hung on to that promise. Her parents had died when she was a toddler. She didn’t remember them. Glen had stepped in to raise her. From that moment on, they’d been a team. No matter what he’d done, Heidi would stand by her grandfather. Even if that meant taking on the likes of Rafe Stryker.
* * *
ACCORDING TO CHARLIE, TRISHA Wynn should be in her sixties, but she looked forty and dressed as if she were twenty-five. Her dress—a pink-and-gold wrap with a plunging neckline—clung to impressive curves. Her heels were high, her makeup heavy and her earrings jangled.
“Any friend of Charlie’s,” Trisha said by way of greeting, waving Heidi into her small but comfortable office. “So Glen got himself into some trouble. I can’t say I’m surprised.”
Heidi sank into the comfortable leather visitor’s chair. “You know my grandfather?”
Trisha winked. “We had a long weekend together last fall up at the resort. A suite with a fireplace, plenty of room service. I generally avoid older men, but for Glen I made an exception. It was worth it.”
Heidi did her best to smile and nod, when she
really wanted to stick her fingers into her ears and start humming. She never wanted to hear the details about her grandfather’s personal life, and right now it was especially unwelcome.
“Yes, well, I’m glad you were, ah, pleased,” she began.
Trisha’s smile widened. “That’s one way to describe it. So, what has Glen done now?”
For the second time in an hour, Heidi explained about Glen, May Stryker and her son. Trisha listened, taking notes as Heidi spoke.
“You don’t have the money to pay May back.”
Trisha made a statement rather than asking a question, but Heidi answered it, anyway. “I don’t have any money, to speak of. I have twenty-five hundred dollars in my savings account, and that’s it.”
Trisha flinched. “Word to the wise. Don’t ever tell a lawyer that.”
“Oh. Charlie said—well, implied—that you might take this on pro bono.”
Trisha steepled her bright fuchsia fingernails. “I do take on a few cases like that. Mostly because they interest me or because I’m guilted into it. My fourth husband, may he rest in peace, left me very well off. So it’s not like I need the money. Still, it’s nice to be paid.”
Heidi wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she kept her mouth shut.
Trisha leaned back in her chair. “Here are the major problems as I see them. First, taking two hundred and fifty thousand dollars isn’t something any judge is going to find amusing. We’re so far into felony territory that Glen could be put away for years. If you’re as broke as you say, paying back the money right away isn’t going to happen.”
Heidi nodded. “If I could make payments…”
“That’s going to be one part of our defense. That you want to make good on the money. Come up with a payment plan. What is it you do?”
“I raise goats. I use their milk for cheese and soap. Two of my goats are pregnant. I’ll be able to sell the kids.”
Trisha raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Just once I’d like to work with someone doing an internet start-up. But do you bring me that?” She returned her attention to Heidi. “Goats. Okay, well that ties you to the community. This Harvey guy—the source of the trouble. Get him here. The judge needs to see the reason Glen took the money. How’s Harvey doing?”
“He’s great. His cancer treatments worked, and the doctors expect him to die in his sleep in about twenty years.”
“Good. Have Harvey bring medical records.”
Trisha continued to detail their strategy. When she was done, she said, “What was the son’s name?”
“Rafe Stryker.”
Trisha typed the information into her laptop. Her perfect lips twisted. “You picked the wrong man to mess with, missy. He would scare a shark.” There was more typing, followed by a groan. “Is he good-looking?”
Heidi thought about the tall, slightly frightening stranger who wanted to destroy her world. “Yes.”
“If I were you, I’d think about getting him into bed. Sex might be the only way to win this one.”
Heidi felt her mouth drop open. She consciously closed it. “Is there a plan B?”
* * *
RAFE DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH Fool’s Gold, his mother’s car a half block behind his. He hadn’t been in the town in years and he could easily, not to mention happily, go a lifetime without returning again.
It wasn’t that the town wasn’t attractive—if one was into pretty, small towns and local color. Storefronts were clean, sidewalks wide. Windows advertised sales and festivals. Despite the fact that it was a weekday, plenty of people were out walking around. From a business perspective, Fool’s Gold seemed to be thriving. But for him, this would always be the place he’d been trapped as a kid, taking on more than he could manage.
Everything was smaller than he remembered. Probably the perspective of being an adult, he told himself. He recognized the park where he’d met his friends on a rare afternoon away from chores and family. The road up to the school was the same, and he saw three boys on bikes riding in that direction.
He’d had a bike, he recalled. A bike one of the women in town had given to him. He’d been ten or eleven and desperate to be like his friends. But the bike was charity and his pride had battled with practicality.
He couldn’t complain—the town had been plenty kind. Every August there had been new clothes for school, new shoes and backpacks filled with the necessary supplies. On the holidays, baskets of food had appeared. At Christmas, toys had been left. His lunch at school had been free, something that had humiliated him, even though the cafeteria workers never drew attention to the fact. Once when he was walking home from school, a woman had pulled over, opened her car door and handed him a jacket. Just like that.
The jacket had been new and thick and warm. In the pockets, he’d found gloves and five dollars. Back then, it was all the money in the world. He’d been grateful and furious at the same time.
While he’d appreciated the gestures and the care, he’d hated that either had been necessary. Several nights a week, he’d been forced to lie to his mother and say he wasn’t hungry for dinner so his brothers and sister could have enough to eat. He’d gone to bed, determined to ignore the burning emptiness gnawing at him.
He’d never understood the vicious old man his mother had worked for—a man who had made sure there was plenty for himself, but not enough for a hardworking housekeeper to feed her children. The only bright spot in coming back was that, while the old caretaker’s house still stood, the place where
the old man had lived was gone.
None of which was the town’s fault, he told himself. Still, the memories were there. Things he’d tried to forget, to grow past. He was a powerful man, wealthy.
