P.I. Daddy’s

Personal Mission

Beth Cornelison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Copyright

About the Author

BETH CORNELISON started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.

Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romance suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including a coveted Golden Heart award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.

She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171, USA or visit her website at www.bethcornelison.com.

To my parents—thanks for all you do! And in memory of Samson, our lovable goofball, who exuded awesomeness into our lives and left three big paw prints on our hearts. You are missed.

Chapter 1

His father had been murdered—twice.

Peter Walsh ground his back teeth together and shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of his truck. Stakeouts were tedious enough without nagging concerns over a crime that should never have happened. His father had been killed fifteen years ago—or so his family had thought. But then, just a few months ago, Mark Walsh’s body had been found in Honey Creek. All evidence pointed to murder. A recent murder.

So where had Mark Walsh been for the last fifteen years if he was not dead? Who had known Peter’s father was still alive and hated him enough to murder him—again?

Explaining to his son, Patrick, that Grandpa Walsh had been murdered—for real this time—had confused and upset the impressionable ten-year-old. Peter could see the strain all of the turmoil was causing Patrick. He’d become withdrawn, sullen. One more concern to keep Peter awake at night.

Peter rubbed warmth into his cold hands. The November morning was brisker than average thanks to the cold front that had dumped several inches of snow overnight. The first signs of winter had come to Honey Creek, Montana, with a snowfall in October. But that snow had been followed by unseasonably warm weather, a tornado and then more cold air. Peter shook his head, musing over the crazy seesawing weather.

Raising his camera with its telephoto lens to the open truck window—a necessity for a clear view despite the frigid temperatures—Peter focused on the front porch, then the barn door, of the Rigsby residence. Still no activity. Still no proof that Bill Rigsby was defrauding his insurance company with false injury claims.

With his surveillance of Rigsby’s farm yielding little evidence to take back to his client, Peter’s thoughts returned to the numerous troubling events his family had dealt with in recent months, the most glaring being the shocking reappearance and murder of his father. Peter’s stomach rumbled, and he lifted his travel mug to sip coffee that had long ago gotten cold. Maybe he should pack it in, get some lunch and head to the hospital to visit Craig.

When a woman stepped out on the Rigsbys’ porch to feed a pair of mutts, he lifted the camera again. He clicked a few shots, just because, as his thoughts mulled the latest hit the Walshes had taken.

Craig Warner, the man who had been more of a father to Peter than Mark Walsh had ever been, had suffered his own mysterious attack in the last few weeks. The stomach virus Craig thought he had turned out to be arsenic poisoning. Lester Atkins, Craig’s assistant, had tried to kill the CFO of Walsh Enterprises within months of Mark Walsh’s murder. Then his sister Mary had been blatantly run off the road after visiting Damien Colton in prison. Coincidence?

Not likely.

Peter’s gut tightened. He smelled a conspiracy. The Walsh family, the people he cared about, were under attack. Someone in Honey Creek had viciously—

Click-click.

Peter froze as the pumping sound of a shotgun filtered into the open truck window.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doin’ on my land?” a low voice growled.

Peter turned slowly, his hands up, and stared down the barrel of a Remington 870. Silently he cursed the distracting thoughts that had allowed this armed farmer to approach his truck without Peter noticing. That kind of inattention could get him killed. An unsettling thought when the Walshes and their business associates seemed to be the target of a murderer.

Peter took a slow breath that belied the speed of his thoughts as he analyzed the best way to diffuse this situation. “Is that a Wingmaster?”

The armed farmer lowered the muzzle an inch or so to narrow a curious gaze on Peter. “Yeah.”

Peter smiled. “Man, I’ve been wanting to buy a Wingmaster for years. Remington sure knows how to build a beauty of a shotgun, don’t they?”

The farmer hesitated then snarled, “I asked you who the hell you were! What are you doin’ out here?”

Peter’s pulse kicked. The last thing he needed was an irate farmer with a twitchy trigger finger blasting a hole in his truck—or his head. Palms out in a conciliatory gesture, Peter tried again to calm the man. “If you’ll put the gun down, we’ll talk. I don’t want any trouble.”

The man shifted his weight nervously. “Get out of the truck.”

Hell. If he got himself killed, who’d raise Patrick? His motherless son had already lost too many people in his short life. Peter gritted his teeth. Screwups like this weren’t like him. Proof positive that he needed to get the disarray of his private life in order before he could be effective for his clients.

He nodded his compliance before he reached down to open the driver’s door of his truck. As he stepped down from the cab, he resisted the urge to stretch his stiff muscles. Better not give the jittery farmer any reason to shoot. As he slid out of the truck, he pulled his identification wallet out of the map pocket and flipped it open.

If people didn’t look too closely, his private-investigator license looked pretty intimidating.

“I’m Peter Walsh, and I’m here on official business.” The vague statement usually made people think he meant police business, which won their cooperation.

The farmer looked skeptical. He wouldn’t be bluffed. “What kind of official business?”

Peter wasn’t about to show his hand until he could determine whether the farmer was likely to report to the Rigsbys on Peter’s surveillance operation. If Rigsby had a heads-up that the insurance company was on to his fraud, he could cover his tracks. Peter needed to catch the man who claimed to have a disabling injury in the act—horseback-riding, snowmobiling, shoveling his front sidewalk. Anything that would prove he wasn’t bedridden with a back injury as he claimed.

“Lower the gun, and we’ll talk.”

Farmer tensed. “I’m giving the orders here, buddy. You’ve been sittin’ out here on my property for hours, and I want to know why. Now!”

Technically the road was county property, but Peter didn’t feel quibbling over that point was wise, given the man’s mood. And his weapon.

Peter’s priority was getting the shotgun barrel out of his face. He was already plotting his next move as he asked, “We had reports of some suspicious activity at your neighbors’ house. When was the last time you saw Bill Rigsby?”

“Bill Rigsby? What kind of suspicious—?”

Peter made his move.

While the farmer’s attention was focused on answering the baited question, Peter swept his arm up, knocking the shotgun away from his face, then followed through by grabbing the gun by the barrel and yanking it from the startled farmer’s grip.

“Hey!” the man shouted.

Peter tossed the weapon on the front seat of his truck and slammed the door. “I asked you to lower the gun. You didn’t, so now we’ll do things my way. You’ll get the gun back once you answer my questions.”

The farmer stepped closer, glowering, but his nose only reached Peter’s chin. “You sonofa—”

“Answer the question!” Peter barked, seizing the upper hand. He loomed over the shorter man, squaring his broad shoulders and narrowing a hard stare. “When was the last time you saw Bill Rigsby?”

The farmer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yesterday.”

“What was he doing?”

The farmer shrugged. “Nothing. Just out riding, checking his fence.”

“On horseback?”

The man gave him a no-shit-Sherlock look. “Yeah. Horseback. Why?”

Peter kept his expression blank, although he sensed the farmer could prove a wealth of information. The sooner he finished the Rigsby case for his client, the sooner he could look into the questions surrounding his father’s murder. “Does Rigsby ride often?”

The farmer cocked his head, sending Peter a dubious frown. “He has to. Got a farm to run.”

Peter catalogued the information, then hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “Ever see him shoveling snow?”

The farmer snorted. “There a law against that?”

“No. Does he shovel the front walk or does his wife?”

“He does. Why does that matter? What kind of suspicious activity is he into? “

To keep Rigsby’s neighbor off balance, Peter asked, “You ever see a black van parked in front of Bill’s house?”

The farmer took a step back and squinted at Peter with deep creases in his brow. Lowering his voice, the farmer asked, “Is he dealing drugs? “

Deflecting the question and turning it to his advantage, Peter responded, “Why? Have you seen evidence that Rigsby has acquired a large unexplained sum of money recently? “

The other man folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “Well, he did buy a new four-wheeler a couple of weeks ago. My wife and I were puzzling over how he afforded it, what with the economy being the way it is and all.” He shook his head, his scowl darkening. “Are you telling me Bill Rigsby is a drug dealer?”

Peter raised a palm, keeping his expression neutral. He’d feed the farmer’s paranoia without outright lying if it would get him the information he needed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My investigation isn’t finished.” He glanced meaningfully toward the Rigsby property. “Do you have any idea where I might find Bill Rigsby now?”

The man lifted one shoulder. “Can’t say for sure, but I think I heard him and his son leave by snowmobile at first light this morning. My guess is they headed down to the south pasture for the day.”

Peter blew out a deep breath that clouded in front of him in the chilly November air. “So Bill’s still able to drive a snowmobile since his injury?”

The farmer looked confused. “What injury? Did that good-for-nothing liar tell someone he was laid up again?”

Bingo.

“Again?” Peter eyed the man carefully. “He’s pulled a scam before?”

“And brags about it.” The farmer glared in the direction of the Rigsby farm. “I hate cheaters.”

“If you knew your neighbor was involved in the kind of insurance fraud that means you have to pay higher premiums, would you be willing to testify at a deposition on behalf of the insurance company?”

The man arched an eyebrow. “Testify?”

“That you’ve seen him shoveling snow, horseback-riding and snowmobiling.”

The farmer jerked a nod. “Damn straight.”

Peter turned and took the shotgun out of his truck. He handed it back to the farmer. “Is there a road that will take me to the Rigsbys’ south pasture? I’d like to get a few pictures of Bill Rigsby snowmobiling.”

The farmer gave Peter a gloating grin. “There sure is.”

An hour later, Peter drove toward the hospital in Honey Creek to see Craig Warner. He had a dozen or more incriminating photos of Bill Rigsby and his son riding snowmobiles, chopping wood and loading hay bales in the south pasture. More than enough evidence for his client to prove that Rigsby’s disability claim was false. With that matter behind him, Peter focused his attention on the problems that had kept him awake at night in recent weeks—the attacks on his family.

While he hadn’t been close to his father before Mark had disappeared, believed to be dead, Peter took personally the recent discovery of Mark Walsh’s body and apparent murder. Any ill will he had for his father because of his numerous affairs and his desertion of the family didn’t offset Peter’s hunger for justice. Mark Walsh was his father, bad one though he’d been, and his murder cut too close to home for Peter to rest easily. Was the murderer’s vendetta just against Mark or was there a broad conspiracy at play? Knowing that Craig, the man who’d run Walsh Enterprises for years and been like a second father to Peter, had been deliberately poisoned made the conspiracy theory more valid to Peter.

After parking in the hospital lot, Peter slammed his truck door as he headed inside.

Craig was alone in his hospital room when Peter arrived, which suited Peter just fine. He really didn’t want to have the conversation he intended to have with Craig in front of his mother, who had been hovering by her lover’s bedside since he’d been admitted.

“Afternoon, Craig. How’s tricks?” Peter worked to keep his smile in place when he saw how pale and drawn Craig still looked even after several days of chelation therapy to rid his body of the arsenic in his system.

“Peter, good to see you. I was just about to call you.” Craig rearranged the tubes that fed fluids and detoxifying agents into his blood and tried to sit up.

Seeing Craig, who’d been the picture of strength and virility before his poisoning, laid low by the arsenic sent a chill deep into Peter’s bones. We could have lost him.

“Looks like I saved you a call then, huh? What can I do for you?” Peter removed his coat and took a seat beside the narrow bed.

“Keep an eye on your mother for me. She’s still so upset over this poisoning mess. I’ve told her I’m going to be fine, but you know how she worries. She’s wearing herself out dividing her time between me and all her regular responsibilities with the company and her family—especially that son of yours. Her grandson is the world to her.”

Guilt kicked Peter in the shins. He’d long known he depended too heavily on his mother for babysitting Patrick after school, but Jolene insisted on watching her grandson rather than hiring someone else. As a single father, Peter was grateful for the help and didn’t argue the point.

“Come on, now, Craig. I thought you knew by now, no one tells Jolene Walsh to slow down. She’s happiest when she’s taking care of her chickadees.” Peter forced a grin. He, too, had seen the strain his mother was under. Who could blame her? Having her husband’s body discovered and her closest friend poisoned…

“Are you calling me a chickadee?” Craig said weakly, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Peter laughed. “Never. But you know what I mean.”

Craig nodded. “So what brings you around today?”

“I can’t stop by to see how you’re feeling?”

Sinking deeper into the stack of pillows behind him, Craig sighed. “I know you better than that, Peter. Something’s on your mind, so spill.”

Peter rubbed his temple and stared at his boots. “Have you heard anything else from the sheriff about who is behind your poisoning?”

“Lester Atkins is the only arrest the sheriff’s made.”

“Yeah, and we both know he didn’t act alone. Someone paid him. Someone supplied the arsenic.”

Craig nodded. “Sheriff Colton said he’d look into the possibility Atkins had help.”

“Sheriff Colton is first and foremost a Colton,” Peter scoffed. “I’d bet anything the Coltons had a hand in this. Maybe Damien was wrongfully convicted fifteen years ago, but I wouldn’t put it past his family to have arranged my dad’s real murder—and your poisoning—as revenge. Or to cover some other crime. Or…hell, the possibilities are endless when it comes to the Coltons.”

Darius Colton and his offspring knew how to wield power and intimidate the right people. They’d been a thorn in the Walsh family’s side since before Mark disappeared and Damien Colton was accused of his murder.

“I’ve considered the possibility that the Coltons could be involved myself. Finn’s been treating me for the poisoning, so I don’t think he’s our man.” Craig closed his eyes and sighed. “But if another Colton is responsible, how do we prove it?”

Peter gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Not through official channels, that’s for sure.” Because Wes Colton was the sheriff, Peter needed to find a way to circumvent the sheriff’s department and get to the bottom of his father’s murder and Craig’s poisoning.

“I can hire someone to look into the matter. Money is no object for me.” Craig paused for a breath, his weakness from the poisoning still evident. “You and your mother are family to me, and I have a feeling we haven’t seen the last of these attacks. Until whoever is behind this mess is stopped, we’re all still in danger. That includes you and Patrick.”

A chill shimmied through Peter. Craig was right. He had to protect Patrick.

Despite his heavy case load—cheating spouses, insurance fraud, missing teenagers, adopted kids looking for their birth parents—Peter had to find the person behind the attacks.

He met Craig’s dark eyes with a level stare. “I’ll do the legwork myself. I have resources at my disposal, law enforcement and investigation training.” If not much time.

He hated that taking on a private investigation into his father’s death would mean more time away from Patrick. But how could he let Craig’s poisoning, Mary’s attack and Mark’s murder go unsolved?

Craig’s wan face creased with worry. “Are you sure you want to dig into your father’s business and expose yourself to his skeletons?”

Peter’s gut churned at the thought of the dirt he was likely to uncover on his father if he undertook this investigation of his murder. “I’m sure. But I’ll need your help.”

“My help?” Craig lifted the numerous IV tubes and tipped his head. “I’d love to assist you, but I’m kind of tied down at the moment.”

“I need information from you. I need you to try to remember anything suspicious that may have happened at Walsh Enterprises in the weeks before my dad was murdered. Did my father contact you? Did you know he was alive?”

Craig’s gaze softened. “If I’d known that, I would have told you and your brother and sisters and your mother, Peter. You know that.”

“Okay.” Peter waved that issue away. “Then what about the company? Any suspicious activity in the accounts or operations? “

“I’ll check on that, but…my memory is a little muddled. The arsenic caused me a bit of confusion and lapses in my memory.” He twitched a wry grin. “Thank God it was just poison. I thought I was getting senile.”

Peter forced a grin, but reminders of how close he’d come to losing the man who’d been a surrogate father was no laughing matter. “What about threats? Had anyone contacted you—”

When Peter’s cell rang, he scowled, checked the caller ID.

Honey Creek Elementary.

His pulse spiked. If the school was calling in the middle of the day, it couldn’t be good news. Was Patrick sick? Hurt?

Had his father’s killer come after his son?

He jabbed the talk button, his heart in his throat. “Peter Walsh.”

“Hello, Mr. Walsh,” a sweet female voice began. “This is Lisa Navarre. I’m Patrick’s teacher.”

“What’s happened? Was there trouble at school?” Peter was already out of his chair and putting on his coat.

“Well, yes, there’s been an incident. I need you to come to the school as soon as—”

“I’ll be right there.” He disconnected the call and squeezed his eyes closed. Patrick was his whole world. If anything happened to his son—

Panic rising in his throat, Peter met Craig’s concerned gaze.

“Is Patrick all right?”

“I don’t know. His teacher said there’d been an accident. I have to go.” He backed quickly toward the door. “But we’ll talk more later. I want the people responsible for doing this to you caught, Craig. I won’t rest until I find everyone involved in this conspiracy.”

Chapter 2

“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.”

Chapter 3

Thanks to a new missing-person case on Friday and his promise to take Patrick to the game on Saturday, Sunday afternoon was the first chance Peter had to follow up on his suspicions regarding the Colton family’s connection to Craig’s poisoning and his father’s murder. The best place to start, Peter always figured, was the beginning—in this case, the circumstances and events surrounding the Coltons at the time of Mark Walsh’s first “death” in 1995.

He left Patrick in the capable hands of his mother, Jolene, and headed to the library to begin his research. In 1995, when his father went missing and was presumed dead, Peter had been a typically self-absorbed teenager. He hadn’t cared what political causes or social events his family or the rival Coltons were involved in. But in hindsight, he thought maybe he could glean some helpful information to focus his investigation.

As he headed into the library from the parking lot, he noticed a number of large limbs and debris still cluttered the lawn. He frowned at the reminders of the tornado that had struck Honey Creek recently. Most of the brick and stone buildings in town had survived with minimal or no damage, but many homes, including his own, had sustained varying degrees of damage. He scanned the library’s brick exterior searching for signs of damage before mounting the steps to enter the front door.

He spotted his younger sister, Mary, near the front desk and made a beeline toward her. “Well, if it isn’t the future Mrs. Jake Pierson.”

Mary’s head snapped up, and a broad smile filled her face. “Peter! How are you?”

Love—and Mary’s recent, significant weight loss—looked good on his sister. She positively glowed with her newfound happiness.

“Clearly not as well as you. Look at that radiant flush in your face.” He tweaked his sister’s cheek playfully, and she swatted his hand away. “So what are you doing here? I thought your days as librarian were over now that you and Jake are opening the security biz.”

She leaned a hip against the front desk and grinned. “I may not work here, but I have friends who do. And I volunteer to lead the story time in the children’s area on Sunday afternoons. What brings you in today, and why didn’t you bring my favorite nephew with you?”

“Mom’s watching Patrick so I can get some research done.” Peter unbuttoned his coat and glanced around at the tables where people were scattered, reading and studying. An attractive dark-haired woman at one of the corner tables snagged his attention.

Lisa Navarre.

Patrick’s teacher was hunched over thick books, scribbling in a notebook and looking for all the world like a college co-ed the night before exams. Her rich chocolate hair was pinned up haphazardly, wisps falling around her face. A pencil rested above her ear, and a pair of frameless reading glasses slid down her nose. Chewing the cap of her pen, she looked adorably geeky and maddeningly sexy at the same time.

Peter stared openly, his pulse revving, and his conscience tickling. No time like the present to apologize for his oafish behavior on Thursday afternoon.

“Hello? Peter?” Mary waved a hand in front of him and laughed as he snapped back to attention. “I asked what kind of research you were doing. Geez, bro, where did you go just then?”

Peter shifted awkwardly, embarrassed at being caught staring. “Sorry. I saw someone I need to talk to.”

Mary glanced the direction he’d been looking. “Would that someone be an attractive single female who teaches at the elementary school?”

Peter ignored the question and his sister’s knowing grin. “Say, where do they keep the microfiche around here? I need to look through old issues of the Honey Creek Gazette.”

Mary shifted through a stack of children’s books, setting some aside and discarding others. She thumbed through the pages of a colorful picture book, then added it to her growing stack.

He tipped his head and smirked. “Just how many books are you planning on reading to the story-time kids?”

Pausing, she looked at the tall pile. “Looks like about fifteen to me. But I could always add more later.” She gave him a smug grin. “How far back do you want to go with the Gazette? Anything older than two years is filed in a room at the back. Lily will have to get it for you.”

When she nodded toward the other end of the check-out desk, Peter shifted his attention to the raven-haired woman who’d earned a bad reputation before leaving town years ago. Now Lily Masterson was back in town, repairing her reputation after being hired as the head librarian. She was also Wes Colton’s fiancée.

Tensing, Peter took Mary by the elbow and led her several steps away from the front desk. “I want everything from 1995.”

Mary stilled and cast him a suspicious look. Clearly she recognized the time frame as when their father disappeared. “What are you doing, Peter?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Looking for the answers that the sheriff either refuses to find himself or is covering up to protect his family.”

Mary’s shoulders drooped, and she lowered her voice. “You make it sound like Dad’s disappearance was part of a big conspiracy with the Coltons.”

He twitched a shoulder. “Maybe it was.”

She looked skeptical. “Look, Peter, I don’t know what you’re up to, but be careful. When Jake and I dug into Dad’s death this summer, we clearly rattled some skeletons. This research you’re here for could lead to trouble for you if word gets out. I don’t want to see you or Patrick in any danger.”

Craig had said as much, too, when he’d visited him in the hospital. Peter’s gut rolled at the suggestion his investigation could threaten Patrick’s safety.

“And considering that Damien was proven innocent of killing dad, since dad wasn’t really dead all these years,” Mary added, “I’m not sure what sort of conspiracy you think the Coltons are involved in. But Jake trusts Wes, and that’s good enough for me. What makes you think Wes isn’t doing his job?”

Peter glanced around the bustling library, his gaze stopping on Lily. “That’s a conversation for another day and another, more private place.” He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets. “So do you still have access to the Gazette microfiche? I really don’t want the sheriff’s new girlfriend knowing I’m digging into his family’s history.”

She frowned and flipped her red hair over her shoulder. “I can’t access the back room anymore, but I’ll ask Lily to get the microfiche you need. Meet me over by the film reader.” She jerked her head in the general direction of the microfiche machine on a far wall, then headed across the room to speak to Lily.

Peter noted the machine she indicated but headed the opposite direction. He had to eat a bit of humble pie.

Wiping his suddenly perspiring palms on the seat of his jeans, Peter headed toward the table where Lisa Navarre sat. As he approached, she paused from her work long enough to stretch the kinks from her back and roll her shoulders. When her gaze landed on him, he saw recognition tinged with surprise register on her face, along with another emotion he couldn’t identify. She seemed uneasy or flustered somehow as he stepped up to her table and flashed her an awkward grin. He couldn’t really blame her for being disconcerted by his presence. He’d been rather gruff and unpleasant last time they met.

Ms. Navarre snatched off her reading glasses and smoothed a hand over her untidy hair. “Mr. Walsh…hello.”

He rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “Hi, Ms. Navarre. I’m sorry to interrupt. Do you have a minute?”

She closed the massive book in front of her and waved a dismissive hand over her notepad. “Sure. I was just doing a little studying for my class.”

Peter read the title of the book. “Critical Evaluation in Higher Education. Huh, I didn’t know fourth grade was considered higher education nowadays.”

She tucked one of the stray wisps of hair behind her ear and sent him a quick grin. “It’s not for Patrick’s class. I’m working on my PhD in Higher Education. I’m thinking of moving to teaching college-level classes instead of elementary.”

“Because at the college level you won’t have to deal with jerk fathers who read you the riot act for doing your job?” He added a crooked smile and earned a half grin in return.

“Well, there is that.” Her expression brightened. “Although, for the record, the term jerk is yours, not mine. Concerned, somewhat overwrought fathers might be a better term.”

“Call it what you want, but I still acted like a jerk.” He met her golden-brown eyes and his chest tightened. “Please forgive me for taking you to task. I do appreciate your concern for Patrick and your willingness to bring his errant behavior that day to my attention. I’d already had a rather stressful day and was on edge about some family matters, but that’s no excuse for the way I bit your head off.”

She blinked and set her glasses aside. “Wow. That’s, um…Apology accepted. Thank you.”

Peter noticed a pink tint staining her cheeks and added her ability to blush to the growing list of things he liked about Patrick’s teacher. “So if jerk fathers aren’t why you’re thinking of moving up to higher education, what is behind the career change?”

“Well…” Her dark eyebrows knitted, and she fumbled with her pen. “My reasons will sound really bad without knowing the whole long, boring personal story behind my decision. Let’s just say teaching older students would be less…painful.” She winced. “Ooo, that sounded more melodramatic than I intended.” She laughed awkwardly and waved her hand as if to erase her last comment. “Forget I said that.”

“Forgotten.” But Peter had already filed both the comment and the shadow that flitted across her face in his memory bank. He had no business delving deeper into her personal life, but he couldn’t deny he was intrigued. And sympathetic to her discomfort. He had painful things in his past that he avoided discussing when possible.

“Is Patrick with you?” she asked looking past him toward the children’s section.

“No. Not today. I’m here on business matters, looking for information for a case I’m working on.”

He could tell by the wrinkle in her brow that his working on the weekend away from Patrick bothered her. A jab of guilt prodded him to add, “But yesterday, Patrick and I took in the MSU game and spent most of the evening playing Monopoly together.”

“Oh, good.” Her lips curved, although the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure he enjoyed that.”

“I hope so. You made some valid points the other day at school.”

She blinked as if surprised, and Peter chuckled. “Despite how it may have seemed, I was listening. I heard what you said about Patrick’s withdrawal and falling grades.”

She held up a finger. “Um, slipping. I believe I said his grades were slipping.”

He scratched his chin. “The difference beings…?”

“His grades are still good. They’ve come down a bit, just a few points. But falling to me is more dramatic. Big drop, by several letter grades.”

Peter chuckled. “You are a master of nuance, aren’t you? Incident not accident. Slipping not falling.”

She flushed a deeper shade of pink, and Peter’s libido gave him another hard kick.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I just believe in saying what I mean. Exactly what I mean.”

Mary caught his attention from across the room. With an impatient look, she held up the microfiche Lily had retrieved for her.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your studying.” Peter motioned to her books then took a step back. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walsh.” She held out her hand, and he grasped her fingers. Her handshake was firm and confident, and the feel of her warm hand in his sent a jolt of awareness through him.

Ms. Navarre, Dad. She’s not married.

As he turned to walk away, Peter hesitated. The woman was beautiful, intelligent and single. “Uh, Ms. Navarre…”

Good grief. Suddenly he was thirteen again and asking Cindy Worthington to the Valentine dance. He was a geeky ball of jittery nerves and sweating palms. He hadn’t asked a woman on a first date in more than thirteen years. Not since he’d asked Katie out for the first time in high school. Since Katie’s death, he’d preferred to be alone, to focus on Patrick and losing himself in his work.

But somehow Lisa Navarre was different from the other women in Honey Creek. She’d managed to stir something deep inside him that had been dormant since Katie died—an interest in getting back into life.

She raised an expectant gaze, waiting for him to continue.

His heart drummed so loudly in his ears, he was sure she could hear it. “I was wondering if you might be free next Saturday to—”

Wham!

A loud thump reverberated through the library, drawing his attention to the front desk. When he saw the source of the noise and the ensuing commotion, he tensed. Maisie Colton was not only a Colton, reason enough for Peter to steer clear of her, but the Vogue-beautiful woman was well-known in town as being eccentric and unpredictable.

Maisie angrily slammed another stack of books on the counter, and Lily Masterson rushed over to quiet Maisie.

“No respect!” Maisie steamed, full voice. “Do you know how many times I’ve called that damn show? And they still won’t talk to me!”

Lily murmured something quietly to Maisie, who retorted, “The Dr. Sophie show, of course. My God, this town has enough dirty secrets and public scandals to fill the show’s programming for weeks! But the ninny they have working in PR not only wouldn’t listen to me, but told me to stop calling or she’d contact the police!” Maisie tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and scowled darkly.

Peter gritted his teeth, mentally applauding the Dr. Sophie show’s PR rep for recognizing a kook when they heard one and having the guts to stand up to Maisie. Not too many people in Honey Creek did. She was, after all, a Colton, and Coltons held a great deal of power in the town.

He knew he should ignore Maisie’s outburst as most of the other library patrons were, but watching Maisie Colton was a little like watching a train wreck. Despite knowing better, you just can’t look away.

In hushed tones, Lily tried to calm Maisie, but she bristled and railed at Lily, “Don’t tell me what to do! This is a public building, and I have every right to be here and speak my mind.”

Mary edged up to the front counter to give Lily backup, and Peter groaned. This could get ugly.

Mary spoke quietly to Maisie, and, as he’d predicted, Maisie rounded on his sister in a heartbeat. He heard a hateful, derogatory term thrown at his sister, and he’d had enough. Turning briefly to Lisa Navarre, Peter said, “Excuse me. I have to go.” He hustled up to the front desk, where Maisie was bristling like an angry cat, flinging insults at Mary.

“…Walsh slut like your sister! Lucy ruined my brother’s life the instant she hooked her talons into Damien and seduced him. I pity poor Jake Pierson. You damn Walshes are all the same!” Maisie huffed indignantly.

Peter stepped up behind his sister, not saying anything but drilling Maisie with a warning look.

“And you!” She aimed a shaking finger at him. “You killed Katie, same as if you’d pulled a trigger.”

Peter stiffened, bile churning in his gut. “That’s enough, Maisie. Go home.”

“She died having your baby! Or don’t you care? Your father sure didn’t care how many women he hurt, how many hearts he broke, how many lives he ruined!”

Mary gasped softly, and Peter sensed more than saw the shudder that raced through his sister. He stepped forward, prepared to bodily throw Maisie from the library if needed, just as another woman brushed past him to confront Maisie.

Lisa Navarre. Startled, Peter caught his breath, as if watching a fawn step in front of a semi-trailer.

“It’s Ms. Colton, right?” Lisa smiled warmly and held her hand out for Maisie to shake. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I taught your son Jeremy a couple years ago.”

Maisie gaped at Lisa suspiciously, then shook her hand. “Yeah. I remember you. Jeremy loved your class.”

“Well, I loved having him in my class. He’s such a sweet boy. Very bright and well-mannered. I know you must be proud of him.”

Maisie sent an awkward glance to Lily, Mary and Peter, then tugged her sleeve to straighten her coat. “I am. Jeremy is the world to me.”

Lisa smiled brightly. “I can imagine.” Then, gesturing with a glance to Mary and Peter, Lisa continued. “Somehow I doubt he’d be happy if he knew you’d been yelling at these nice people, though.”

Maisie lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with contempt. “There is nothing nice about these or any of the Walshes.” Nailing an arctic glare on Mary, Maisie added, “I’m glad your father is dead. One less Walsh for the world to suffer.”

Peter had never struck a woman in his life, but Maisie tempted him to break his code of honor. He squared his shoulders and would have moved in on the hateful woman if Lisa hadn’t spread her hand at her side in a subtle signal asking him to wait.

“Ms. Colton, the town is justifiably upset over the murder of Mark Walsh. Emotions are running high for everyone. I know there is a lot of bad blood between your families, but this kind of name-calling and finger-pointing serves no good. Think about Jeremy. I’m sure the last thing he needs is to hear from his friends that you were causing a scene here today.”

Maisie crossed her arms over her chest and moisture gathered in her eyes. “Their family has caused me and my brother years of heartache. Damien spent fifteen years in jail for something he didn’t do!”

“I’m sorry for that, truly. But do you really think Damien wants you adding salt to the wounds now, or would he rather put the past behind him?” Lisa’s calm tone reminded Peter of the tactful way she’d handled his tirade earlier in the week.

While he hated to consider himself in the same category as Maisie Colton, he had to admire Lisa’s people skills. Already Maisie’s ire seemed to have cooled. Incredible.

Maisie glanced away and quickly swiped at her eyes before returning a less militant gaze to Lisa. “You’re right. I just get so mad when—”

She shook her head, not bothering to finish. Dividing one last cool glare of contempt between Mary and Peter, Maisie tugged the lapels of her overcoat closed and breezed out the front door.

To Peter, it seemed the entire population of the library sighed with relief.

Lisa turned to Peter and twitched a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have butted in, but—”

“No apology necessary. You handled that…beautifully. You have a real talent for talking people down from the ledge, so to speak.”

“If I have a talent, it’s simply for keeping a cool head. And, spending most of my day with a room full of rowdy fourth-graders, it is a skill I’ve practiced and have down to a science.”

Peter laughed. “I bet.”

“So before…you were saying something about next Saturday?” She tipped her head in inquiry, inviting him to finish what he’d started.

Peter blew out a deep breath. “Right. To say I’m sorry, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

Lisa’s eyes widened in genuine surprise. “You’re asking me out? Like…on a date?”

Somehow the notion of a date seemed to bother her so he backpedaled. “Well, not really a date. I thought you could give me some advice about how to handle all the stuff that’s been happening in my family. You know, with Patrick. You aren’t the only one who’s seen changes in him lately. I’m worried about him, too. I want to help him but…I don’t know where to start.”

Patrick’s teacher eyed him suspiciously. “Hmm. Good cover.”

Peter feigned confusion. “Excuse me?”

When she laughed, the sound tripped down his spine and filled him with a fuzzy warmth like the first sip of a good whiskey. “I’d love to go to dinner with you. But—” she held up a finger, emphasizing her point “—it’s not a date.”

Peter jerked a nod. “Agreed. Not a date.”

Yet even as he consented to her terms, a stab of disappointment poked him in the ribs. Not a date wasn’t what he’d had in mind and seemed wholly insufficient with a woman like Lisa Navarre.

But for now, it would do.

Chapter 4

After setting a time to pick Lisa up on Saturday, Peter ignored Mary’s querying looks and got started skimming through the microfiche of old newspapers to see what he could learn about the Coltons. Lisa returned to her table to study, but just knowing she was nearby was enough to distract Peter from his tedious research. He found himself repeatedly glancing in her direction and wondering where they should go for dinner next weekend.

Perhaps a restaurant in Bozeman would be better than the local fare if they wanted to avoid starting rumors. He knew several high-end restaurants in Bozeman that were sure to impress Lisa, but perhaps, for their first date, he should keep things low-key.

Their first date? First implied there would be more than one, and since Lisa insisted it wouldn’t be a date

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