Colton's Dangerous Reunion
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Justine Davis
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34
Chapter 1
Gideon Colton was delivering a roundhouse shot to the well-used punching bag in his workout room when the call came in. It was on the third ring by the time he got his gloves off and picked up his cell phone. When he saw it was the office, given that it was well after hours on a Friday night, it made his adrenaline kick up more than punching gym equipment ever did.
Somewhere, a kid was in trouble.
“Gideon?” came the query when he answered.
It was Marcy, his rule-bound boss at the children’s services office. He bit back the question “Is that who you called?” and merely asked, “What’s up?”
“Need you to go to the county MC,” she said, using the common office terminology for Lark’s County Medical Center.
In his job, this was never a good way for a conversation to start. But he’d known what he was taking on when he’d decided to forgo the legal and law enforcement careers that so many of his siblings had chosen and go for more hands-on helping. He’d had to endure a lot of groaning about their brother the social worker, but he knew they understood. They might tease him, but he was a Colton, and when it came down to it, his family had his back.
He thought they also knew he often got something out of his work they didn’t always get out of theirs. The firsthand certainty that he’d helped children even more scared and lost than he’d been was something more important to him than anything else about his work.
“What’s the case?”
“His name’s Charles Webber. Charlie. Five-year-old male, probable abuse victim in the hospital. Mother Ellen has been admitted, father Rick is in custody.”
Gideon suppressed an old, familiar shiver. How well he knew what it was like to have your life turned inside out. It had been hard enough for him, and he had been older than Charlie. And he’d still had his siblings and his mom, a home free of abuse.
“How badly is he hurt?”
The unspoken subtext was clear, and they all knew it: How fast did he have to move? Was the child likely to die, so he needed to race to get there before it happened, to try and speak with him? This part made his gut churn, but it was part of the territory. Part of that emotional territory his siblings teased him about.
All except Rachel.
Yes, his sister got it. As the district attorney, she got it, not just because she saw what it did to him to deal with those cases, but because she steeped herself in the grim details of the cases she prosecuted. Maybe that was why they were so close. That and only being two years apart, plus being two of the only three singles, as they called themselves, among their multiple-birth siblings.
Whatever it was that had bonded them, it had made Rachel ask and Gideon immediately say yes to her wish for him to be her baby Iris’s godfather. In this case, he knew it would be more than just ceremonial because of the absence of Iris’s father in the picture. It wasn’t even an issue for him; helping his sister with sweet little Iris wasn’t a chore, it was a bright spot in his life, and one that he’d needed after—
“It’s not critical,” Marcy said, thankfully pulling him out of the memory before he strayed down a well-worn path. “But they’ll be keeping him overnight at least. I’ll send you what details we have.”
“Copy,” Gideon said before ending the call.
He flipped out the light in his home gym as he left, headed for his bathroom and took a rapid shower. Mentally he moved installing that lap pool he wanted a little higher on the to-do list; he would have loved to be able to put in fifty or so this morning. He’d never quite left behind that competitive swimmer he’d once been.
But no time to dwell on that now. There was a hurting little boy waiting, alone and no doubt scared.
He didn’t bother with his hair other than to comb it back, dried off and dressed quickly. He chose casual clothes that would be less intimidating to a five-year-old than a formal suit: jeans, a heavy knit sweater and, after a glance outside to confirm it was still snowing, the waterproof sheepskin boots Rach had bought him for his birthday a couple of years ago.
All the while his mind was racing, calculating. The kid would definitely be scared, if not terrified, afraid to do anything, afraid to say anything. Doing or saying something, whether it had been him or his mother, had probably brought this on. If the boy knew his mother was also in the hospital, he’d be scared for her, too. Gideon would no doubt have to climb a wall to get through to him. But he’d give it his best shot.
You’re so good with those kids, honey. You need to have a dozen or so of your own.
You just want a herd of grandkids, Mom.
Your point?
He smiled as he headed for his car, remembering how Isa Colton had given him a raised eyebrow as she’d responded. It was the only thing to smile about in that exchange. Because when it came down to it, he wanted those kids. Well, not a dozen, but definitely one of each, and maybe a couple more. Children who would never know the kind of trauma the children he worked with knew all too well.
He truly liked kids. The way their minds worked and how each one was different, even among siblings, endlessly fascinated him. Hadn’t his own family proved that last bit?
But for himself, he wanted kids who would grow up happy. With no major trauma, no betrayals by the people they should be able to trust the most. No beatings at the hands of those people. No emotional grinding down until they believed they were worthless.
Or, in his own case, no finding out the father you’d loved was a liar and, worse, a crooked judge who had destroyed so many lives in so many ways. Innocent lives.
As he opened the garage door, he steered himself off that old, worn route he’d been dealing with since his own father’s little enterprise had crumbled around them all. No, he thought as he got into his SUV, his kids, if they ever arrived, would know their father, know he was what he appeared to be and that he loved them enough to make sure they had a good example in life. His kids would never have to face some dark, hidden, ugly secret about him. Ever.
No, they’ll just have a father who has to keep avoiding thinking about things like his own father and the one who got away.
And that brought him back to the other problem. Because having those kids required a partner who felt the same way. And that was something he seemed doomed to never find. Or if he did find someone, he always managed to blow it. As usual, when the subject sneaked into his mind, Rachel’s words from a couple of years ago played back in his head.
Gid, you know I love you, but you have to stop falling for a woman—or at least telling her you’ve fallen for her—at the drop of a hat.
I don’t wear a hat.
Good, because as fast as you’re dodging the point, it would fly off.
The irony was that, while she was right in general, the instance that had brought on that observation had been...different. That time, he really had been in love. He knew because of how different it felt than all the previous times. He finally understood the difference between infatuation and genuine love, the kind that lasted a lifetime.
But it hadn’t mattered. By the time he’d realized it, he’d already scared her off. Sophia hadn’t just walked away; she’d practically run. The one woman who had taught him a lesson he’d needed to learn—the hard way. The woman he’d fallen for on every level. The woman who’d guaranteed he’d never mistake a temporary passion for real love again. The woman who had left a scar on his heart that had hardened at least some part of it.
The woman he would never, ever forget.
He was almost glad of the snow as he pulled out of his driveway. It meant he’d have to be a bit more careful, and he needed the distraction from his thoughts. Like thoughts about how his dating life had been virtually nonexistent since the night Sophia had blasted him with her disbelief and left. He felt like the boy who cried wolf must have, saying he was in love so many times that nobody believed it when he truly was. Except, in his case, it had never really been a lie; he just hadn’t known the real thing. Until Sophia.
He focused on the distinctive sound of his snow tires on the pavement, hoping it would divert his mind. When that didn’t work, he was back to going through his list of things that needed doing at home. He’d known when he’d taken on the big, forty-year-old house that the renovation wasn’t going to be fast, if only because he wanted to either do or oversee it all himself.
And he’d made a lot of progress in the house, located about a half hour from the house where he’d grown up. The rabbit warren of small rooms downstairs was now a spacious great room with a big fireplace, adjacent to a modern kitchen—not that he cooked much—and there was a media room that even his brothers envied, along with his dedicated home gym. Upstairs he’d expanded the master bedroom, taking up one of the adjacent bedrooms to use as a retreat with a fireplace and a flat-screen, with some hazy idea of future harried parenting and needing a place to escape to. The master bath was next, but he hadn’t decided what path to take on that yet.
Then there was the outside. One of the reasons he’d chosen the place was the size of the property around it. Almost five acres, and bordering open land with a view of the tall, reddish-orange plateau that overlooked the town of Blue Larkspur. If he wanted to go up another story, he’d probably have a view of the river the state was named for.
It seemed like the perfect place for a family. He’d even envisioned one of those climbing, sliding, swinging combinations he’d seen in parks, maybe built like an Old West cavalry fort just for fun.
Yeah, for that family you don’t, and may never, have.
And somehow he’d ended up back on that topic he’d been trying to avoid.
His phone chimed an arrival, the file from Marcy, most likely. He was halfway to the medical center, so he decided to wait until he got there and parked rather than pull off the road now. When he arrived he found a spot around the corner from the small ER, where he was guessing the boy still was. If not, he’d track him down inside.
He pulled out his phone and called up the email and the attachment. The list of domestic violence calls to the Webber house told a sad story. He was surprised he or one of his colleagues hadn’t been brought in before now, although as was sadly so typical in these situations, the wife had apparently defended the abusive husband and denied what had happened. But this time there had been a witness, a neighbor who had finally had enough. She had made the call and was, according to the file Marcy had sent, more than willing to testify if necessary.
He put the phone back into his jacket pocket, stepped out into the chilly night air and headed for the door to the ER. He was, unfortunately, well-known to the staff here. Some were even friends. And he was glad to see one of them, Eric Kearney, manning the desk at the moment. The tall, lanky young man glanced up when he heard the door open, spotted him, then nodded and waved him over.
“Charlie Webber?” he asked. Gideon nodded. “Glad it’s you. That’s one scared kid.”
“I was told the mother’s been admitted. Serious?”
“More than bruises. She’ll be here for a while,” Eric said, and Gideon left it at that, knowing regulations made it impossible for him to elaborate unless and until Gideon got legal access to her records.
But child abuse was different. And there was already a police report, which made it official and triggered the protected information section that lifted the restrictions in such cases.
“The boy?” he asked.
“You have a case number?”
“I do.”
What he learned then turned his stomach. Any child abuse case was rough, and when he read the list of Charlie Webber’s injuries—new and old—it was all too familiar. But when he saw the vital statistics, he felt the familiar anger start to stir. “Damn, he’s little.”
Eric nodded. “Under the normal range in both height and weight for his age.”
Gideon pulled up the arrest report Marcy had sent. “And his father’s six foot and over two hundred pounds,” he said, his jaw tight.
“Sometimes I’m sorry they bring them in alive.” Gideon’s gaze shot to Eric’s face, and he saw his own anger reflected there. “I know, I know,” Eric said. “I shouldn’t feel that way, but...”
“If there’s any class of subhumans that deserves it, it’s this one,” Gideon agreed. Then, to take the edge off them both, he looked at his friend. “But we both know if he showed up here hurt and needing help, you’d help him.”
“More fool me, eh?” Eric said, with a wry smile.
“More dedicated you,” Gideon corrected.
Eric shrugged and said, “Just take care of the kid, okay? He’s in room B.”
Gideon nodded, pondering his approach as he headed toward the exam room. He hoped they hadn’t left the kid in there alone. He had to be terrified by everything happening to him. Apparently his father—no, check that, he was no more than a sperm contributor—had still been threatening both the boy and his mother, even as the police carted him away.
He was still going through his repertoire when he got there, so he paused outside the door. He’d probably have to adjust on the fly, but right now he needed to decide on an opening, something he could start with that wouldn’t scare Charlie any more than he already was. Something that could maybe even be a distraction.
The asking-for-help bit might work. It had before, in similar situations. Coming in and asking if the boy knew where the bathroom was; that was basic and distracting. And saying he was lost, that might help. The idea of an adult being lost was sometimes a way to reach a kid who was feeling far beyond lost.
Decided now, he stepped up to the doorway. There was a narrow vertical window above the door handle, through which he could see the shape in the hospital bed. Charlie was even smaller than he’d expected, and with one eye swollen almost shut and one arm bandaged, he looked helpless. Gideon had to bite back that anger that wanted to overwhelm him.
He knew his family and friends mostly assumed he didn’t want to get involved in law enforcement because he was too softhearted. But Gideon knew that way down deep, it was this. This deep, consuming anger at the brutality of some of humankind. If he’d been the one to encounter this piece of debris masquerading as a human and a father, he’d probably have beaten him to a pulp. It had taken him years after his own dad’s disgrace and death to regain his inner peace and what his mother called his sweet soul, but at times like this he felt like that furious child again.
But, honey, don’t you see? It’s that big heart of yours that makes you feel that way and want to help.
As her words echoed in his head, Gideon didn’t know if she was right. He only knew he didn’t just want to help; he had to. It was the only thing that made what he’d gone through worth anything.
He pushed open the door. The little boy in the bed looked over. He didn’t seem quite as frightened as Gideon had feared he’d be. Probably because, thank goodness, they hadn’t actually left him alone in here. There was a woman sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him, her slender brown hand holding the boy’s pale one. As the boy looked up, she twisted to look over her shoulder at him.
Gideon stopped dead in his tracks. Stared, forgetting to breathe. Or forgetting how.
It was her.
The woman he to this day spent too much time thinking about.
The woman he had never forgotten and would never forget. Sophia.
