on to the dogs. Muffy struggled against the leash, desperately yanking toward the SUV. Specifically the back of it.
He was an excitable dog, especially when it came to food, but I’d never seen him like this.
He didn’t belong to Lincoln. At least I didn’t think so, but Muffy had been possessive of Lincoln since we’d arrived.
“What’s wrong with Muffy?” Eric followed my gaze from his position next to me.
“I’m not sure.”
Eric moved toward the dog and my nerves spiked. I trusted Pepper and Miss Adeline’s dogs, but ultimately they were unpredictable, particularly when they were upset.
Muffy stamped his feet and tugged. Eric bravely touched his head, though the dog remained undeterred.
“Eric, come sit by me,” Miss Adeline suggested gently.
My brother pretended not to hear, something he was the world champion at, and spoke in a soothing way to Muffy. The dog still struggled toward the car, though his feet weren’t moving quite so emphatically.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
I was too young to have a heart attack, but at the rate I was going, I was on track to have one before I turned forty.
At some point, I’d risen to a standing position again. Please don’t hurt Eric. I pleaded to the dog in my head, knowing that if something happened, it would completely be an accident. Even that knowledge didn’t deter the unhealthy spike of my nerves.
The agent shoved out of the car once more and stomped around to the back door. He yanked it open, released the handcuffs, and Lincoln’s distinguished arm appeared. It was long, clad in a custom-made suit, with a tanned hand at the end.
He snapped his fingers.
Muffy immediately sat statue still.
Lincoln withdrew his arm, and the agent fiddled in the back for a minute. I assumed he was securing Lincoln again. Then he returned to the driver’s seat, but not before giving me a threatening glare.
Eric threw his arms around Muffy’s body. The dog leaned into him as if he needed my brother’s comfort.
Through the tinted windshield, piercing eyes focused on me.
I shivered.
The man could command even the least obedient with only a look. Even when in the custody of a federal officer, Lincoln still ran the show.
If a trained agent couldn’t resist, who could?
Which was apparently why I was risking everything, including my good sense, pretending to look for car keys that were secured in my pocket.
Maybe Eric and I had stretched ourselves too thin lately. Yeah, I could blame that on the lack of my using my brain. Or maybe my heart was too soft when it came to Beau. She had on a tough front, but inside, she was freaking out. Teague too.
And I wanted to help them because they’d been there for us. Even if I didn’t like the jerk who would benefit most.
Another car rolled to a stop behind my van.
A dark, expensive model.
This one didn’t honk.
Chapter Three
Lincoln
What is he doing here?
This was just what I needed. Another audience member. One from whom I’d never hear the end of this.
He stepped out with the grace and agility of a man half his age. Never mind he’d recently suffered a massive heart attack. If he was in any pain, he masked it well.
The back door of the SUV opened, and his looming figure appeared.
I thought these vehicles were supposed to be secure to transport prisoners.
Nothing could stop my father. Not a locked door. Or even near-death experiences.
“Release him.”
The laser gaze that was as familiar as my own was squarely on me. But the harsh words were for the agent in the front seat.
The weasel squirmed, and as much as I wanted to look down on him for that, I couldn’t.
Samuel Hollingsworth was intimidating.
His presence commanded that what he wished be done . . . immediately.
I’d worked with my father for more than twenty years. I’d lived in his shadow for forty. The only person who’d ever come close to resisting him was my brother, and even he’d failed for a time.
“I-I can’t do that, sir.” The agent’s voice shook.
I dropped my head back to lean against the headrest. If anything aggravated my father, it was fear.
He let out an annoyed sigh. “It’s simple. Put the key in the lock of the cuffs and turn.”
What is he doing here?
Instead of gratitude, the question reared itself for a second time. If—no, when—my father got me out of this, there would be a price to pay. No deed was charity, not even for his own son.
What will I owe him for this?
Instead of dwelling on the unpleasant,