made his way into the kitchen, an offshoot of the great room, and opened the fridge.
After downing several swigs, he peered at the clock. Five. No problem. Since his isolation, he’d made it a point not to indulge himself before late in the afternoon and then only sparingly. It would be so easy to drown his troubles in booze, but he wasn’t about to fall into that trap. He’d seen too many of the guys he’d worked with do that to no good end.
Yet it felt damn good to feel the edge dull somewhat after having gone another round earlier with his ex-wife, leaving him furious and frustrated. She seemed determined to throw monkey wrenches into his plans to see his seventeen-year-old son.
Once he’d plopped down on the sofa and crossed his legs on the coffee table, Brant finished the beer, then set the bottle down. He needed a shower, but he wasn’t in the mood, not when his thoughts were cluttered with his ex.
Marsha Harding Bishop knew just which strings to jerk to get him riled, especially when it came to money and their kid. Since she’d finally married the man with whom she’d had an affair and who had become more of a father to Elliot than he himself had ever been, the money issue had resolved itself. Preston Bishop owned an accounting firm and made big bucks.
More power to him.
Brant couldn’t give a rip about the money. He had plenty of his own, mostly inherited from his parents, but what the hell—money was money. He didn’t need much of the green stuff, anyway, not to live the way he lived. Most of it was in trust for his son, and Marsha knew that. Yet it hadn’t made one whit of difference in her attitude toward him.
When he’d called and asked to speak to Elliot, she hadn’t had to say a word for him to sense her hostile attitude. He’d envisioned her otherwise attractive features tightening and her slender shoulders stiffening.
“He’s not here.”
“Are you sure?”
That comment had turned the hostility in her voice to ice. “I don’t lie, contrary to what you think.”
“Come on, Marsha, who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve lied, all right, but that’s water under the bridge. I’m through arguing with you. Right now, all I care about is talking to my son.”
“I told you, he’s not here.”
Brant controlled his rising temper with an effort. “Will you give him a message?”
Silence.
“Dammit, Marsha, when are you going to stop using Elliot as a weapon to get back at me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, the ice in her voice thickening.
Again, Brant controlled his temper and words. He was treading in a current he couldn’t master, at least not over the phone. He hated the damn things, anyway. He would much rather be looking her in the face when he talked to her. Maybe then she could see the sincerity laced with the desperation in his eyes.
At the moment, however, he had no recourse but to back down. “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.
