have a lead to check out.”
“Humph. So you’re determined to do this, are you?”
“Yep. I’ve put it off too long already.”
Charlie rolled his eyes and muttered another curse. “All right, fine. Do what you gotta do. But there’s no need for you to quit. Take a leave of absence.”
“I don’t—”
Charlie held up his hands. “Just hear me out. You take all the time you need. Go write your novel. Look for your other sibling. When you’re done and you find out you’re not Hemingway, then you come back here. Your job will be waiting.”
“Charlie—”
“No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m not going to let you throw away your career on a whim. Just go get all this nonsense out of your system once and for all, then come back here where you belong.”
J.T. was torn between exasperation and gratitude. It touched him that the cantankerous old coot thought enough of him to hold his job open, and it irritated the living hell out of him that he ridiculed his dream.
He held the older man’s gaze for several moments. What if Charlie was right? What if his talent didn’t go any deeper than knocking out sensationalized accounts of the news? It was a depressing thought—one he refused to accept.
J.T. wasn’t in any mood to argue, though, and he could see by Charlie’s bulldog expression that he wasn’t going to back down. Hell, why fight it? He could always resign later.
“Okay. You’ve got a deal,” J.T. finally said.
“There is just one condition.”
“Uh-oh, here it comes.”
“Aw, don’t get your shorts in a wad. I just want your promise that if you come across a good story you’ll call it in, that’s all.”
J.T. thought it over. Where he was heading, probably the most exciting thing that ever happened was an elk wandering into town now and then. “Sure. Why not?”
“Good. That’s settled. Now tell me, where’re you going?”
“Oh, no. Forget it. I know you, Charlie. If I tell you, you’ll be on the phone to me every day with an assignment, or wanting to know when I’m coming back.”
“So? What if I need you? What if an international crisis happens? What if World War III breaks out? How the hell am I supposed to get in touch with you?”
“You aren’t. Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check in now and then, but that’s it. Take it or leave it. Either way, in two weeks, I’m outta here.”
Cleaning out his desk and parting from his colleagues and friends was difficult, but for J.T. the hardest part of leaving was saying goodbye to Matt and Maude Ann and the kids.
Which was why he put off doing so until the last minute. When his belongings were in storage, all the last-minute details were handled and his laptop and the clothes he would need were loaded in the back of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, he drove north out of Houston to Lake Livingston.
J.T. knew that putting distance between himself and Matt at this point sure as hell wasn’t going to do much for their relationship. But then, he wondered if anything could.
Though they were brothers, a wall of reserve existed between him and Matt that neither of them seemed capable of breaching.
Perhaps it would always be there, J.T. mused. Maybe they had been separated too long to ever come together as brothers. They’d led different lives, had different upbringings, different outlooks. It saddened him to think so, but it was beginning to look as though it was too late for him and Matt to form any close fraternal ties. Certainly they had not gotten closer during the six weeks since they’d learned about their kinship.
It was a different story with his sister-in-law. He and Maude Ann had hit it off as friends from the moment they met, long before her marriage to Matt three weeks ago. He could talk to Maude Ann, laugh with her, tease her, tell her his hopes and dreams.
Of course, being a psychiatrist, she was trained to be a good listener and she had a sharp understanding of human nature, but there was more to it than that. He and Maudie were kindred souls. He was going to miss her like the devil. And he was going to miss the kids.
As he anticipated, Maude Ann was far more upset by his news than his brother. “You’re leaving? But why?” she asked in a stricken voice.
“I finally realized that I was feeling guilty about the compromises I’d made. So now I’m doing something about it.”
“Oh, J.T., don’t misunderstand me. I think it’s great that you’re finally going to do what you’ve always wanted. Really. And I’m positive you’ll be a success. You’re a wonderful writer. I just don’t understand why you have to leave.”
“There are too many distractions in Houston. It would be too easy to get sidetracked with other things. I need to find someplace quiet where no one knows me so I can concentrate on my writing.”
“You don’t have to leave the state, for heaven’s sake. You could come here.”
J.T. raised his eyebrows. “Here? Live at the Haven? With you and Matt and the kids?”
Henley Haven was a foster home for abused and neglected children that Maude Ann had started several years ago. The structure was a former fishing lodge on the northern shore of Lake Livingston that belonged to Lieutenant John Werner, Maude Ann’s godfather and Matt’s former boss at the HPD.
In the past year Matt had been shot twice in the line of duty, and the wounds had left him with a limp, ending his career as a police officer. Now he and Maude Ann ran the Haven together.
“Look, Maudie, I appre—”
The front door opened to the sound of pitiful wailing. An instant later ten-year-old Yolanda Garcia appeared in the doorway with a bawling Timothy on her hip. “He fell and hurt his elbow,” the girl announced shyly.
Matt rose and limped to where the children stood. “Hey, buddy, let’s have a look.”
Even from where he sat J.T. could see that the injury wasn’t serious. The skin was red but unbroken, with only a few white scrape marks marring the surface. From Timothy’s wails you would have thought he’d received a mortal wound.
Chin quivering pathetically, the four-year-old looked up at Matt with tear-drenched eyes and stuck out his elbow. “It huuurts real bad, Matt.”
“I’ll bet it does,” Matt replied gravely.
Instantly, responding to the gruff empathy, the little boy sniffed and quieted.
Matt examined the scrape with the same seriousness he would have given a bone-deep cut and moved the arm back and forth to test its mobility. “It doesn’t look too bad. Yolanda, why don’t you take him in the bathroom and clean his elbow.”
“Sì, Señor Dolan.”
“A little antibacterial spray and a
