A Man To Count On. Helen R. Myers

in the Horvath case—and win—her future here was over. It didn’t matter that it would require two clerks to assist her and Bruce in the face-off with Lester Horvath’s pricey defense team. Somehow she would still have to figure out a way to reason with Trey, as well as help the children. Where would she find the extra hours in her already crammed days, let alone the energy to use them wisely?

      A knock on her door had E.D. starting. Had Emmett changed his mind and decided he wanted her off the case after all?

      “Come in.”

      A young man poked his head inside. “Ms. Martel?”

      “Yes.” A courier, she thought with relief, noting his cyclist’s helmet tucked under his arm.

      “I have an express for you.”

      Praying it wasn’t another present from Trey, E.D. accepted the small padded packet, only to stare at the sender’s bold initials. D.J. Incredible! So the call wasn’t an accident. But what was Dylan doing and could she afford to satisfy her curiosity?

      For a moment she was tempted to reject the delivery; her instincts told her it was the wise thing to do. The use of just his initials was proof that this was personal and for her eyes only. Dylan needed a paper trail to her right now about as much as Emmett wanted one; after all, she’d heard the latest rumor about Dylan filing for the upcoming election.

      Feeling caught in some game where she didn’t know the goal let alone the rules, E.D. yielded to temptation and signed the appropriate line on the delivery record. Plucking out a folded bill from the side compartment of her purse, she handed it over along with the clipboard. “Thank you.”

      “Thank you, ma’am.”

      As she waited for the gangly, spandex-dressed youth to leave, her thoughts circled around the ludicrous concern that her signature didn’t resemble her usual confident flourish and that her hands refused to stop trembling. But as soon as she heard the door click closed, she tore at the padded envelope.

      He had to have seen the news this morning, she thought as she pulled out the smaller envelope inside. Maybe he—her breath caught as she felt something hard inside.

      Oh, no!

      He’d been bold. Mad. So out of character for steady, live-by-the-rules Dylan.

      E.D. tore the smaller envelope and dropped the contents into her cupped left palm. As she’d surmised, a shiny brass key landed there. She closed her fingers around it and pressed her fist to her pounding heart.

      You dear man. You crazy, idealistic man.

      Shaking her head, she checked the envelope to see if he’d included a message. A brief note had been handwritten on a blank sheet of notepad paper.

      You know what this goes to. Use it.

      Scrawled below were four numbers. As the past rushed forward to replay itself before her eyes, E.D. shook her head and debated over the options that unfolded before her. There was no mistaking that she’d been reminded of the rest of his cell-phone number; she didn’t need to check her directory to confirm that. The question was should she respond?

      She had to. Such a gesture—regardless of his motives—made some response mandatory. But as she retrieved her phone out of her pocket, she didn’t deceive herself; the pounding in her ears was less about what common sense demanded she say than eagerness to hear his voice again. That shamed the woman who was a mother and, until today, a damned faithful and caring wife.

      Navigating to the correct memory code, E.D. punched the call button. After only half a ring, she heard the voice that embraced and reassured like no other.

      “I was beginning to give up hope. What else can I do?”

      The part of her that had been increasingly ignored and becoming repressed whispered, “Ah.” Dylan’s voice had always reminded her of profound things: the baritone bell ending a monastery prayer, the timely discovery of a quilt during a hard winter freeze. The professional man inspired equally stirring and lasting feelings in people. He stood statue tall and was built as physically well as he was mentally solid, more than capable of enduring strong political winds and ethical challenges. It was difficult to look into his ink-blue eyes and not be overwhelmed; framed by a strong-boned face, they radiated wisdom, wit and a patience honed from years of watching and listening. E.D. missed that face, that voice, and more, their strange, indefinable friendship.

      Wondering if his pitch-brown hair was tumbling over his broad brow by now from hours bent over files and law books, she managed a smile, wistful though it was. “You shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.”

      “I’ve already worked through that argument myself and found it wanting.”

      She cupped the phone as though it were his cheek. “I think you let sympathy override sensibility. As generous as the gesture is, it’s impossible.”

      “Why? You need to sleep, a quiet place to think.”

      When Trey had first hit her with his accusations and threats last night, E.D.’s impulse had been to call Dylan—not for aid, but advice. If anyone could think of something that could be done to stop this insanity before it mushroomed into a blinding, noxious cloud that permanently damaged her children, she’d suspected he would. However, just as quickly, she’d reasoned she would be every bit as poisonous to Dylan. Any contact could potentially stain a brilliant career that seemed to be about to take off to new heights; and so she’d resisted.

      “I don’t know what to say.” She studied the key to the comfy but rustic cabin west of the city, about forty minutes into the hill country. “I’m grateful, of course, but…this is so embarrassing.”

      “If anyone should be embarrassed it’s your—” Dylan’s sigh spoke of frustration “—it wasn’t my intention to make you feel awkward. After I saw the report on TV, I could only imagine what hell this has been for you. How’s your daughter?”

      “I wish I could tell you. I haven’t been able to reach either of the kids.”

      “And you?”

      “I’ve had excellent training at hanging on by my fingernails.”

      “You can’t ask me to stand by and do nothing.”

      No, not the man whose last name perfectly described him; Dylan Justiss had been born to serve the law. However, this time he’d picked the wrong battle.

      “You’re wonderful.” She hoped her sincerity carried through in those two simple words. “But that doesn’t change that I can’t let you do this.”

      “So you’re going to a hotel and face curious stares from staff when they deliver room service? Reporters paying for a heads-up call that you’re leaving, or details about where you’re going and with whom?”

      He had her there. She was dreading that possibility, so much so that she’d considered driving out of town to find a sanctuary. Trey had already blocked her from their joint checking account and put a freeze on everything else they held jointly, but she had enough personal resources to survive for a while without having to borrow from the firm or friends. The added lure of Dylan’s offer was that his retreat would make her truly invisible…if the arrangement could be kept secret.

      “It’s been years since I’ve driven out there, and it would be perfect, except for—”

      “I know we’re both being careful not to say too much because we’re not on secure lines,” Dylan replied. “All I want to do is assure you, it is private and exactly what you need. My caretaker will know to expect you and unless you ask for help, you’ll be left alone.”

      He’d put serious thought into this and that added to E.D.’s torment. Despite her concern for security, she needed to take a risk and make him see what an error he could be making. “This is supposed to be the happiest professional day of your life—and I am so pleased and proud for you—but look at what you’re doing. Why would you risk your future by having any contact with