of hair, assessing eyes and a cat’s grin locked on her. “Tasha Brown with Action News. Tell me, how does it feel to step foot in this courtroom?”
A reporter. Shock rocked her back on her heels. She hadn’t prepared for this. She despised reporters, always digging up dirt and thriving on it. Why did someone have to unearth it now? It happened so long ago. The shame of the past struck her hard. She gasped, fisted her hands, lost sight of the doorway. Her vision blurred.
“No comment.” The words squeaked out of her, full of pain. But did the reporter stop?
No. The woman jabbed her handheld recorder closer. “Your family isn’t any stranger to courthouses. First your father—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted, unable to see a way out. People surrounded her in every direction, closing in to get to the courtroom. Panic raced through her veins. She couldn’t breathe. There just wasn’t any air. And how could she escape? She was trapped by people everywhere.
A steady hand clasped around her elbow. Liam. Strong but gentle. The comfort of his touch reminded her she wasn’t alone.
Over the whir of panic she heard the resonate rumble of his voice, keeping the reporters at bay. He tugged her close to the wall and blocked her with his body.
“Thank you.” She drew in a ragged breath, feeling a little foolish. She definitely felt wrung out.
“No problem,” he answered kindly. “I—”
“There you are!” Colbie burst into sight like a fish swimming against the current, weaving around people filing into the chamber. Her violet eyes shone with caring. “Court is about to start. C’mon.”
Brooke felt her sister’s unspoken sympathy wrap around her like a hug. Colbie understood. Colbie who had so faithfully written letters all those years when Brooke had been away, cut off from life, behind barred doors and windowless walls.
Lord, help me to do this. She gathered all the strength she had. She could walk into that courtroom, sit beside her sisters and ignore the reporters. She was strong and tough. Not once would she remember being perched in her chair beside a defense attorney with her world in tatters. Colbie’s hand slipped around hers as Liam let go.
She turned to him at a loss, unsure what to say. He’d witnessed her panic attack, the remnants of which were still quaking through her. But did he ask questions? No. Kindness softened his deep eyes and made him amazing.
Just amazing.
With Colbie’s hand in hers, she set her chin, squared her shoulders and walked into the courtroom as if the past had no claim on her.
* * *
At times his fellow colleagues miffed him, and it burned through the morning session. Liam sat in the back where he could watch the entire courtroom, not that there was much going on other than opening arguments and preliminaries. He was on assignment, so he was interested in the case but he had a hard time concentrating. He could still hear Brooke’s gasp of pain at Tasha Brown’s question. Interrogating family members outside the courtroom. He clenched his jaw, hands fisting.
Fine, so he felt protective of Brooke. He would respond the same way toward anyone in a similar situation. And if a little voice in the back of his head wanted to argue, he simply ignored it.
She hadn’t glanced his way once all morning. He had a perfect view of her, seated with her family down front. They nestled together in an unbreakable circle around Brianna. Brooke’s sleek dark hair glinted in the lights, and he remembered the feel of her arm, fine-boned and soft beneath his hand. Asking her for a quote hadn’t even occurred to him. Why had Tasha done it?
The Backdoor Burglars had been big news a while back, before he’d moved back home. Thieves had preyed on restaurants when employees were cleaning up for the night. The robberies escalated until several people were killed and more were injured. He’d been out of the country, but his grandfather Ed Knightly had covered the series of crimes. A real tragedy.
He recognized Juanita’s family, a young woman killed in the robbery, her mother teary-eyed and trying to stay strong.
“Hey, Liam.” Roger, a fellow journalist, interrupted his thoughts. “Want to grab lunch?”
He blinked, realizing the session had adjourned for noon recess. He hadn’t even noticed it. Some reporter he was. He tucked his notes and laptop into his briefcase. “Sorry, can’t. I’ve got to buzz home and check on my dog.”
“You have a dog?” Roger’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You?”
“Hey, what’s wrong with me?” He eased off the bench. “I’m a good dog owner.”
“Yeah, but you are gone a lot. Won’t that be a problem?”
“Why would it? Oscar used to spend his time locked in a cage, and now he has a whole house. Where’s the problem in that?”
He got ahead of the crowd streaming toward the doors, catching one quick glimpse of Brooke. She bent to speak to Lil, dark hair cascading over her shoulder, strain tightening the muscles along her delicate jaw line. The trial was obviously taking a toll on her. It was a lot for a family to go through.
“Hey, maybe there’s no problem. What do I know?” Roger kept pace with him as they broke out into the wide corridor. Noise and people streamed around them. “My mom had a dachshund, and that little wiener dog ate the entire house whenever she left him alone. That’s all I’m saying.”
“The only danger would be if Oscar ever learned how to open the fridge or the pantry doors.” He thought of the ham incident and grinned. That dog was sure livening things up. “See you in an hour.”
“Right. Good luck!”
“I don’t believe in luck.” God had led him to Oscar, God had put the wish for a dog into his heart and God would not abandon him now. Liam headed down the hall, glancing over his shoulder to steal another glimpse of Brooke. The crowd was too big—he couldn’t see her. He stumbled out the door and into the bright May sunshine, fighting the feeling he’d left something important behind.
His cell sang a cheerful note as he started his truck’s engine. One glance at the screen had him grinning. It was a text message from Colbie.
Mom told me about your need for a dog trainer. Brooke is great with dogs, she’d written. Call her, text her, just don’t hire anyone else. Promise?
I don’t need a trainer, he tapped out with his thumbs. His dog was unruly but overall just fine. And on the off chance Colbie was playing matchmaker, he didn’t need that, either. He knew how to hold his ground.
Famous last words, Colbie wrote. I’m sending Brooke’s cell # anyway.
The drive home was quick and uneventful. He lived in an older section of Bozeman where the neighborhoods were tree-lined and straight out of the 1940s with white picket fences, carefully manicured yards and Craftsman-style homes. He parked in front of the detached garage, hopped up the back steps and turned his key in the lock. The ringing bark of welcome put a spring in his step as he swung open the kitchen door.
A golden streak launched toward him, emitting a high-pitched whine of relief. Eighty pounds of Lab hit him in the chest,
