Boone (Eternity Springs The McBrides of Texas #3) - Emily March Page 0,2
message? What does the message say?”
“I don’t know. Sarah didn’t share that with me. Call her, Boone. Tonight. You have a ticking clock situation here with this. Do you need her number?” His former colleague rattled it off, and then ended the call saying, “This could be a good thing for you, Boone. Good luck.”
“Goodbye.” He disconnected the call and stood frozen as walled-away memories began chipping at the mortar in his mind.
Boone fought back. He couldn’t allow any breach in his defenses. That way there be dragons.
A Safe Haven baby. Holy hell. Ellen thought that bringing a child into his life could be a good thing?
“Not hardly,” he muttered. Not according to his history. He’d been down this road before. Traveling it brought only heartbreak and pain. “No. Not going there. Never again.”
He returned to his desk and took a seat. He didn’t phone Sarah Winston. Instead he phoned Josh Tarkington to schedule a tune-up for his Maserati. After that, he took a call on his cell from Brick Callahan and answered a handful of questions related to Jackson and Caroline’s wedding at the Callahans’ North Forty property on the shore of Hummingbird Lake. Upon ending the conversation with Brick, Boone phoned the Mocha Moose Sandwich Shop and placed a pickup order for dinner on the way home.
He no sooner set the phone down than it rang again. Sarah Winston. Why had he ever given her his cell number? He let out a string of curses that would do a bronc buster proud and then answered the call.
He let her go through the entire story before he began asking questions. “Why is this even a possibility? I know how the system works. This is highly irregular, to say the least.”
“That’s true. But Boone, you are a hero to everyone in our office. In the courts too. Throw in the fact that you are related to half the judges in Texas, and three-quarters of the politicians on both sides of the aisle want you to run for office—nobody is going to interfere. You’ve long been a champion for victimized children. You helped so many people. And what happened to you—” She paused a moment and softened her voice. “What happened to you and Mary was tragic. People want to help. This can be treated like a private adoption.”
He closed his eyes and massaged his brow. “I appreciate the sentiment, Sarah, but I don’t need this.”
“Really? Are you so certain of that? You’re personally and professionally fulfilled by writing wills and contracts?”
“The world needs ditch diggers too, Danny.”
“What?”
“Caddyshack. And I don’t need to defend my choices.”
Besides, his work was more than contracts and wills. He was working his butt off managing the family trust with all the Enchanted Canyon projects. He stayed busy as hell. “I don’t want or need a baby. If I did, I’d go out and get one the old-fashioned way.”
“Fair enough. Be the baby’s guardian, then, if not his father. Find him a family. He needs you.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t need to be involved. Infants are a snap to place.” As long as the mothers don’t change their minds. “You probably have dozens of approved adopters who’d love nothing more than to bring a Safe Haven newborn into their home. Hell, I’m not even on the list anymore. Plus, I live in Colorado!”
“Lucky baby gets to avoid the Texas summer,” she responded. “They say we might reach a hundred and ten later this week. That’s brutal for this early in the season. Colorado’s not a problem. I had everyone up and down the line check off on this before I ever called you. Like I said, Boone, you have lots of friends.”
“Yeah, and like the old yarn goes, with friends like these who needs enemies. You’re not listening to me, Sarah.”
“His mother chose you.”
That stopped him. “About her. Who is she? Ellen said she left me a message?”
“I don’t have a name. What I do have is a folded note with your name on the outside.” Sarah Winston waited for a beat before adding, “It’s written in gel ink. Pink gel ink.”
Pink gel ink. Boone closed his eyes as his defensive walls collapsed, and he was catapulted into his past.
It was the one case that haunted him. The one case he’d totally blown. The system—Boone—had failed a sweet, vulnerable twelve-year-old girl who could not speak of the abuse, but who had managed to write it down. Seven handwritten pages with hearts dotting her i’s. Cruel, sickening abuse.