Rancher and Protector. Pamela Britton

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      “What’s up?” she asked.

      “Have a seat,” he said.

      Gil’s office was on the bottom floor, to the left of the entrance, in a room Amber suspected had been occupied by the base commander years and years ago—or whatever the cavalry equivalent of that was. Wood-framed windows offered a stunning view of the park outside. Off in the distance was a grove of trees, and just above that, barely noticeably unless you knew what you were looking for, the tall spires of the Golden Gate Bridge.

      “I received a call today,” Gil said, leaning back and making a steeple out of his fingers.

      There was a chair in front of his desk. Amber sank into it. “Oh, yeah?” But she knew.

      “It was from Pelican Bay.”

      Her shoulders slumped. “He phoned here?”

      “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

      She hadn’t told Gil about Dee’s father. Hadn’t wanted to tell him. It was her own personal skeleton. All the camp director knew was that she had sole custody of her nephew. That Dee’s father was out of the picture.

      “Who is he?” Gil asked.

      “My nephew’s father,” Amber admitted.

      The edges of Gil’s eyes crinkled as he gave that some thought. “So this is what you meant by out of the picture?”

      She nodded. “He was incarcerated for involuntary manslaughter.”

      Of her sister. Sharron.

      And it made her physically ill to think about it. To be pulled back to that night. The call from the police. The drive to the hospital. The doctor gently breaking the news.

      Frankly, jail had been too kind a punishment for her ex-brother-in-law.

      “When will he get out?” Gil asked.

      “He was given a five year sentence. He has two years left to serve.” But he had a parole hearing in another month. They might actually let the bastard out. And then he would fight her for custody of Dee. He’d already told her that. But she would never let that happen. She would not allow the man who killed her sister to kill her sister’s child, too.

      “Okay,” Gil said. “So I should expect calls from him?”

      “I told him not to phone me,” she said. “But he’s been demanding to know where Dee is.”

      “You mean he doesn’t know?”

      She shook her head. “Early on, he would call Dee. When Dee wouldn’t talk to him, he would get belligerent, start yelling.” And her poor nephew didn’t do well with that. Not at all. “It would upset Dee,” she explained. “I told the facility not to take his calls anymore, but when Dee’s father started making threats against the workers there …” Gosh, she hated airing her dirty laundry. “It was just easier to move Dee to a new home, especially once we figured out he was nonverbal. He’s been at Little Voices ever since, and he’s doing well. His father doesn’t need to know anything more than that.”

      But one day he would be out of jail.

      She closed her eyes, refusing to think of that.

      “This is hard on you, isn’t it?” Gil asked.

      She shrugged, trying to make light of the situation, but it was a sham. “It kills me some days,” she admitted. “But I have to have Dee’s best interest at heart.”

      Gil seemed satisfied with the answer. “Well, I’ll tell the switchboard to put all calls through to you.”

      “Thank you,” she said. “And if you could please make sure nobody knows Dee is my nephew …”

      “Confidentiality is the policy of this facility,” Gil said sternly.

      “Yes, of course.” She was counting on that.

      “But I do wonder if telling his father that Dee is here with you might be a good thing. Surely he would settle down if you told him the lengths you’ve gone though to help his son.”

      “No,” she said. “I tried that route before. Dee’s father doesn’t trust me. He thinks I hate him.”

      And she did … didn’t she?

      No. She didn’t hate anybody. She just didn’t trust him. He might make claims that he’d changed, but she knew that wasn’t true. A leopard didn’t change its spots.

      “Well then,” Gil said, “I’ll respect your need for privacy.”

      “Thank you.”

      “But if this doesn’t work out, if your nephew doesn’t respond to therapy like you hope, what will you do then?”

      She’d thought about that at least a half dozen times since taking a leave of absence from work to train at Camp Cowboy. What if this was a mistake? What if Dee didn’t respond to horse therapy as she hoped?

      “Either way, learning a little about hippotherapy is a good thing,” she said. “Who knows where it might take me?” She glanced down at her lap for a moment. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to help my nephew. If this doesn’t work out …” she shrugged again. “Well, I’ll just try something else.”

      Gil nodded, smiling. “Good. I’m glad you’re not looking at this like it might be an answer to your prayers. One never knows how an autistic child will respond.”

      “I know.”

      “Then I wish you luck,” he said, standing.

      Luck. Yeah, she would need that.

       Chapter Three

      She was in a meeting, Colt thought, heart pounding, as he put Flash away. He would never have a better opportunity to search through her belongings than right now.

      But the idea filled him with a sense of anxiety and dread.

      His fingers shook as he unclipped Flash’s halter. The camp wasn’t fully staffed yet. He’d been told most of the live-ins would arrive tomorrow. That meant fewer people around today.

      He had to investigate now.

      His stomach roiled as he left the stables. “The lodge,” as staffers called it, looked like it belonged on a dollar bill: Georgian-style roof, sash windows, wide steps leading up to the entrance. It had been built on a slight incline, with a pebbled road leading up to it. Those employees who would be driving in Monday would park around back, but for now, the place looked deserted.

      Colt took the steps two at a time, feeling sick with trepidation. The lodge had double doors at the entrance, but only the right side worked. Colt saw movement on the other side of the frosted glass. He knew Gil’s office was to the left, and when he stepped inside, that door was closed.

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