Maverick Vs. Maverick. Shirley Jump

      Walker strode into Judge Sheldon Andrews’s courtroom on a Friday morning, figuring he could be out of town by sunset. The lawsuit was frivolous, the charges unfounded, and Walker had no doubt he could get it thrown out before the arguments got started.

      Walker shrugged out of his cashmere overcoat, placed it neatly on the back of his chair, then settled himself behind the wide oak defendant’s table. He laid a legal pad before him, a file folder on his left, and a row of pens to the right. Props, really, part of sending a message to the plaintiff that Walker was ready for a fight. Perception, Walker had learned, was half the battle. His lawyer, Marty Peyton, who had been around the courtroom longer than Walker had been alive, came in and took the seat beside him.

      “This summary judgment should be a slam dunk,” Walker said to Marty. “These claims are totally groundless.”

      “I don’t know if I’d call it a slam dunk,” Marty whispered back. He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran a hand through his short white hair. “If Lindsay Dalton is anything like her father, she’s a great lawyer.”

      Walker waved that off. He’d gone up against more formidable opponents than some small-town lawyer.

      “And for another, this is about sick kids,” Marty went on. “You already have the court of public opinion against you.”

      “Sick kid, singular,” Walker corrected. “She’s only representing one family. And kids get sick at day care centers all the time. Kids are walking germ factories.”

      Marty pursed his lips and sat back in his seat. “Whatever you say. I hope you’re right. You don’t need this kind of publicity, especially since you’re planning to open five more locations this year.”

      The new locations would bring the day care division up to twenty-two locations, throughout Montana and Oklahoma. A nice dent in the western market. “It’ll be fine. We’ll dispense with this lawyer and her ridiculous suit before you can say hello and goodbye.” Walker straightened the pens again, then turned when the courtroom door opened and in walked his opponent.

      Lindsay Dalton was not what he’d been expecting. Not even close.

      Given the terse tone of her letters and voice mails, he’d expected some librarian type. All buttoned up and severe, with glasses and a shapeless, dingy brown jacket. Instead, he got a five-foot-five cover model in a pale gray suit and a pink silk shirt with the top two buttons unfastened. Not to mention heels and incredible legs.

      She was, in a word, fascinating.

      Lindsay Dalton had long brown hair in a tidy ponytail that skimmed the back of her suit and bangs that dusted across her forehead. Her big blue eyes were accented by a touch of makeup. Just enough to draw his gaze to her face, then focus it on her lips.

      She smiled at her clients just then—a young couple who looked like they’d donned their Sunday best—and the smile was what hit Walker the hardest. It was dazzling. Powerful.

      Holy hell.

      He turned to Marty. “That’s Lindsay Dalton?”

      Marty shrugged. “I guess so. Pretty girl.”

      “Good looks doesn’t make her a good lawyer,” Walker said. She might be a bit distracting, but that didn’t mean his lawyer couldn’t argue against her and get this case thrown out.

      She walked to the front of the courtroom, not sparing a glance at either Walker or Marty, then took her seat on the plaintiff’s side, with her clients on her right. An older woman, probably a grandma, sat in the gallery with the couple’s baby on her lap. Lindsay turned and gave the baby a big grin. The child cooed. Lindsay covered her eyes for a second, opened her hands like a book, and whispered “peekaboo.” The baby giggled and Lindsay repeated the action twice more, before turning back to the front of the courtroom.

      It was a sweet, tender moment, but Walker knew full well that Lindsay Dalton had arranged to have the baby here, not for silly games, but to garner some sympathy points.

      The door behind the judge’s bench opened and Judge Andrews stepped out. Short, bespectacled and a little on the pudgy side, Judge Andrews resembled a heavy Bob Newhart. The bailiff called, “All rise,” and everyone stood while Andrews gave the courtroom a nod, then took his place on the bench.

      “You may be seated,” he said. Then the bailiff called the court to order, and they got under way.

      This was the part Walker liked the best, whether it was in courtroom or in the boardroom. That eager anticipation in his gut just before everything started. Like two armies squaring off across the battlefield, with the tension so high it charged the air.

      “We’re here on your motion for a summary judgment regarding the lawsuit brought by the plaintiffs, represented by Ms. Dalton, correct?” Judge Andrews asked Walker’s attorney.

      “Yes, Your Honor.”

      The judge waved at the podium. “Then, Mr. Peyton, you may proceed.”

      “Thank you, Your Honor.” Marty got to his feet and laid his notes before him on the table. “This lawsuit, brought against Mr. Jones’s day care center, is a waste of everyone’s time. There is simply no legal or factual basis for the suit. Ms. Dalton is trying to prove that her client’s child caught a cold at the center, but there is no evidence whatsoever to support that claim. Germs are a fact of life, Your Honor. They’re on any surface we touch, and no one can prove that the Marshalls’ child contracted a common cold because of her time in day care. Why, for all we know, one of the Marshalls could have brought the germs into their own house. All it takes is one sneeze from a stranger or contact with a germ-infested surface in a public place. Surely Ms. Dalton can’t blame Mr. Jones’s day care center for the world’s inability to reach for a Kleenex at the right time.”

      That was a line Walker had given Marty in their meeting last week. It seemed to amuse the judge. A smile ghosted on his face then disappeared.

      “Your Honor,” Marty continued, “there are no cases holding that a day care center is legally responsible when a child who spends part of her day there comes down with a cold. Frankly, it’s a frivolous claim, and we’re asking that the court enter summary judgment in the defendant’s favor, dismissing this case.”

      Judge Andrews nodded at Marty, then turned to Lindsay Dalton. “Ms. Dalton?”

      Lindsay got to her feet and smoothed a hand down the front of her jacket. She took a moment to draw in a breath, as if centering herself.

      She was nervous. Good, Walker thought. He had this thing won already.

      “Your Honor, Mr. Peyton is greatly minimizing the situation at hand. This was not a common cold, not by any means. We intend to prove that Mr. Jones’s day care center, Just Us Kids, has been grossly negligent in cleanliness, resulting in a severe respiratory syncytial virus infection for Georgina Marshall, the then three-month-old child of Peter and Heather Marshall. The Marshalls entrusted Mr. Jones’s day care center with the care of their precious child, only to end up sitting by her hospital bed, praying for her to overcome the bronchitis that developed as a result of her exposure to RSV.”

      Walker fought the urge to roll his eyes. Precious child? Praying?

      “Your Honor, RSV is a respiratory infection,” Marty said, standing up again. “It’s marked by a cough and runny nose. Just like the common cold.”

      “Georgina stopped eating,” Lindsay countered. “She lost two pounds, which for a baby of her size is a dramatic weight loss. The hospital she was in didn’t see this as a common cold. They saw it as a life-threatening illness. A life-threatening illness caused by Mr. Jones’s negligence.” With those words she turned and glared directly at Walker.

      As if he was the one neglecting to mop the floors and wipe down the toys every night. Walker had barely stepped inside the day care center in Rust Creek Falls. He’d left his brother Hudson to oversee the business and hired a highly experienced and competent manager to help run the place. He had no doubt