Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls #1)(16)

Grant followed her directions. He passed a small cafeteria where ambulatory residents were eating breakfast. Wheelchairs were tucked under tables, walkers parked next to chairs. The scents of syrup and bacon mingled with disinfectant. Despite the attempt to make the atmosphere cheerful, there was no disguising the nature of the institution. Considering the state of most of the residents, it had broken Grant’s heart when they’d moved Dad here two years ago.

He turned into his father’s room. His dad had deteriorated since spring. His arms had withered, and his skin had taken on a yellowish hue. The Colonel’s eyes were closed and his chest labored with heavy breaths. Oxygen tubes snaked from his nostrils around his ears. An IV line trailed from his wrist to a trio of bags hanging from a stand. In 1991, a convoy bombing during Operation Desert Storm had paralyzed the Colonel from the waist down, but the determined soldier hadn’t allowed his injury to hold him back. He’d done as many normal things as possible, including custom-rigging an ATV so he could take his boys out in the woods. He’d lived in his modified home until dementia robbed him of his remaining strength and dignity, the ultimate insult for a brave man who’d fought as hard as the Colonel.

Grant paused to read the medicine labels: the usual concoction of fluids, antibiotics, and steroids. The Colonel’s white hair was clean and combed, and the bed linens appeared fresh. A biography of General Braxton Bragg lay open on the bed tray. Someone had been reading to him. Grant and Hannah spent a hefty sum of money each month to supplement the Colonel’s benefits and ensure he received excellent medical care. It was all he could do from the other side of the globe, but with Lee handling the day-to-day details, Grant and Hannah shouldered the financial burden.

“Hi, Dad.” He pulled a chair up to the bed and touched his father’s forearm.

The Colonel’s clouded eyes, once a bright and piercing blue, blinked vaguely on Grant. “Who are you?”

“It’s Grant. Your son. I’m home on leave.”

“Grant. General Grant?” Confusion creased his features.

Only the Colonel would remember the historical figure he’d named his firstborn after and not his actual firstborn.

“Not yet, Dad, but I’ll get there,” Grant promised.

“I don’t have a son.” Agitation sharpened his father’s tone. “Who are you? Are you trying to rob me?”

“No, sir.” Grant stood. The ache in his chest expanded. “I was just leaving.”

Once Dad’s paranoia got rolling, it would take the nurses hours to calm him. Better to leave and try again another day. Besides, there was no point telling him about Lee when he didn’t recall Lee existed. Maybe the Colonel’s memory loss was a blessing today. His son’s death would have broken him if he were whole.

Grant found his dad’s nurse at the station around the corner and let her know what happened. She promised to check on him. Grant got back into the rental car and glanced at the dashboard clock. Thanks to his abbreviated visit, he had time for one more stop, the law offices of Peyton, Peyton, and Griffin. Anything to avoid going back to Lee’s empty house.

His brother had worked in an established law firm that occupied a converted stately three-story home on First Street. Miles of white trim set off pale yellow clapboards. Grant parked in the rear lot and followed the paver path alongside the building to the front door. He stepped into a polished foyer turned into a lobby. In the center, behind an antique desk, sat Lee’s pretty neighbor, Ellie. Gone were the ripped jeans and stained T-shirt, the wallboard dust and paint smears. Not that construction-worker Ellie wasn’t hot, but this . . . this feminine version reminded him too much of the Ellie from last spring—the Ellie in that sundress.

“Grant.” She rose, rounded the desk, and held out her hand. A pale blue blouse and slim gray skirt hugged her curvy body to just above her knees. Below the hem, her shapely legs ended in low-heeled pumps. Her hair was coiled in a neat bun at her nape. She wore minimal makeup. The effect was wholesome, natural, and demure.

Grant ignored the pleasure that lightened his chest. But damn, that smile. It brightened everything that had gone bleak inside of him at the nursing home.

“Hi, Ellie.” He took her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth in his rough palm.

“What can I do for you?”

The erotic image that popped into Grant’s head was both unexpected and inappropriate. He should be ashamed, but my God—

Damn sundress.

He released her hand. “Actually, I was hoping I could talk to Lee’s boss. We’ve been playing phone tag.”

“Let me see if he’s free to speak with you.” She went back to her desk and picked up the phone.

Grant gave her space. He strolled to the other side of the lobby and checked out the portraits of the senior partners hanging on the wall. Was being old and unhappy required of a senior law partner? Who wanted to look at a bunch of crabby old men when he could stare at Ellie?

“He’ll see you now.” She crossed the lobby, her heels silent on the blue carpet. She opened a door and stood aside.

“Major Barrett, come in.” Roger Peyton Jr. emerged from behind his desk to shake Grant’s hand.

“Mr. Peyton.” Scotch fumes hit Grant’s nostrils.

“Call me Roger, please. Mr. Peyton is my father. Would you like coffee?”