P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission. Beth Cornelison

right foot, buffing, trimming and shaping. “Anyway…don’t let this first impression of Peter Walsh color your opinion of him. He really is a great guy. Any gal would be lucky to have him.”

      “Whoa! “ Lisa held up her hands. “I never said anything about dating him. I’m not looking for a husband.”

      Eve flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and flashed Lisa a saucy look. “Who said anything about you? He might be ten years younger than me but…hoo-baby! When a guy looks that good, who cares about age?”

      They both laughed, and Lisa felt a little of her tension melt away.

      “So what color on the toes?” Eve asked, pulling out a large tray of nail polish.

      “Oh, just a basic pink or mauve is fine.”

      Eve scrunched up her nose. “Pink is so boring, girlfriend. How about this new sexy red I got in last week? Or…oh, I know! Electric purple!”

      Lisa snorted. “Me? Purple?”

      Eve wiggled the bottle and raised her eyebrows with enthusiasm. “Come on. Be daring! It looks really sexy.”

      Lisa shrugged. “What the heck. Paint me purple. Not like anyone but my cat is gonna see my toes anyway.”

      And thanks to her inability to have children, Lisa thought with a pang of sorrow, that was how things were likely to be for a long time. Even her attempt to adopt once had ended in heartache.

      No children. No husband. No family.

      A lonely ache settled over her. Her infertility hadn’t just robbed her of a child, but also the future she craved.

      Peter flipped his wrist to check the time. “Better get a move on, sport. School bus will be here any minute.”

      “Do you gotta work out of town again today?” Patrick asked around a mouthful of cereal.

      “Nope. I wrapped up the legwork on a case yesterday, so I’ll mostly be working from home today to get the paperwork finished. Why?”

      His son shrugged. “Just wonderin’ if you’d be here when I got home or if Grandma would.”

       He feels alone, because he thinks you’re too busy for him.

      Lisa Navarre’s assessment rang in Peter’s head, and he studied the droop in Patrick’s shoulders as he slurped sugary milk from his breakfast bowl.

      “I’ll make a point of being here when you get off the bus today. Okay, sport? After you do your homework, we’ll do something together. Your choice.”

      Patrick gave him a withering look that said parents were the stupidest creatures on earth. “Dad, it’s Friday. I don’t have homework on Fridays.”

      “Good,” Peter returned with good humor. “Then we’ll have more time to do something together.”

      “Can we play on the Wii?”

      Peter was about to agree when he remembered yesterday’s punishment. “Aren’t you grounded for the weekend?”

      Patrick’s face fell. “Oh, yeah.”

      Outside, the bus tooted its horn.

      “Time’s up. Grab your backpack! “ Peter hurried to the front door to wave to the bus driver, while Patrick struggled out. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something fun to do that doesn’t include the TV. And…I haven’t forgotten about taking you to see the football game tomorrow.”

      Patrick’s face brightened as he rushed past. “Cool. Bye, Dad!”

      “Don’t forget to apologize to Ms. Navarre!”

      His son gave a wave as he climbed on the bus, and Peter sighed. Patrick wasn’t the only one who owed the attractive brunette an apology. He’d been pretty hostile, when Patrick’s teacher had only had his son’s best interests at heart.

      Peter scrubbed a hand over his unshaven cheeks as he went back in his house. His only lame excuse for his shameful behavior was that he’d already been pumped full of adrenaline after the brush with Bill Rigsby’s shotgun-toting neighbor, and he’d been spoiling for a fight after his meeting with Craig, where the Coltons, his least-favorite family, had been high on the list of suspects. But he should never have let his bad mood taint his treatment of Patrick’s teacher.

      Peter took Patrick’s half-eaten cereal to the sink and ate a few bites himself before dumping the rest.

      Jamming his thumbs in his jeans pockets, he headed into the den where he had his PC set up in one corner. Perhaps on Monday, he’d drive Patrick to school and make a point of speaking to Ms. Navarre. His pulse spiked a notch, a bump that had more to do with his anticipation of seeing Patrick’s teacher again than his morning caffeine kicking in. He thumbed the power button on the computer and leaned back in his chair as the monitor hummed to life.

      In the face of his shouting and sarcasm, Lisa Navarre had not only held her own, but she’d kept her tone calm and her arguments constructive and focused on Patrick’s needs. He respected her for her professionalism and grace under fire.

      And the fact Lisa Navarre had sexy curves and a spark of stubborn courage in her dark eyes only made her more intriguing to Peter. Knowing her observations of Patrick in the classroom mirrored his own suspicions about Patrick’s difficulty processing the most recent family troubles gave him reason to call on her expertise. Perhaps the attractive teacher would give him a bit of her time and help him figure out the best way to handle the recent family crises with Patrick.

      When his computer finished loading the start-up programs, Peter opened his case file on Bill Rigsby and got to work, but his mind drifted again to the same family issues that had had him distracted yesterday on his stakeout. His visit with Craig at the hospital only confirmed that someone outside the Colton family needed to be looking into his father’s murder and who’d paid Atkins to poison Craig.

      Peter lifted his coffee mug and squeezed the handle until his knuckles blanched. How could Sheriff Wes Colton possibly conduct an unbiased investigation when his own family was most likely at fault? What secrets and evidence was Wes suppressing to protect his brood of vipers? Craig may have ruled out Finn, since Finn was his doctor, but Peter wasn’t willing to make that leap of faith yet.

      Peter gritted his teeth and shoved away from the computer. Enough waiting for answers. He’d go down to the sheriff’s office and demand answers from Wes Colton.

      Even if Mark Walsh had been a half-hearted father and a two-timing husband, he deserved justice. And Craig Warner, the man who’d managed the reins at Walsh Enterprises for almost two decades and who’d been a father figure to Peter, deserved answers about who’d poisoned him.

      Peter refused to rest until he had the truth.

      As Peter strode up the front walk to the county courthouse, he huddled deeper into the warmth of his suede coat. A chill November wind announced the approach of another bitterly cold Montana winter, a bleak time of year that reflected Peter’s current mood. He glanced up to the steepled clock tower in the red brick and natural stone edifice where the sheriff’s office had told him he could find Wes Colton that morning, waiting to testify in a court hearing. The woman at the sheriff’s office had said she thought Wes was due at the courthouse by 9:00 a.m.

      But if he wasn’t, Peter would wait.

      He nodded a good-morning to an elderly man who shuffled out the front door of the courthouse, then shucked his gloves as he entered the lobby and got his bearings. The scents of freshly brewed coffee, floor cleaner and age filled the halls of the old building. Peter could remember thinking how old the courthouse seemed when he’d come down here with his mother to get his driver’s license when he was sixteen. Little about the building had changed in the intervening years, even if Peter felt he’d lived a lifetime since then.

      Jamming his gloves in his coat pocket, Peter spotted Wes Colton down a long corridor and headed purposefully towards him. “Sheriff?”