Carolina Man (4 page)

And there was no way to pretend this was anything but bad news.

Matt pushed back his chair, the sound scraping against the sudden silence.

“It’s okay.” Tom spoke from his position at the head of the table. “Luke’ll handle it.”

Meg scowled. But no one spoke, no one interfered as Luke tugged open the back door and gestured for Kate to precede him outside.

She walked around the table and through the silent kitchen, feeling the Fletchers’ collected attention like a knife between her shoulder blades.

 • • • 

T
HE EVENING SKY
looked warm, all fluffy pink clouds and golden haze, but a cool, damp breeze blew off the sea and rose from the sound, carrying the tang of water. The smell of home.

Luke held on to his beer. Not because he needed the alcohol, but because he wanted the prop. Something to do with his hands, some action to combat the adrenaline surge in his blood. In spite of the peaceful setting, he felt jazzed, his palms damp, all his senses on alert.
Outside the wire, facing the enemy
.

Luke’ll handle it
, his father had said.

So he would.

Even if he didn’t have a fricking clue what to say or do next.

He watched Kate Dolan’s butt as she walked past him in her neat navy suit, her sensible heels clacking on the wood deck like gunfire. He’d handle her, too, given a little encouragement.

He shook his head. Obviously, he’d spent too long in Burqa Land. He was not hitting on his dead ex-girlfriend’s lawyer. Even if she did have great legs. And—despite the stick up her butt—a really nice ass. Hard not to notice that.

She hugged her arms across her body, as if the chill had penetrated the blue jacket she wore like body armor. “It’s nice out here.”

He breathed in the smells of salt, sea grass, and pine. Took a pull of his beer, as if he could permanently wash away the dust of Afghanistan. “Yeah.”

She turned to face him, the sun behind her firing her curly coppery hair to gold. “Quiet,” she offered.

“No snipers,” he said.

She looked at him, startled.

Ah, shit
. “You didn’t come here to talk about the weather,” he said, covering. “Or the view.”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He was jet-lagged and exhausted. But at least he was all here. Ten fingers, ten toes. No right to complain. “Fine.”

Her gaze searched his face, uncomfortably perceptive. What color were her eyes? Blue? Green? With the light behind her, it was hard to tell. “Because we can do this another time.”

“You must have thought it was urgent,” he pointed out. “Or you wouldn’t have driven out here.”

She took a deep breath that expanded her chest, parting the lapels of her jacket. She wore some kind of lace thing under it, and a thin gold chain that dipped between her breasts and caught the light.
Nice
. “I had the evening free.”

“Lucky for me,” he drawled.

Under her makeup, she flushed to the roots of her hair like only a true redhead could. Which set off another line of speculation he had no business pursuing.

“I received an e-mail today from a colleague. A friend, Alisha Douglas,” she said, still picking her words like each one cost a hundred bucks. He forced himself to focus on what she was saying instead of the fine glint of metal on her skin or the color of her hair. “She works for the county department of social services.”

The short hairs raised on the back of Luke’s neck. “Okay,” he said cautiously.

“She wanted to know how to reach you. I told her you were expected home soon.”

“Not expected. Home.” Luke leaned against the deck rail, affecting a casualness he did not feel. “What does she want?”

Her brows twitched together. “She’s sending you a letter that will explain. Basically, she wants to meet with you, with all of you, to assess Taylor’s situation.”

She sounded like a medic, wrapping bad news in big words and a soft tone to lessen the blow. “Her situation is her mother’s dead. She lives with me.”

“Pending her permanent placement. Unfortunately, Alisha’s office received a complaint about your ability to care for Taylor.”

His tired brain struggled to keep up. “What do you mean, a complaint? Who complained?”

“Alisha couldn’t tell me. Reports to social services are confidential.” She hesitated. Moistened her lips. “However, Child Protective Services is often called in custody cases.”

“Wait.” His tired brain struggled to keep up. “You’re saying the
Simpsons
called social services?”

“Sadly, not everyone makes reports due to real concerns for the well-being of a child. Ernie and Jolene may be retaliating because their motion for temporary custody failed in court. Or they may believe that accusing you of neglect will help them get permanent custody.”

It took a moment for him to process what she was saying. For outrage to ignite. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

She didn’t flinch. “It’s a common legal strategy.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“Yes.” That one word, short and uncompromising, made him feel better than any amount of soothing. “Alisha is certainly prepared to keep an open mind. But she’s concerned because your family hasn’t let Taylor have any contact with the Simpsons.”

Instant denial seized him. He shook his head. “My parents wouldn’t do that.”

“The Simpsons kept a log. Unreturned phone calls, times Taylor was ‘unavailable’ to speak with them.”

He struggled to make sense of the unthinkable over the rising buzz of anger in his head. “They want to see the kid more often, let them call me.” Right now he’d rather tell them to pound sand, but . . . “They don’t need to get a damn social worker involved.”

“Unfortunately, once an allegation is made, social services is required to respond.”

“What allegation, for Christ’s sake?”

She shrugged. The angrier he got, the cooler and calmer she became. “I haven’t seen the intake report. Alisha only contacted me because she knew Dawn worked in my office.”

“Did you tell her Dawn wanted the kid to be with me?”

Kate gave a little nod. “I did. I also reminded her that the Simpsons had already challenged custody after your mother’s accident and that the judge at the temporary hearing ruled it was in Taylor’s best interests to remain with your family.”

“Right. Thanks,” he said belatedly.

She was not the enemy, he told himself. She’d come here tonight as an ally to warn him. To help. He’d worked with allies before in Iraq and Afghanistan. He could trust her . . . at least until her own self-interest was threatened. “So now what?”

“Alisha will contact you to set up a time for a home visit. She’ll want to talk to Taylor. To everyone. There’s another minor child in the household?”

His blood went from hot to cold faster than the desert at night. “You mean, Josh?”

“That’s your nephew? He lives with you?”

“Out back,” Luke said reluctantly. “My brother has a cottage.”

“She’ll need to speak with them as well.”

“Fuck.
” He set down his bottle, reached for his cigarettes. He needed time. He needed . . . “Mind if I smoke?”

Her nostrils pinched together. “Not at all.”

He lit up, releasing a long white plume into the cool December air. Met her eyes over the curl of smoke. “I’m quitting,” he said. He quit after every deployment.

“That would be wise,” she said.

“You worried about my health? Or Taylor’s?”

“I’m concerned about your home assessment. Your hearing date is already set. Alisha is motivated to resolve this complaint as quickly as possible. It’s important that she likes you. There’s no reason she
won’t
like you. But you have to be absolutely cooperative. You need to answer everything she asks, even questions you think are none of her business.”

He stared at her, appalled. Speechless.

Kate met his gaze, her expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to hit you with your first night home. I’m just trying to prepare you.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes a moment, willing away the headache throbbing against his temples. “Thanks a lot.”

 • • • 

H
E LOOKED TIRED,
Kate thought with a liquid tug of sympathy. His Captain America face was drawn, his jaw roughened by stubble, his eyes bruised with exhaustion.

Thirty hours from Kandahar to Lejeune
, he’d told her when she first called to inform him of Dawn’s death.

But he came.

Even when Kate had given him reasons not to, he’d come home for Taylor. She still didn’t know why Dawn never told him he was a father. But he was no deadbeat dad.

She risked a touch on his forearm. His skin, bronzed by the desert sun, felt very warm under her fingertips. He opened his eyes, startlingly blue, and her nerves jumped, low and quick in her stomach.

Kate swallowed. She was
not
going to be flustered, damn it. This was about Taylor. She would not be distracted from her duty by an inconvenient hormone surge. “Look, the Simpsons’ challenge to the temporary custody order failed. It’s obvious that you provided appropriate care for Taylor while you were overseas.”

“My family did.”

“And they did a wonderful job. Taylor’s clearly adjusting. In most circumstances, absent a finding of unfitness, you would be entitled to the care and custody of your child. But the Simpsons will argue that you haven’t established a parental relationship with Taylor.”

“I’m her father.”

Kate suppressed a sigh. “A continuous, meaningful relationship,” she said. “You need to prove that you maintained contact.”

“I called.” His tone was defensive. “Skyped.”

“That’s good,” she said encouragingly. She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you kept a phone log?”

“Hell, no.”

“No.”
Of course not
. She’d learned that good families, normal people, didn’t obsess over documenting every interaction, no matter how small. “Well, if you have anything else—doctors’ bills, receipts for clothing purchases . . .”

“I don’t keep track of every dime I spend on the kid. She’s my daughter, not a tax deduction.”

Kate sympathized with his frustration. But she worked with these cases every day. Good intentions weren’t enough. They needed proof to back them up in court. Her job was to explain the law, to guide her bewildered and defensive clients through the seemingly senseless system.

“I’m simply saying a judge will look for evidence that you can provide for Taylor. Her physical needs. Her medical care. Her emotional well-being.”

“I can take care of her.”

“Now,” she said. “What happens when you’re deployed again?”

He glared. “What do you want from me?”

She wanted him to understand. She was trying to
help
. “This isn’t about what I want. It’s about what Taylor needs. What are your plans for the future?”

“Well,” he drawled, “I was going to have another beer. And then I thought I’d take a whole night off to visit with my family. Get to know my daughter. Do I need to write that down for the judge?”

Her cheeks burned.

This is what came of getting personally involved. Of reacting emotionally, impulsively, instead of thinking things through. Naturally, he resented her interference.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized stiffly. “Sometimes I get a little . . .”

Judgmental, one ex-boyfriend had accused.

Controlling, her therapist had said.

“Focused on the mission,” Luke supplied.

She blinked in surprised gratitude. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

Anyway, it beat Will Brown’s
Interfering bitch
.

Luke rolled his bottle between his hands. “Look, I get that you’re trying to help. I appreciate you driving out here to give us the heads-up on this social services thing. I’ll make the appointment with your friend, I’ll cooperate my ass off with her questions. But the rest of it . . . We’ll make it work. You said yourself that Taylor’s adjusting. You just don’t understand how it is in a military family.”

“I understand very well.”

“You think you do. But you only see the ones that don’t make it. It’s different from the inside.”

“Not in my experience.”

“Let me guess.” Those sharp blue eyes narrowed on her face. “Your ex-husband’s a Marine.”

Kate tugged on her jacket, pulling it around her like armor. “My father.”

Oh, hell. She hadn’t meant to say that. She didn’t talk about her family. Habit and shame kept her silent. She’d grown up, moved out, moved on. But her father still loomed in her memory, a shadow figure between them.

“Would I know him?”

God, she hoped not.

“Colonel Roger Dolan,” she said. Square-jawed, close-shaved, meticulously pressed and polished. “He died two years ago.”