Montana Hero (11 page)

Her heart expanded to twice its size and tears welled up behind her eyes…until he added, “Her name is Chloe Zabrinski.”

Any questions or counsel Kat might have provided disappeared under the sudden crushing weight of panic. Brady’s classmate. Paul’s daughter. Why on Earth had Kat failed to make that connection before this? She’d considered what a shock any claim on her part might have on Robert and his children, but she’d failed to take into consideration the next generation. Brady’s peers.

Good Lord.
What was the chance her son’s first crush was on his first cousin?
First
half
-cousin
, she corrected,
but still…

Her tea rebelled in her stomach. The toaster waffles she’d shared with Brady nearly came up. Suddenly, every bit of theory, extrapolation and guesswork she’d put into her decision to move here flashed through her brain like a freight train headed straight for a bus filled with people. Real people, not names she’d dug up online.

What do I do now?

The suddenness of her phone ringing made Kat let out a yip. And she nearly knocked her cup over. She moved her laptop a prudent distance away. “Hello?”

She’d been too frazzled to notice the caller ID.

“Kat? What’s wrong?”

Flynn caught the nuance of her tone from one word?
How,
she wondered? “I hate fifth grade math,” she said, using the first excuse that popped into her head.

His laugh sounded relieved. “So, let the fifth grader do it. That’s an order.”

His teasing tone provided the distraction she needed to get her runaway emotions under control. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Actually, I’m sort of proud of how Brady and I worked out an issue he has with homework. I could send you the YouTube link if you’re interested.”

“Please do. I’m always looking for new and improved ways of connecting with kids.”

The comment sounded positive and natural coming from him while it would have sent creepy stalker vibes up her back if her former boss had uttered such a statement. Speaking of work… “What’s up? You must have called for a reason.”

His slight hesitation made her nerves go on alert again. “I just got off the phone with the case worker handling Molly O’Neal’s case.”

Oh, dear.
“Good news or bad?”

“Depends on what you call good. The jerk wad in the Lexus is threatening to sue the City of Marietta, the Sheriff’s Department, and social services. He’s alleging some negligent party to-be-named
allowed
Molly to stay in her home unattended for long periods of time with access to a dangerous weapon…her scooter.”

Kat rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Does he have a case? How stinkin’ much damage did Molly do to his car?”

“According to the City Attorney, Mr. Lo believes Molly is a victim of elder abuse and/or neglect. His suit—and potential payout, of course—will bring attention to the problem.”

Kat needed a minute to process all the emotions pumping through her. “What’s going to happen?”

Flynn’s gruff sigh traveled through the phone to bring his face to mind. She wondered if he let his real emotions show when he was alone in his office? The man cared more than he wanted people to know. “Molly’s granddaughter is flying in from the East coast. Her mother, Molly’s daughter, is out of the country. No one knows who has Molly’s power of attorney or if such a thing exists—”

“I’d be surprised if Molly ever agreed to give up one inch of power.”

“I agree. So, the wheels are moving to get her mental state assessed. A judge will make the final say and most likely Molly’s future will involve someone else making future decisions about her care.”

Kat didn’t know why that made her so damn sad. Such was life. People got old and that was that. But the process sucked, all the same.

“Thanks for the update. I have to get back to work. I’m on the clock and my boss is a real hard ass.”

“Damn right,” Flynn said before hanging up. “Don’t forget it.”

How could she forget when Flynn Bensen never left her thoughts?

*

“Quit pouting. I
have to do a quick inspection.”

“You’re not a firefighter anymore,” Tucker grumbled. “Why can’t a real safety inspector do this?”

Flynn ignored the question because the answer wasn’t as simple as “I volunteered.” Everything associated with Molly O’Neal had become complicated because of Kat. She cared about the woman—a woman who probably reminded her of her mother or grandmother, who appeared to have fallen through the cracks. Flynn knew another woman who fit that description. The old lady from his dreams. Strangely, she hadn’t been around for a couple of nights.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Tucker said facetiously.

“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever met—with the possible exception of Molly O’Neal. She knows more cuss words than Justin.” He’d heard a slew of them when he picked up the keys to her house this morning. Molly was not a happy camper.

“Can you blame her?” Tucker asked. “I know what it feels like when your life is spinning out of control with other people at the helm.”

Flynn couldn’t argue with that. “Especially after eighty-plus years of determining your own destiny.”

“I changed my mind. I’m coming with you.”

Flynn looked at the clumsy black boot on his friend’s right foot. Four Velcro tabs kept his ankle basically immobile. “Are you sure? The doctor said to rest it as much as possible.”

“I’m going stir crazy, okay? You know me. Hyperactive is my middle name. This sitting around doing nothing is worse than being in camp in a tent watching my project hemorrhage money.”

Flynn felt for his friend. Mr. Charmed Life was used to things falling into place pretty easily for him. “Okay. I’ll get your crutches.”

Flynn pulled into the driveway, as close to the ramp leading to the back door as possible. Flynn felt certain Tucker could get inside without a problem.

“It’s a nice place,” Tucker said, hobbling like a seasoned pro. “The established trees and overgrown bushes remind me of my grandma’s place on the bayou.”

Flynn held the door so Tucker could enter a large, mostly original kitchen. Worn Formica countertops, olive green painted cabinets, and boxy fluorescent light fixtures made the place look rather dated.

“This room could use some sprucing up,” he said. “But the appliances are high end.”

He pulled out the stove far enough to check the gas connection. He flashed Tucker a thumbs-up. “I’m going to check the furnace.”

“Probably in the basement. I’ll wait up here.”

Flynn snorted. “Ya’think?”

The steps leading down into the large, unfinished basement were not to code. He measured the rise to be sure and made a note then looked around. His eyes went wide when he spotted Molly’s washer and dryer.

“Holy shit,” he murmured. “She comes down here to do laundry?” His imagination pictured her tumbling down the steep stairs and hitting her head on the old-fashioned wringer washer. A backup for the new model? Or was Molly the kind of person who couldn’t get rid of anything?

He swallowed against the bad taste in his mouth and went in search of the furnace. The installation date matched the stove. Only four years old and in good shape, although the unit needed new filters, immediately.

He added that recommendation to his notes then headed back upstairs.

The sound of fingers tinkling the ivories drew him to the front of the house.

“Wow. A baby grand.”

“Pristine,” Tucker said. “Must have cost a bundle when it was new.” He played a rift of some familiar classical piece Flynn recognized but couldn’t name.

Flynn grinned. “I keep forgetting you went to school on a music scholarship.”

Piano, Tucker once told them, after one too many martinis. Classical music. “Don’t ask me why. Probably some stupid pipe dream of playing with my mother,” he’d admitted. “Like that would ever happen. Her half-Cajun love child on the same stage with a New York Philharmonic cellist? Right.” Being raised on the bayou by his grandparents while his mother lived her dream in the big city could make any kid feel conflicted about where he belonged.

Or turn him into a clever, resourceful chameleon,
Flynn thought, not for the first time.

“What’s the verdict on the house?” Tucker asked, scooting around awkwardly on the padded piano bench. His crutches leaned against an antique curio cabinet.

“Might work for the average family, but the basement is not a safe situation for an eighty-year-old woman. Unfortunately, that’s where her washer and dryer are located.”

“Sounds like a horror movie in the making. More stairs that way.” Tucker pointed upward. “I made a sweep and there’s no bedroom on the first floor.”

Flynn confirmed that observation a few minutes later as he checked electrical outlets and made sure all egresses were clear of debris. Other than a large, dusty dining room that sported cobwebs on the faux candle bulbs, he couldn’t find any overtly dangerous issues.

“Shades of the Addams Family,” Tucker remarked when Flynn flipped the switch on the dusty fixture.

The cluttered front parlor seemed to hold every treasure Molly had collected over her eighty years—everything from a hula dancer lamp to an intricately carved piece of ivory.

“This would be a picker’s wet dream,” Tucker said.

“Some of these pieces look valuable. Hopefully, Molly’s granddaughter will make sure the personal mementos go to the family. She’s supposed to arrive this afternoon.” He turned toward the elegant oak staircase. “I’m going to get a smoke alarm count. I’ll be right back.”

He dashed upstairs, his boot catching on a frayed spot in the worn carpet runner.
How had Molly managed for so long without any help? Where was her family all these years?

He got his answer sooner than expected. When he returned to the first floor, he found a tall, slender brunette in fashion-model haute designer boots and purse—easily recognizable from his ex-wife’s expensive tastes—standing in the foyer, a scowl the size of Manhattan on her beautiful face.

“Who are you? And what are you doing in my grandmother’s home?”

Tucker, whose jaw seemed permanently attached to his chest, pointed at Flynn.

“Hi. I’m Flynn Bensen.” He advanced across the space to hand her one of his newly minted business cards. He’d learned this morning that he could thank Kat Robinson for that attention to detail. “I just completed a safety inspection at the request of Human Services.”

She frowned without really moving her lips. “I’m Amanda Heller. My mother is June O’Neal Heller. She and my father are in Europe at the moment, so I’m here as her representative.”

So formal. She carried herself in an artfully poised way. The kind of look that started at birth, he bet. Not Flynn’s cup of tea, but he noticed Tucker hadn’t stopped staring at her.

She slipped Flynn’s card into the pocket of her purposefully distressed leather coat. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“Your grandmother cannot stay here alone,” he said, pausing to add gravitas to his opinion. “Even if she returns with a full-time care provider, there are still a few hazards that need to be addressed.”

The woman let out a sharp sigh. “My mother wants me to put the house on the market and have an estate sale as soon as possible. She feels it’s time to put Grandmother in a home of some kind. Please tell me there’s a facility somewhere in this immediate vicinity.”

Her put-upon tone rubbed Flynn the wrong way, but before he could say something that might have come out judgmental, Tucker stood, leaned on his crutches with an amazingly debonair flair, and said, “This kind of decision requires alcohol. Might I suggest the bar at my hotel? Top shelf all the way.”

Flynn expected her to shoot down the suggestion with both guns, but to his shock, Amanda Heller blew out a sigh and said, “Hell, yes.”

*

Brady hunkered down
in his favorite beanbag chair and clicked on his iPad. Last night, he’d overheard his mother tell the big guy with the funny accent—Tucker—that they’d moved to Montana because Marietta was one of her late mother’s favorite places.

He tapped the camera icon and quickly flipped through the various folders to the one marked: GG. Usually, Brady avoided thinking about his grandmother because he’d wind up getting upset. Not just because he was sad that she died, but also because he couldn’t think of her without remembering the day everything went wrong. The fire, which was his fault. He’d asked her to make him chicken noodle soup from a can. Brady used to love the sound the soft noodles made as he slurped them into his mouth. GG would laugh and clap. She was more of a child than him, sometimes. But she still looked like an adult. And he thought she could still cook.