Laying Down The Law (#4, Cowboy Way) (The Cowboy Way) (9 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Brock held Brady’s hand at the edge of the woods as they watched Melanie get into her car, which was parked beside his SUV at the end of the logging road.  They’d driven separately so he’d have transportation in case something happened.  She’d hiked with them up the mountain, helped carry their supplies and insisted she could walk out by herself, but Brock insisted they were hiking out with her. There were wild animals out in these woods, and she was unarmed.

Brock had to have a knock-down-drag-out argument with Lucy before she would agree to let Brady come with him.  In the end, he told her she didn’t have a choice, and it felt damned good to do that.  But she still only agreed after he assured her that Melanie would not be camping with them.  Lucy seemed to have a deep-seated hatred for Melanie and that bothered him.  When she was jealous, Lucy could be a ruthless bitch as well as being manipulative. 

His last attempt at having a casual girlfriend proved that. 

Sandra finally told him she just couldn’t deal with Lucy anymore, and unfortunately Brock couldn’t tell her it would get better.  Lucy
was
a manipulative, vindictive bitch, but she was also his kid’s mother—and a relatively good one.  No woman was going to put up with her interference in his life, though, so after that Brock saved himself the complications. 

It was worth it to keep the peace.

Brock told Melanie to just steer clear of her while he was gone.  She’d have plenty to do to keep her occupied between faxing the requests for medical records to the twenty-four doctors they identified by going through all of the boxes of receipts, and taking care of her mother.  He felt guilty for dumping on her, but she insisted she had it handled. 

Why the hell she was still willing to help him after what he told her this morning, he didn’t know.  He felt it only fair to explain himself and to warn her.  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.  She was too good a woman—definitely too good for him.

Brock looked down when Brady tugged his hand.  “Daddy, I want to go fishing!” he said, with excitement.  “You’re going to teach me, remember?”

“Tomorrow morning, sport, it’s getting dark now,” Brock replied, his insides feeling light at seeing his son’s smile.

“Can we build a fire?  Roast weenies and marshmallows then?” he asked, practically dancing now.

“You bet we can,” he replied, grinning when Brady squealed. “But we need to get back to the cabin and gather wood before it gets dark.”

“I can pick up sticks while we walk,” he said dropping Brock’s hand to flit around and grab stray branches.

“Only get the brown ones—the green ones won’t burn,” Brock instructed as he started to walk, but kept an eye on Brady out of his peripheral vision. “And do not under any circumstances get out of my sight, okay?”

“Yes, sir!” Brady said, but stared at the ground seriously as they walked.

It took them twenty minutes to make the half-mile hike back to the cabin because Brock had to stop and corral Brady twice before he got into poison ivy patches, once when he saw a coiled snake and a final time before he fell into a washout.  There was so damned much he could get into out here, Brock was going to have to be on high alert.  But he also had to remind himself to let him have fun during his first outdoors experience too.

“Okay, you pile those sticks you found over there.”  He pointed to the blackened ring in the clearing that was well away from the ramshackle cabin. 

Thank goodness he’d brought a tent and sleeping bags in case that was exactly what he found here.  According to Melanie, it had been over thirteen years since anyone had been up here, and he believed it.  The shack was now a raccoon and varmint haven, and definitely not habitable.  The porch was good enough to keep their stuff dry though, in case it rained tonight, which the wet-blanket feel to the air said it might.

But that didn’t matter a damned bit. 

He would’ve slept on the ground, in the pouring down rain, to have this kind of peace—naked.  Visions of Merry Fox’s still shapely backside as she walked into the woods naked the night he picked her up, brought on a shiver but Brock could definitely appreciate her
eccentricities
now. 

Hell, the way his life had been lately, he wouldn’t mind moving to these woods and living like a mountain man.  He could set up a still, make moonshine to sell in town and hunt like his great-great grandfather had done in these Georgia woods. 

That kind of simplicity in his life held great appeal.

Stopping at the woodpile, he bent and picked up several logs from the stack of extremely seasoned wood then turned toward the cabin.  When he rounded the corner, Brady sat on the edge of the porch digging through his backpack and Brock hustled over there because his shotgun leaned on the post right by his right shoulder.  It scared the hell out of him that he’d been so careless, hadn’t even thought to take it with him.

God, he definitely didn’t spend enough alone time with his son.  If he did, he would’ve thought about that. 

As a cop who’d seen plenty of accidental gunshot wounds in the last six years from parents not securing their weapons, or instructing their kids on proper use, he should’ve remembered!  The logs rolled from his arms to the ground and he reached around him to grab the shotgun and crack it open to eject the two shells.  His next excursion with his son would be to teach him about gun safety.  Maybe a hunting trip. 

When his blood finally warmed again, Brock looked down at Brady who was elbow deep in the backpack now.

“Whatcha looking for, sport?” he asked pocketing the shells, and laying the shotgun on the porch.

Brady’s worried eyes met his, but he didn’t pull his arm out of the pack.  “I think Mommy forgot to pack my gummies,” he said, his voice slightly frantic. “I don’t want to get sick…I’m having too much fun.”

Anger shot through Brock, bust confusion followed.  His son’s words didn’t make a damned bit of sense.  What the hell did he think candy had to do with
not
getting sick?

Does diabetes run in your family? 

Brady was evidently confused, he thought, as he reached out to snatch the backpack away from him, and set it on the other side of him.  “Let’s talk about that candy, son.  All that sugar isn’t good for you.  I told your mother that, but she keeps giving them to you, so it’s going to be up to you to just say no thank you. Will you do that, Brady?  For me?”

“But they keep me from getting sick, Daddy,” he said, his voice pleading.

Brock huffed a breath and tousled his hair.  He was six Brock reminded himself and six-year-olds had a lot of strange notions.  He was going to have a stronger talk with the other adult in Brady’s life about this issue when they got back to town.   This was going to stop, if it took an argument with Lucy to stop it. 

Brock was done playing nice.

“Let’s get that fire going so we can eat supper then make S’mores.”  At least Brock and Melanie had found reduced sugar marshmallows, whole grain graham crackers and dark chocolate.  That was healthier for him than gelatin, sugar and who knew what else.

“When can we set up the tent?” he asked, his face lighting up.

“Right after I get the fire going,” Brock replied standing.  Brady got up and brushed his hands over his butt in imitation of what Brock did. 

“I love camping, Daddy.  Can we do this again?”  Brock’s heart squeezed as he put his arm around his son’s shoulders and walked him toward the fire ring. 

“You bet we can—in fact I think we’ll do it from now on at least once a month.”   As long as you’re feeling as good as you obviously are right now, the voice in his head added. 

Please God, let him feel better more often.  Let Melanie figure out what the hell is wrong with him so he can be a normal kid.

***

Melanie stabbed the send button on the fax machine to fax the last authorization form to doctor number twenty-four then turned to lean on the desk as it rang.   It was nearly six-thirty, so in all likelihood half of the doctors wouldn’t receive the requests until Monday morning, but at least now they had the ball rolling.  Hopefully they’d start receiving the files and labs by the end of next week.  She had them sent to Brock’s ranch so they wouldn’t end up in Lucy’s hands.

The more she knew about that woman, the more suspicious she got that something was definitely wrong here.  She didn’t want to think it, but with twenty-four doctors in six years and a mystery illness, she couldn’t help but have suspicions it involved her son too.  Melanie had to be careful there though, because it could be her intense dislike for the woman seeding those thoughts.  She needed firm proof before she ever brought those suspicions up to Brock.

She was going back by Dr. Carter’s office to look around for those labs, which were nowhere to be found in Brady’s file, but she’d have to do it in the morning when there was more light. Right now, she needed to stop at her mother’s house for a few minutes to help them get settled for the night, or at least check on them again before she headed out to the ranch to feed Brock’s animals. 

After they went shopping for the camping adventure, she and Brock had stopped by her mother’s house around noon.  She and Aunt June seemed to be getting along well, told her they didn’t need anything, but Melanie felt guilty for not giving them more attention. 

Sunday, she’d go over and spend the whole day there making sure herself they were actually doing okay. 

“Hey, Doc—how’s it going?” Rowdy asked as he walked in and hung his cowboy hat on the peg beside the door.

“Just finishing up.  Thanks for letting me use the fax,” she replied, pushing off of the desk to gather up the paperwork and shove it into the file folder on the desk.

“I hope you figure out what’s wrong with that kid.  Me, I think it’s his damned mother and I told Brock that.  That woman is vile,” he said, as he walked to the desk across the room.  “She’s always been like that, even in high school.  I’m surprised he ever hooked up with her.”  Rowdy laughed as he sat behind the desk and kicked back.  “I wouldn’t touch that kind of crazy again with a ten-foot pole.”

Melanie’s head whipped up and her eyes met his.  “You used to date her?”

“For about a minute, yeah,” he replied, running a hand through his hair.  “Until I caught her in several lies and broke up with her.  She stalked me like I’d escaped from her basement or something—gave the women I dated hell.   It didn’t stop until Brock came back to town and distracted her.”

More proof she had mental issues Melanie thought, feeling sick.  Issues that put Munchausen’s by Proxy more firmly in the realm of possible diagnoses.  But what was her method of harming her son, of making him sick enough to keep Brock on the hook, but not sick enough to kill him?  She needed those medical records and she needed them fast, so she could stop Lucy before she upped her game and possibly hurt Brady permanently, if she hadn’t already.

With the added stressors of Melanie being in town, and Brock’s newly found backbone with her, that could very well happen if this was a case of MBP.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Three quick nudges to his shoulder brought Brock awake, and he looked around in the dark, trying to remember where the hell he was.  He moved the sharp rock that poked him in the ass that reminded him he slept on the ground in a tent in the woods.  He tried to roll on his side and his muscles protested.

“Daddy, let’s go fishin!” Brady whispered urgently, nudging him again.  His son’s voice brimmed with alert excitement, like he’d been awake for a while waiting for Brock to wake up—or maybe he hadn’t slept all night waiting for morning to arrive. 

The second option was probably correct, because Brady had kept him up way past midnight asking questions about fishing and hunting, making S’mores and hot chocolate when it was eighty degrees outside. 

It had been freaking awesome. 

Seeing his son happy, excited—not having pain—and making memories with him had been exactly what they both needed.  He decided last night that from here on out, Lucy was not running interference between Brock and his son.  No matter how busy he got, Brock was going to be directly involved in Brady’s life and problems.  Not that he hadn’t tried to be before—but now he was going to insist on being included.

“I need to make coffee first, sport,” Brock croaked, sitting up in his sleeping bag to rub his sandpaper-lined eyes. 
And drink a pot of it
.

“I can go dig worms while you make coffee,” he suggested, his face serious in the pre-dawn glow that filtered through the thin sides of the tent.  “Dawn is the best time to catch them, remember?”

Brock stared at Brady a second, then huffed a breath.  He could do without coffee this morning.  The fish were jumping and he was not going to keep his son waiting to catch them on his first fishing trip.  He remembered his own first trip to the lake with his father and he wanted Brady to remember this trip when he was thirty-one-years old too.

“Yeah, you’re right—dawn is prime fishing time and I promised you fish for breakfast,” Brock said as he unzipped his sleeping bag.  “You go get our rods, and we’ll dig worms on our hike to the lake.”

Brock closed one eye as Brady’s excited squeal pierced his brain and echoed through the quiet woods outside the tent.  The kid scrambled to the flap of the tent, whipped the zipper to the bottom of the track then disappeared through the opening.  Brock was a lot slower as he crawled outside the tent to stand and stretch while he watched Brady on the porch of the ramshackle cabin gathering his new fishing equipment and Brock’s rod.

“Want me to get the shovel and bucket too, Daddy?” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth like Brock wouldn’t hear him from the twenty-feet or so that separated them. 

Everyone in the woods, hell, probably the next town, had to hear him.  He’d have to tell Brady about being quiet once they got to the lake, so he didn’t scare off the fish.  Brock didn’t know if that was true, but he’d always trusted what his father told him and counted himself a darned good angler himself because of it. 

Damn, he missed his mom and dad.  Maybe if Brady stayed well, he’d take him to Atlanta to see them soon. He needed to check in on them anyway.

“Yeah, it’s in the other duffle with your clothes,” he yelled back, along with his bag of coffee grounds which he was damned tempted to find and grab a handful to chew. 

When he brought Brady and the mountain of stuff Lucy threw together for him back to the ranch, Melanie had to repack for them.  Well, she didn’t have to, but she did even though he told her they were fine.  She’d said she needed to double check the list they’d made that afternoon anyway to make sure they had everything they needed.  She was someone else he missed, and wished like hell he could’ve invited her to spend the weekend with them up here.

But he knew she would’ve refused.  She told him implicitly this was time for him and Brady to reconnect—for him to find out where his son was mentally.  To find mental peace of his own.  Melanie Fox was an amazing woman, and he was damned lucky she’d come back into his life.  He just wondered how badly he’d miss her when she went back to Texas in a few weeks.  If he was making a mistake by letting himself rely on her, like he was doing. 

Before they left to drive here separately, Brock had taken her out to the barn to make sure she was set to feed the animals while he was gone…and to thank her properly without little eyes seeing them.  The fact that he didn’t want to stop kissing her and only did because she pushed him away, should tell him something.  The other thing that should is that he had a hard time falling asleep last night, even as exhausted as he was, because visions of her laying alone in his bed at the ranch wouldn’t leave his mind.

Brock heard grunts from the porch and looked over to see Brady drag their cooler from the porch, along with a multitude of bags and their fishing rods.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Brady announced, looking up with a grin that popped a dimple in his cheek.  The straps of the four bags he carried slipped from his shoulders and they dropped with a dull thud to the ground around him.

“Think you have enough equipment there, sport?  Is that cooler gonna be big enough to hold all of your fish?”  The rolling cooler, which used to hold their perishable food, was now part of Brady’s fishing inventory.

“I put the food in the duffle bag,” he announced with a chin nod.

“Well, we need to rethink that, because it will go bad and if we don’t catch fish, we won’t have lunch or supper.”

“Oh, we are gonna catch fish,” he announced confidently and Brock bit back a laugh.

“Well, just in case, let’s put that back and grab the stringer,” he said, walking over to grab the handle to roll it back up on the porch.

Twenty minutes later, they’d traveled about a hundred yards from camp, because Brady wanted to stop at every tree with moss and leaves around it to dig for worms.  The first had almost provided enough for them to fish for a week.  But Brock was having so much fun watching him, he couldn’t say no.

“Got
cha
!” he said, giggling as held up a long slimy brown worm like a trophy.  He dropped it into the bucket and grabbed the small camping shovel again.

“The sun’s going to be up soon and the fish will go into hiding,” Brock reminded, and Brady looked up at him with wide eyes.  He quickly stood and wiped his hands on his filthy jeans, before he put the shovel back into the pack.

“Let’s go then so we can catch breakfast.  I’m a little hungry!” Brady said, trying to lift the heavy pack.  Brock took it from him and lifted it to his shoulder.  Hearing that Brady was hungry was an awesome thing. 

Not hearing his stomach was hurting, that he felt nauseated, was even better.

“There’s a power bar in the pocket of your pack.  Eat it,” he said, as he grabbed their rods from where they leaned on the tree.

“I wish I had my gummies,” he said with a sigh, as he unzipped the pocket and took out one of the bars Brock had stuffed in there.

“Remember, you’re going to lay off the gummies,” Brock reminded.

“Oh, yeah—I forgot,” Brady replied, as he tore the wrapper off of the snack and took a bite from the corner.  “But these taste like cardboard.”

“You’ll get used to them, and they’re a lot better for you.  Now, daylight is wasting so let’s get going.” 

They walked through the woods then stopped at the lake, and Brock squinted against the morning sun glinting off the surface to look around for the perfect spot.  He found a shady little spot on the left bank where there were some tree falls in the water, but not enough that they’d get hung up every five seconds.  He led Brady there, and they set down their equipment.  Brock reached for Brady’s rod to put a worm on the hook, but he jerked it back.

“No, I want to do it, Daddy,” he said, sounding very grown up. 

He was growing up fast, and Brock had lost so damned much time with him.  Regrets weren’t getting him anywhere, though.  All he could do was focus on making up for that lost time, he thought, as he grabbed his own rod to remove the hook from the eye.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Brady do the same. 

Brock bent to sift through the bucket to find a juicy worm, and Brady studied him intently as he sat down and laid the worm on his thigh.  He gasped when Brock slapped the worm to make it stop wiggling so he could thread it on his hook.  Looking at Brady, he held up the hook and grinned as he spit on the worm.

“That’s kinda gross, Dad,” he said with a giggle.

“That is how your grandpa taught me to do it,” Brock said, as he flipped the bail on his reel, then held the spool to throw his line into the water.

“Grandpa Cooper?” Brady asked, sitting down beside Brock.  He dragged the bucket to him and gingerly dug through the dirt.

“Yeah, he’s my daddy, remember?” Brock popped his line closer to the fallen log.

“I don’t remember him much,” Brady replied, and Brock’s insides clenched.

“We’re going to fix that soon. I think you and I are going to take a trip to Atlanta one weekend to go see him and Grandma Cooper.” 

He watched as Brady laid a worm on his jeans and slapped him still, before picking him up to poke the hook through his body.  Brock fought the urge to help him so he didn’t hook himself, but Brady surprised him when he held the hook up with a proud smile. 

When his mouth worked, he puckered then held the worm to the side and spit on it, Brock threw back his head and his laughter echoed through the woods.

“
Daddy
! Your cork is gone!” Brady shouted, as he danced and pointed at the water.

Brock fumbled to grab his rod but it fell on the ground and streaked toward the water.  Before he could get to it, Brady dove on it at the edge of the water and held on tight.  After a second, he managed to work up to a sitting position with it in his hand.  The rod bent, and his lips pinched as he pulled back.

“That’s it, Brady—now reel!” Brock instructed, feeling the buzz of his excitement.  Heart pounding, he scooted over to sit beside him to put an arm around his shoulders in case he couldn’t hold on.  “Now use that lever and turn it to reel in the line.”  Brady tapped his finger on the lever, and Brady grabbed it, made one turn but stopped when the drag sang as the obviously sizable fish pulled out line as he swam toward the log.    

This was going to be a fight the kid would never forget, Brock thought, as he put his hands over Brady’s and pulled back on the line. 

It would be a day he would never forget, either.  Emotion shot up to his throat making his eyes burn badly.  It was the day Brady became his son, the day he became a father. 

Because Melanie Fox had opened his eyes, and maybe his heart.