His Touch. Mary Baxter Lynn
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“Forget it. I’ll call him back later.”
“Was there anything in particular you wanted?”
“Yeah,” he said in a clipped tone. “I want to see him.”
“I don’t—”
“You might as well stop fighting me, Marsha. I’ve made up my mind that Elliot’s going to be a part of my life.”
“We’ll see about that,” she countered before the dial tone abused his ear.
Releasing his pent-up temper, Brant followed suit and slammed the receiver down.
Just thinking about that conversation made his blood boil again. Damn her. Cool it, buddy, he cautioned himself, taking deep breaths. He couldn’t totally blame her for the quagmire he was in with his only child. He’d gotten himself into it, and it was up to him to get out.
Trouble was, he didn’t know how. He needed Marsha’s help and cooperation. But apparently he was never going to get it, which meant he would have to depend on himself.
Feeling as if his insides were in a meat grinder, Brant walked onto the deck and, leaning the bulk of his weight on the handrails, stared at the lake and wooded hills beyond. The sun was beginning to set, and the picture before him was awesome. But this evening, the beauty and calmness of his sanctuary failed to soothe his seething mind and heart.
Would he be forced to pay for his sins forever?
Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Maybe he should’ve headed to Texas, to the Metroplex area, right off. By now he might have established a new relationship with his son instead of awkward phone conversations in between playing telephone tag.
He’d been forced into early retirement due to gunshot wounds he’d received during his long tenure as a Secret Service agent. It was while he’d been protecting the First Lady three years ago that the life-altering incident had occurred. He’d taken a bullet in the stomach and another in the right leg. Both wounds had been severe, and he’d nearly died, especially from the gut shot.
Since then, he’d become more or less a recluse, trying to recover in mind and body. But instead of healing, he found himself often lonely and discontented. Both stemmed from the burning need to bridge the growing estrangement from his son. For his own sanity, he had to find a way to become a part of Elliot’s life again. A sad commentary was that he hadn’t ever been the hands-on dad he should have been. Marsha’s beef against him on that score was right on target.
Facing that brutal truth had been the first big hurdle he’d had to jump. Admitting he was wrong came hard for him. Since he’d come here, he’d realized where he’d gone wrong, especially when it came to Elliot.
Following his divorce from Marsha eight years ago, the breach between him and Elliot had widened. At age forty-two he had no plans to remarry and add to his family, so the need to regain his son’s love and trust had become a frantic effort of the soul.
Now he feared he might have to venture away from his safe compound and uncomplicated way of life. He was reluctant to make such a bold move, since his mind still had a long way to go before recovering from the trauma it had suffered.
Yet he couldn’t rule that out, though the thought made him break out in a cold sweat. He no longer sought people out for their company. He craved the space and solitude of the mountains. The thought of returning to city life with all its hustle and bustle was repugnant to him. He had to figure out a way to get Elliot here, to the cabin, for a lengthy visit.
Now that he could maneuver without a cane, he would just have to come up with a workable plan.
“What the hell?” he muttered suddenly, as the noise coming from behind finally penetrated his beleaguered senses. On striding back into the living room, he realized someone was pounding on the front door. For some reason it was locked. When had he done that?
“Hold your horses,” he muttered, wondering who the hell his unwanted visitor was. He had neighbors, but they weren’t close ones and rarely came calling. A chill shot through him. Had something happened to Elliot? Of course not, he rationalized. If it had, he would be the last to know.
By the time he reached the door and jerked it open, sweat saturated his forehead and upper lip.
“Knocked your dick in the dirt, didn’t I, old friend?”
Brant’s only response to his long-time friend Thurmon Nash’s caustic comment was shocked silence.
Thurmon grinned, slapped him on the shoulder, then strode past him into the living room. There he whirled, his grin gaining strength by the second. He was tall and slightly overweight, with a bushy mustache that added to his strong features. His prematurely gray hair and blue eyes enhanced his commanding presence. Shrewd intelligence made him a friend and businessman for whom Brant had the greatest respect.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brant demanded when he finally found his voice.
“How ’bout a cold one before we get down to the nitty gritty?”
Wordlessly Brant headed for the kitchen and returned with two beers. He handed one to Thurmon, who then made himself comfortable in the nearest leather chair.
Brant took a seat on the matching sofa. For a moment they nursed their beers in companionable silence.
“You didn’t come all this way for a social call.” Brant’s words were a flat statement of fact.
“You’re right, I didn’t.”
“If it’s about me joining you as a partner in your security firm, I haven’t changed my mind.”
“I’m not here about that, though the offer still stands.”
“Thanks again, but no thanks.”
“Can’t blame a fellow for trying.”
“Is Ronnie all right?”
“Great. Blowing and going, as always.”
“Still in practice with that same high-flying attorney, huh?”
“Yep. And making him a shit-load of money, too.”
“When is she going to take a timeout and have a kid?”
Thurmon sighed. “It’s her call. And from the way it’s looking, maybe never. We’re both on the career fast track and can’t seem to get off.”
Changing the subject, Brant said, “So unload.”
Obviously choosing to ignore Brant’s push to get to the point, Thurmon crossed a leg over one knee and looked around. “This is still a great place, but aren’t you lonely as hell here?”
“I’m used to being alone. I was married for twelve years.”
“Funny.”
Brant kept his features bland.
“Don’t you think you’ve been hiding long enough?”
That comment irritated the hell out of Brant. He hadn’t seen his friend for heaven knows how long and didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals for his style of living, rather than shooting the bull about things they had in common.
“I’m treading on dangerous ground, aren’t I?” Thurmon asked in the growing silence.
“You read my mind.”
“Are you still the same expert marksman you once were?”
Surprise raised Brant’s eyebrows. “Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Okay. Yeah, I am. As a matter of fact, I practice just about every day.” He wanted to add that it whiled away some of the hours, but he didn’t dare. To admit that would add fodder to Thurmon’s case against him. “Why?” he asked again.
“I