC set up in one corner. Perhaps on Monday, he’d drive Patrick to school and make a point of speaking to Ms. Navarre. His pulse spiked a notch, a bump that had more to do with his anticipation of seeing Patrick’s teacher again than his morning caffeine kicking in. He thumbed the power button on the computer and leaned back in his chair as the monitor hummed to life.

In the face of his shouting and sarcasm, Lisa Navarre had not only held her own, but she’d kept her tone calm and her arguments constructive and focused on Patrick’s needs. He respected her for her professionalism and grace under fire.

And the fact Lisa Navarre had sexy curves and a spark of stubborn courage in her dark eyes only made her more intriguing to Peter. Knowing her observations of Patrick in the classroom mirrored his own suspicions about Patrick’s difficulty processing the most recent family troubles gave him reason to call on her expertise. Perhaps the attractive teacher would give him a bit of her time and help him figure out the best way to handle the recent family crises with Patrick.

When his computer finished loading the start-up programs, Peter opened his case file on Bill Rigsby and got to work, but his mind drifted again to the same family issues that had had him distracted yesterday on his stakeout. His visit with Craig at the hospital only confirmed that someone outside the Colton family needed to be looking into his father’s murder and who’d paid Atkins to poison Craig.

Peter lifted his coffee mug and squeezed the handle until his knuckles blanched. How could Sheriff Wes Colton possibly conduct an unbiased investigation when his own family was most likely at fault? What secrets and evidence was Wes suppressing to protect his brood of vipers? Craig may have ruled out Finn, since Finn was his doctor, but Peter wasn’t willing to make that leap of faith yet.

Peter gritted his teeth and shoved away from the computer. Enough waiting for answers. He’d go down to the sheriff’s office and demand answers from Wes Colton.

Even if Mark Walsh had been a half-hearted father and a two-timing husband, he deserved justice. And Craig Warner, the man who’d managed the reins at Walsh Enterprises for almost two decades and who’d been a father figure to Peter, deserved answers about who’d poisoned him.

Peter refused to rest until he had the truth.

As Peter strode up the front walk to the county courthouse, he huddled deeper into the warmth of his suede coat. A chill November wind announced the approach of another bitterly cold Montana winter, a bleak time of year that reflected Peter’s current mood. He glanced up to the steepled clock tower in the red brick and natural stone edifice where the sheriff’s office had told him he could find Wes Colton that morning, waiting to testify in a court hearing. The woman at the sheriff’s office had said she thought Wes was due at the courthouse by 9:00 a.m.

But if he wasn’t, Peter would wait.

He nodded a good-morning to an elderly man who shuffled out the front door of the courthouse, then shucked his gloves as he entered the lobby and got his bearings. The scents of freshly brewed coffee, floor cleaner and age filled the halls of the old building. Peter could remember thinking how old the courthouse seemed when he’d come down here with his mother to get his driver’s license when he was sixteen. Little about the building had changed in the intervening years, even if Peter felt he’d lived a lifetime since then.

Jamming his gloves in his coat pocket, Peter spotted Wes Colton down a long corridor and headed purposefully towards him. “Sheriff?”

Wes turned, lifting his eyes from the foam cup of coffee he sipped. The sheriff stilled, his expression growing wary, before he lowered his cup and squared his shoulders, taking a defensive stance.

“Peter.” Wes gave a terse nod of greeting. “Something I can do for you?”

“Yeah. You can tell me why no one’s been arrested yet for my father’s murder.” Peter stood with his arms akimbo, his chin jutted forward.

A muscle in Wes’s jaw tightened as the sheriff ground his back teeth. “Because we don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest stick yet.”

“You’ve had more than four months. What the hell’s taking so long?”

“We’re doing all we can.” The sheriff lifted one eyebrow, his blue eyes as cold as his tone. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want us hauling anyone in prematurely, just to lose an indictment due to lack of good evidence.” Wes paused and canted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “Unlike the last time your father was murdered, I intend to build a case based on solid evidence. Forensics. Facts. Not the circumstantial tripe and suspicion they used to railroad my brother when your father pulled his disappearing act years ago.”

Peter stiffened. He should have known this discussion would deteriorate to a rehashing of the Walsh and Colton families’ ancient feud. Even before Mark Walsh had forbidden his eldest daughter, Lucy, to date Damien Colton, the families had been rivals. Two powerful families in the same small town couldn’t help but butt heads every now and then, in business, or in politics, or, in the case of Lucy and Damien, in the personal lives of their children.

“Your brother may have been innocent of murder, but even your family can’t deny he looked guilty as sin.”

Wes curled his lip in a sneer. “Thanks to your family greasing the skids of the judicial system to see that the prosecutor’s flimsy circumstantial case slid by the judges and jury.”

Peter stepped closer, aiming a finger at Wes’s chest. “We did no such thing!”

The sheriff sent a pointed gaze to Peter’s finger before meeting his eyes again. “Want to back off before I charge you with assaulting an officer?”

Drawing a deep breath, Peter dropped his hand to his side, balling his fingers into a fist. “Just tell me where the current case stands. Who are you investigating? What clues do you have?”

Wes shrugged casually. “Everyone’s a suspect until the investigation is closed.”

“Don’t give me that crap. I want answers, Colton!” Damn, but the Coltons could push Peter’s buttons.

He paused only long enough to force his tone and volume down a notch. A public brawl with the sheriff would serve no purpose other than to land him in jail for disorderly conduct. “What are you doing to catch my father’s murderer?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

When Peter shifted his weight, ready to launch into another attack, another round of questions, Wes lifted a hand to forestall any arguments. “And I’m not just saying that to get you off my back or because there’s no love lost between our families. I truly can’t answer any question for you right now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It has to be.”

Peter clenched his teeth. “I have a right to know who killed my father.”

“And you will. As soon as I know.” The sheriff pinned a hard look on Peter. “But I won’t blow this case by tipping my hand prematurely or letting you or anyone else pressure me into making an arrest for the sake of making an arrest. My brother knows all too well what happens when vigilante justice is served rather than reason and law. My deputies and I are conducting a thorough investigation. We’ll find the person responsible. Don’t doubt that.”

Scoffing, Peter shook his head. “Well, forgive me if I don’t take you on your word, Sheriff Colton. I haven’t seen any progress on the case in weeks, and now Craig Warner’s been poisoned, too.”

“And you think the two incidents are connected.” A statement, not a question.

“Damn straight. And I’d hardly call my father’s murder and the attempted murder of a family friend ‘incidents.’ They’re felonies. Need I remind you that someone ran Mary off the road a couple months ago? How do we know that whoever is responsible won’t come after someone else in my family?”

“We don’t.”

The sheriff’s flat, frank response punched Peter in the gut. When he recovered the wherewithal to speak, he scowled darkly at Wes. “And that doesn’t bother you, Sheriff? You may not like me or my family, but I have a ten-year-old son at home. How are you going to feel if he gets hurt because you didn’t do your job and find the scumbag who killed my father?”

Wes hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rolled his shoulders. “Believe it or not, I’d feel terrible—and not because I didn’t do my job, because I am doing everything humanly possible to catch the bastard. No, because I’m not the inept, hard-hearted fool you seem to think I am. I don’t want to see anyone else hurt. But I have to work within the law. A proper investigation takes time. There are forces at work behind the scenes that you may not see, but which are busy 24/7 looking at this case from every angle.”

Peter gritted his teeth, completely unsatisfied with the runaround and placating assurances he was getting from the sheriff. “Here’s an angle you may have missed. Not only do I think Craig Warner’s poisoning is related to my father’s murder, I think your family is involved. I’d bet my life a Colton is behind everything.”

Wes’s glare was glacial. “Do you have any proof to back up that accusation?”

“Not yet. But I can get it.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed even further. “I’m warning you, Walsh. Don’t interfere with my investigation. If you so much as stick a toe over the line, I’ll throw the book at you.”

Peter pulled his gloves from his pocket, signaling an end to the conversation. “I would expect as much.”