An Old-Fashioned Love. Arlene James

bucks, the papers were easy to fill out, no attorney need be involved, and her chances of collecting were as good as in any other court, which was to say not really very good at all.

      Indeed, given his attitude the two times she had attempted to talk to him about the situation, she did not even expect Wyatt Gilley to show up for the hearing. He just didn’t seem inclined to take her losses seriously. Clearly those two redheaded urchins had him thoroughly bamboozled, but it didn’t matter. A judge was bound to be more objective. In addition to her own eyewitness account, Traci had come armed with notarized statements from those individuals who had actually seen the little vandals carting off her building materials. She, therefore, had scant doubt that the judgment would be in her favor.

      What she doubted was her ability to collect a cent in damages, for Gilley would undoubtedly cry poverty, though he was known to own several rental properties and operate a small carpentry business, and of course there was his Army retirement pay. What, she wondered, did lieutenant colonels pull down by way of retirement pay? One thing was certain, it had to beat her grandmother’s monthly Social Security check. Nevertheless, she was not likely to collect unless he one day sold property within the county, and only then would she be able to attack his income if she filed the judgment with the county clerk, which she most certainly would do.

      Still and all, she knew she was going through all this primarily as a matter of principle. Well, so be it. With the help of her charming friend, the Reverend Bolton Charles, she had placed the matter in more capable hands than her own. This, then, was an exercise in faith, if nothing else.

      Crossing her slender legs, she tugged at her skirt to be sure that it covered her adequately and settled back on the uncomfortable bench to wait until the bailiff called her into the courtroom. A quarter hour passed, then twenty minutes, before the door swung open on the chamber where the special district judge was holding court. Almost simultaneously, the red indicator light above the elevator lit up, and suddenly passengers were spilling out into the waiting area. To Traci’s surprise, she spied two redheads and a closely shorn, blond-haired man among them. Well, well. Those two little gangsters must be consummate performers to convince their father that their protests of innocence would hold up in court. She dropped her gaze to her hands, a sense of impending satisfaction causing the corners of her mouth to quirk up. She told herself that she must not gloat. It was no pleasant thing to have one’s confidence in one’s children destroyed, particularly when the moment of reckoning took place in public. That thought caused an intense stab of pity for retired Lieutenant Colonel Gilley, and unthinkingly she lifted her gaze in his direction. To her utter shock, Wyatt Gilley seemed to be waiting for her attention to return to him, and once it did, he offered her what could only be called a timid, apologetic smile.

      She was given no time to consider that unexpected turn of events, for at that precise instant the bailiff opened his mouth and called out several names, hers among them. Abruptly Traci stood and fell in behind others making their way into the courtroom, being certain she had her pocketbook and file folder in hand. She was acutely aware of the Gilleys standing together just outside the door and avoided them by simply staring straight ahead. Keeping her chin up, she strode confidently down the center aisle of the room and slipped into a seat near the front, where she relaxed again. Confrontation averted, or so she thought, until she felt a slight nudge against her knee and looked up to find Wyatt Gilley, twins in tow, looking down at her.

      “May we?” he asked softly, indicating with a nod of his head the vacant space on the bench between Traci and an elderly couple at the opposite end.

      Traci felt the impact of those brilliant blue eyes all the way to her toes. Why hadn’t she noticed before how absolutely breathtaking they were, shining out of that leanly sculpted, tan face from beneath lashes and brows so blond as to be almost white? For some reason, she felt instantly panicked. Would those eyes lie? Would any judge doubt the word of the man behind them? The next moment, reason prevailed and relief shot through her. This case did not turn on the veracity of the man towering over her, but on the denials of a pair of obvious mischief makers and eyewitness testimony. She smiled at her own absurdity and was shocked once more by Gilley’s thousand-watt answering gleam of perfect white teeth. Reflexively she dropped her head, an action which Gilley seemed to take for assent.

      “Thanks,” he whispered, and slipped by her. Whereupon his insensitive sons trampled her feet in following him. Taking the seat next to her, Gilley prodded the boys past him and glowered them into stillness at his side.

      Almost at once the bailiff called for order and instructed all to rise. The judge swept into the room in a swirl of robes and seated herself on a raised chair behind a tall, featureless desk built of pale wood. The bailiff called out a case number and two names. Four people got up and walked through a low, swinging gate to two lecterns standing equidistant from the bench. The judge, an attractive woman in late middle age, read off the particulars of the case, none of which Traci heard because of Wyatt Gilley’s shoulder. With his arms crossed over his wide chest, one hard shoulder pressed against her own.

      Traci could feel the warmth of that shoulder through the layers of his shirtsleeve and her jacket and dress. Moreover, she could see from the corner of her eye the strong, callused hand that rested a mere inch or two from her arm. Its palm was wide, its fingers long and blunt, its back smooth and tan, and it unnerved her as nothing else ever had. For long, seemingly endless minutes, Traci could think of nothing, hear nothing, see nothing, feel aware of nothing but the man sitting next to her and the shoulder pressing against her own. Then, suddenly, his hand stretched out and gently tapped her forearm. Traci nearly jumped out of her skin.

      “Miss Temple.” The voice, though soft, came to her over the roar in her left ear, and she impulsively turned her head in that direction, only to come nose to nose with her opponent. To her utter dismay and extreme excitement, his handsome head with its short, thick brush of pale blond hair bent toward her. “It’s our turn,” he whispered, each word carefully enunciated.

      Turn. Court. Sudden realization galvanized her. She sprang to her feet and out into the aisle in one sharp, jerky movement, purse and file folder clutched to her sides. What was she doing? What was she thinking? What had she done? Not a single answer formed in her mind, but Wyatt Gilley and his wayward sons were getting to their feet and turning toward her, which was enough to drive her through the gate in the short partition that separated spectator seating from the court of law. By the time she reached the lectern, she had herself well under control again, and all her bodily functions, both mental and physical, seemed to be working properly, which was not to say that she wasn’t still shaken. She was relieved to find, however, that she could put the questions circulating through her thoughts out of mind long enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. So doing, she cleared her throat and opened the file folder before her, turning her attention to the judge, who stared at her over the tops of clear-framed reading glasses.

      “You contend, Miss Temple, that the defendant, Lieutenant Colonel Wyatt Gilley, retired, owes you the maximum damages allowed in this court due to the theft and destruction of your property by his sons, Paul Rex and Phillip Max, both juveniles ten years of age. Is that correct?”

      “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

      “And what evidence have you to uphold this contention, Miss Temple?”

      “My own eyewitness account and three other signed statements, duly notarized, Your Honor.”

      “I see. Lieutenant Colonel Gilley, what have you and your sons to say to Miss Temple’s suit?”

      Wyatt Gilley linked his hands together before him and spread his legs comfortably wide. “Nothing, Your Honor,” he said evenly. “Er, that is, we admit full responsibility.”

      Traci gasped, her mouth falling open, and the judge sent her a mildly censorious look over the tops of her glasses before turning her attention back to Wyatt Gilley and the two scamps flanking him with heads bowed.

      “Am I to understand, sir, that your youngsters admit their guilt in the matters charged by Miss Temple?”

      “Yes, they do, Your Honor.”

      “And as their father and legal guardian, you, therefore, accept