kid, and without any records to guide him, the forms weren’t easy. Luckily, Tyler’s mother had managed to pack his shot records or they’d be in a whole different mess.
“What do you mean you didn’t go to kindergarten? I thought you had to?” Why was he asking an eight-year-old about this? He hadn’t a clue. Too much time in said eight-year-old’s company, he guessed.
“That’s rule stuff. Maybe you could ask that lady judge ’bout it.”
“I don’t think so.” Lady judge. An image of Emily Ivers flashed through Wyatt’s mind. Those long black robes and that tiny pink collar peeking out...
“I went to Walt Whitman Elementary for part of first grade then some other place till the end of the year.” Three more monsters disintegrated before Tyler spoke again. “Second grade was some place named after a tree. I was supposed to start at Wilson something for third—”
“Slow down.” Wyatt scribbled as the boy once again listed off the schools, then looked over at him. “How many times have you moved?”
“Lots.” Tyler focused on the screen, zapping more monsters with two swift finger blasts.
None of those school names rang a bell with Wyatt. “All in Texas?”
“Nope. Florida and Louisiana.” The monsters fought back and Tyler didn’t say anything else.
Wyatt leaned back in Dad’s captain’s chair and wished it were the man instead of a piece of wood. Dad’s death when Wyatt was fifteen had made him grow up damned fast. Since that time, though, Wyatt had called on a lot of his dad’s lessons and wisdom—at least what he’d managed to absorb in those short fifteen years. But nothing seemed to fit this situation.
He’d give anything to have his dad’s input now.
“Okay, buddy. Let’s get moving. I’ll drive you to school today since I have to turn in these papers.”
Tyler shut down the game, meticulously saving his play then grabbed his backpack. He struggled under the weight for an instant.
“What’ve you got in there?”
“Stuff.” Tyler glared up at him and Wyatt backed off.
He’d approach that issue later. Tyler still didn’t trust him completely. One step at a time. He heard his father’s memory and smiled.
Yep, one step at a time.
* * *
EMILY SHOULD HAVE known. Drew lied. Again. Last night he’d told Dianne that he’d stay until she got there. It took her longer than the fifteen minutes she’d said—it had taken her seventeen, thanks to one obstinate stoplight—and he’d been gone when she got to the office.
So here Emily sat at her desk today, waiting. She’d spent all last night awake, dreading the confrontation, because it would be a confrontation.
Now as she read through the legal briefs for Monday’s cases, her mind was only half focused on the words in front of her. He’d show up when he was ready, not when it was convenient for her.
Just like Earl.
Her phone rang and she nearly jumped a foot. As it was, she knocked the file to the floor, pages scattering across the polished wood. “Yes,” she answered.
“He’s here,” was all Dianne said before disconnecting. Emily knew she wasn’t going to escort Drew back. Dianne would happily let him cool his heels in the lobby for hours, except Emily didn’t want her clerk to have to put up with him any longer than necessary. Dianne was too good for that.
Emily straightened her desk, readjusted her skirt a couple times then grumbled at herself as she walked to the lobby.
Drew was a big man, just like his father. If anything he’d grown bigger, and not in a good way. He scowled at her, but as she looked back, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen him without a scowl on his face. She’d first met him when their parents had married. She’d been thirteen. He’d been fifteen...and trouble.
His father had forced him to wear a buzz cut back then; now his chin-length hair was slicked back from his forehead with something that looked a lot like...Vaseline.
“Drew. Nice to see you again.”
For an instant he looked taken aback and then the scowl deepened. “This isn’t a social visit, Emily. I’m here on business.” His voice came out deep and coated with impatience.
What kind of business could Drew have with a family court judge? “Let’s step into my office.” She didn’t wait for him to follow, knowing that he would.
Much as she had yesterday with the tall cowboy, she sought protection behind the wooden desk. Where Wyatt had completely ignored the barrier, Drew settled uneasily in the spindly wing-backed chair facing her. She resisted the urge to gloat.
“So, Drew, what can I do for you?”
“I want Dad’s stuff.” He leaned forward, apparently trying to look menacing.
“What stuff?” She had no idea what he was talking about. Mom had given away all of Earl’s clothes when he died and had tossed most everything else. Drew hadn’t asked for anything then. What was this about?
“I know your mom has moved out of the trailer. I was out there yesterday. I want the keys so I can get my half.”
The idea that he’d been out there made Emily shiver. What if Mom had still been out there alone?
“Your half?” she repeated. “Of what?”
“The ranch.”
Ranch? The single-wide trailer out in the middle of the desert, a ranch? Last she’d seen, the barn, what was left of it, was falling over. The small corral was long gone. The only thing of value might—might—be the desert land it all sat on. But she doubted it.
“That land was my mom’s before she married Earl. Besides, she’s still alive, Drew.” Even though the dump her mother had lived in was a dump it was hers as long as she was living.
“It became half his when they got married. I know, he showed me the paperwork. Anyway, it’s not like she’s using it.” His voice rose and he leaned even farther forward.
“Using what? The land or the trailer?”
“I want my half of the estate. Now.”
Emily stared across the small office. She wasn’t up to explaining that there was nothing for him. One second she wanted to laugh, the next she had to bite her tongue to keep from letting loose nearly twenty years of pent-up anger.
Estate? The man was delusional. “We don’t know that she won’t go back. Besides, there’s nothing there, Drew. Just a pile of junk.”
She forced her mind not to see the hellhole she’d moved her mother out of. The hovel she’d had to live in until she’d been old enough to escape.
“There has to be.” Drew shot to his feet, leaning over her.
