Montana Homecoming. Jillian Hart

He recognized Juanita’s family, a young woman killed in the robbery, her mother teary-eyed and trying to stay strong.

       “Hey, Liam.” Roger, a fellow journalist, interrupted his thoughts. “Want to grab lunch?”

       He blinked, realizing the session had adjourned for noon recess. He hadn’t even noticed it. Some reporter he was. He tucked his notes and laptop into his briefcase. “Sorry, can’t. I’ve got to buzz home and check on my dog.”

       “You have a dog?” Roger’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “You?”

       “Hey, what’s wrong with me?” He eased off the bench. “I’m a good dog owner.”

       “Yeah, but you are gone a lot. Won’t that be a problem?”

       “Why would it? Oscar used to spend his time locked in a cage, and now he has a whole house. Where’s the problem in that?”

       He got ahead of the crowd streaming toward the doors, catching one quick glimpse of Brooke. She bent to speak to Lil, dark hair cascading over her shoulder, strain tightening the muscles along her delicate jaw line. The trial was obviously taking a toll on her. It was a lot for a family to go through.

       “Hey, maybe there’s no problem. What do I know?” Roger kept pace with him as they broke out into the wide corridor. Noise and people streamed around them. “My mom had a dachshund, and that little wiener dog ate the entire house whenever she left him alone. That’s all I’m saying.”

       “The only danger would be if Oscar ever learned how to open the fridge or the pantry doors.” He thought of the ham incident and grinned. That dog was sure livening things up. “See you in an hour.”

       “Right. Good luck!”

       “I don’t believe in luck.” God had led him to Oscar, God had put the wish for a dog into his heart and God would not abandon him now. Liam headed down the hall, glancing over his shoulder to steal another glimpse of Brooke. The crowd was too big—he couldn’t see her. He stumbled out the door and into the bright May sunshine, fighting the feeling he’d left something important behind.

       His cell sang a cheerful note as he started his truck’s engine. One glance at the screen had him grinning. It was a text message from Colbie.

      Mom told me about your need for a dog trainer. Brooke is great with dogs, she’d written. Call her, text her, just don’t hire anyone else. Promise?

      I don’t need a trainer, he tapped out with his thumbs. His dog was unruly but overall just fine. And on the off chance Colbie was playing matchmaker, he didn’t need that, either. He knew how to hold his ground.

      Famous last words, Colbie wrote. I’m sending Brooke’s cell # anyway.

       The drive home was quick and uneventful. He lived in an older section of Bozeman where the neighborhoods were tree-lined and straight out of the 1940s with white picket fences, carefully manicured yards and Craftsman-style homes. He parked in front of the detached garage, hopped up the back steps and turned his key in the lock. The ringing bark of welcome put a spring in his step as he swung open the kitchen door.

       A golden streak launched toward him, emitting a high-pitched whine of relief. Eighty pounds of Lab hit him in the chest, rocking him back on his feet. Paws settled on his shoulders, his knees gave way and he stumbled as the dog plastered canine kisses across his face.

       “I’m glad to see you, too, buddy. Now, down.” Laughing, he grabbed two paws and lifted them off his suit jacket, wiped his face with his sleeve and pushed through the door.

       That’s when he saw the kitchen. Disaster. Air squeaked out of his lungs in shock. He blinked, but the scene remained. Trash littered the tile, the garbage can overturned and empty. One ladder-back chair remained in place at the small nook table, but the other three sprawled on their backs in various places around the room. One was missing a leg.

       “You ate part of a chair?” He jammed one hand through his hair, too stunned to do anything more than stare. Cushions had been torn off the chairs and were almost intact with white flashes of stuffing showing. One cupboard door hung askew.

       “I can’t believe this.” He shook his head, stunned by the devastation. A mini tornado could not have left as much damage. “Oscar, how could you?”

       The Lab whined and sat on his haunches. Doggy brows furrowed sorrowfully. Big chocolate-brown eyes beamed a message that seemed to say, “Forgive me. I was bad.”

       “Oh, Oscar.” Liam rubbed the pounding tension settling in behind his left temple. How could he be mad at that face? He could only hope the rest of the house hadn’t suffered the same fate.

      Chapter Three

      “How are you holding up?” Her big brother Luke leaned in to ask, his voice so low it was difficult to hear him in the bustling sandwich shop.

       “Fine.” All morning she’d endured sympathetic looks and comforting hugs and encouraging smiles from her family, but no one had said the words aloud. Pain clamped around her ribs. Her hands shook as she dug in her purse for a couple of twenties to help pay for the family meal.

       “I’ve got it,” her oldest brother, Hunter, grumbled, standing in front of her in line. He fished a credit card from his wallet. “Put your money away, Brookie.”

       “I should at least pay for my own sandwich.”

       “Not going to happen.” Hunter was used to being in charge. As the oldest son, he’d borne the brunt of their father’s failures. Their youngest brother’s death had been the last straw. Hunter had grown harder through the years until it was almost impossible to remember the laughing, good-humored boy he’d been. They had been The Three Musketeers, she and Luke and Hunter roaming the hills and fields on their family’s land. Those long-ago happier times felt far away.

       “You don’t look fine.” Luke’s voice turned gruff, another strong man uncomfortable showing his caring side. “You haven’t looked fine since you stepped foot inside the courtroom door this morning.”

       “I don’t want to talk about it.” She’d meant to sound firm, but her voice came out strangled. The memories were a noose tightening around her throat, one she could not loosen.

       “Leave her be, Lucas,” Hunter grumbled as he handed his card across the narrow counter to a smiling clerk in a green apron. “We all know life isn’t fair. No sense in dragging all that up again.”

       Relief filtered through her, loosening the imaginary noose enough so she could breathe. All her life Hunter looked out for her, taking care of her, both he and Luke.

       “I didn’t mean to drag up any bad stuff.” Luke’s brawny arm slid around her shoulders, hooked her by the neck and gave her a brief brotherly one-armed hug. “Just trying to help.”

       “Stop helping.” Hunter shook his head and dug cash out of his pocket for the tip jar. A hint of a grin hooked the corners of his stern mouth. Growly on the outside, soft on the inside. “Go fill the cups, would you, Brookie?”

       “Some things never change no matter how long you are away.” She shook her head, also fighting to hide a smile. “Bossy, bossy, bossy.”

       “Someone has to be in charge. Why not me?” Hunter quipped as she grabbed the stack of cups on the counter.

       “Why does it always have to be you?” Luke good-naturedly argued, his voice trailing after her as she headed for the soda machines.

       Her brothers’ banter faded into indistinct rumbles blending with the other conversations in the busy shop. In their way, her brothers were trying to help and she loved them for it. She extracted one cup from the stack and stabbed it beneath the ice dispenser, and the anxious knot in her middle eased a notch. She had been away from home too long. She missed them all so much.

       “Looks like you could use some help.” Colbie sidled in to steal