inevitably disconcerted him by fixing on the one thing he wanted her to ignore. She’d been doing that since his first attempt to deceive her, having to do with a homemade slingshot and a broken window when he was six, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d done it again today.
But today’s problem was considerably more serious than a broken window, and he didn’t want his mother to get hurt trying to defend someone the whole county thought was guilty of an ugly crime.
The Langdon woman stared at him, suspicion darkening blue eyes that had so much green in them they were almost turquoise. “I thought your name was Blake.”
His mother’s irrepressible laugh gurgled. “Blake Winston Morgan the Third, to be exact. Isn’t that a pompous name to hang on a helpless little baby?”
“Mom…” Business, Mom. This is business, remember?
“So I took one look at the pink cheeks and that fuzz of blond hair, and I decided to call him Trey. For three, you know.”
“I’m sure Ms. Langdon figured that out,” he said drily.
“It’s not my concern.” To his surprise, Jessica Langdon looked faintly embarrassed. “I just…” She paused, evading his gaze. “Perhaps we could clarify whether Mrs. Morgan wants me to continue with the case or not.”
“Of course I do.” His mother shot him a reproachful look. “Trey, we’ve been through this already. That poor boy couldn’t possibly have done what they say, and if no one else will stand up for him, I will. I spoke with his mother, and she agreed to let me handle getting a lawyer.”
“If I’m going to represent the young man, it would be helpful to know a bit more about the circumstances.” Ms. Langdon looked at his mother, probably figuring she wasn’t going to get anything out of him.
“Yes, of course. Do come and sit down. I don’t know why we’re standing here.” His mother led her to a seat on the Queen Anne chair and then perched on the arm of the sofa opposite, head tipped to one side, as if waiting for questions.
The Langdon woman opened her briefcase, took out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes. Trey couldn’t help it—his lips twitched at the image of the two of them, despite the seriousness of the situation. Mom, still seemingly caught in the ’60s of her youth, wore her usual filmy Indian-inspired tunic over a pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees. Her face was bare of makeup, and a favorite pair of turquoise-and-silver earrings dangled from her ears.
His gaze lingered on Jessica Langdon. The carefully tailored, lightweight gray suit, cream silk shirt and ridiculously high heels might be suitable for the woman’s usual round of clients, but not for an excursion deep into the country, where a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt were practically considered formal wear. She had auburn hair, worn in a shining, chin-length style, a heart-shaped face, skin so fair she probably didn’t dare go out in the sun and deep blue eyes. Not quite beautiful, but striking enough that any man would notice—any man who liked the cool, sophisticated type, anyway.
“…so you see, he couldn’t possibly do anything like that,” Mom was saying, leaning toward Jessica with the look of an earnest child. “Why, Thomas helped me plant all those roses along the back fence, and he even brought a load of chicken manure to use on the rhubarb bed. Besides, he’s Amish, and the Amish simply don’t commit violent acts. A more law-abiding people you’d never want to meet, and—”
“But about the crime.” The lawyer sounded a little desperate, and he noticed that she hadn’t written anything on her yellow pad. “I need to know—”
“Thomas Esch is accused of the beating death of a young woman named Cherry Wilson,” he said bluntly. He might consider that Thomas was guilty as sin, but the boy deserved a defense attorney whose mind wasn’t muddled by roses and rhubarb. “Thomas was found near her body, unconscious, in a remote barn where they’d apparently been partying. The hammer that was used to kill her was in his hand.”
“Trey, dear, you don’t need to be so graphic.” His mother’s face crinkled in distress. “I’m sure Thomas didn’t—”
Impelled by the probably futile need to protect her, he crossed the room, bending over to take his mother’s hands. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Mom. But you have to face the truth. He’s guilty, and if you become involved in trying to get him off, your friends and neighbors won’t thank you. Please, just drop this.”
His fingers tightened on hers, and he felt the wedding ring she’d never removed since the day his father put it on her finger forty years ago. A spasm of pain shot through him. Dad ought to be here now. He’d always protected her.
It had been over a year, and Trey still hadn’t stopped wanting to talk things over with his father. Maybe he never would.
“I can’t forget about doing what’s right just because the neighbors might disapprove,” his mother said, with that odd little dignity that could crop up now and then when she felt strongly about something.
“This isn’t a matter of belief,” he said, sure it was useless and hating that they were having this conversation under Jessica Langdon’s cool, critical eyes. “It’s a matter of facts. Evidence.”
Mom freed her hand so that she could pat his cheek. “Dear Trey. You’re just like your father. Always acting on reason, never on instinct.”
He stiffened. “Dad had very good judgment.” And acting on reason wasn’t a fault.
“I’m not criticizing him, Trey. I’m just saying that sometimes you have to listen to your heart, not your head.”
He straightened, trying not to give an exasperated sigh. Arguing with his mother was like…like boxing with a bumblebee, and about as effective.
The Langdon woman slid the cap back on her pen, apparently giving up on getting any useful information out of them. Three small lines appeared between her eyebrows.
“I really need to talk to the client before I make any recommendations. But if the physical evidence is very strong, we may need to think about a plea bargain. Will the district attorney…”
“Oh, no,” his mother said. “You mustn’t do that. Why, that’s what Bobby wanted to do right away when I talked to him, and I just won’t hear of any such thing.”
“Bobby?” Jessica’s frown deepened.
“Robert Stephens. He’s our financial manager,” Trey explained, his gaze fixed on his mother. “Are you telling me you talked to Bobby about this and not to me?”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t approve.” His mother looked as guileless as a kitten. “So I just thought I’d talk to Bobby first. He’s always so accommodating, but this time I had to practically force him to do as I asked. I finally threatened to call Eva Henderson myself if he didn’t take care of it, so he did.”
Did that mean that she had gone to Bobby Stephens on other occasions, instead of turning to him? Trey’s temples began to throb. His father had expected him to take care of his mother—that was a given. But maybe it would have been helpful if he’d left behind some written instructions.
“Anyway, Bobby finally did what I wanted and hired a topflight Philadelphia lawyer to look after poor Thomas,” his mother said. She clasped Jessica’s hand suddenly,
