What A Man's Got To Do

By Lynnette Kent

He knows what he has to do

Rancher Dex Hightower wants custody of his six–year–old daughter. He's tired of arguing with his ex–wife about visitation rights. But she'll never agree, even though she's more interested in her career than in being a mother. Somehow Dex has to convince a judge that he's the better parent. So he needs to hire the best lawyer in town.

And that means Claire Cavanaugh. But Claire grew up on a ranch, and she remembers the isolation: no friends to play with after school, no ballet lessons, no trips to the mall or the movies. Not an ideal situation for a little girl.

Of course, Dex is not like any cowboy she's known. Maybe life on a ranch with him wouldn't be too bad even for a grown woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460859896

Lynnette Kent

Lynnette Kent lives on a farm in southeastern North Carolina with her six horses and six dogs. When she isn’t busy riding, driving or feeding animals, she loves to tend her gardens and read and write books.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE SILENCE DEEPENED with each mile passing underneath the wheels.

Dex Hightower glanced at the rearview mirror, where he could just see the sheen on his daughter’s mop of dark curls. You still back there, Punkin?

Yes, sir. The two syllables conveyed a woeful burden for a six-year-old.

He tried to lighten her mood. What’s going on at your camp this week?

Nothing.

Not surprising—the place Allyson got stashed every day during the summer was more of a baby-sitting service than a real camp. And pretty feeble even at baby-sitting. Do you have things to do when you get home?

I don’t know.

Is there a friend you’d like to play with? We could ask your mom to arrange something.

I don’t know.

Dex gave up. He knew from experience that he couldn’t force the conversation—they went through the same withdrawal process every two weeks. The days they spent together were magic. But as he drove her home, Allyson always retreated into a shell of indifference, unconsciously designed to buffer her from the upcoming separation. Or so the therapist assured him.

He understood the reaction; he didn’t feel any better about saying goodbye than his daughter did. Being an adult, though, he wasn’t allowed to sulk.

Too soon, the lights of Denver bleached the night sky ahead of them, dimming the stars. Dex took the exit from the interstate automatically. A few more miles—a few precious, silent minutes—brought them to the guardhouse of the exclusive development where he’d built his family a home.

Six years later, the house still stood, though the idea of family had crumbled into dust. All that remained of his optimistic plan was one precious child.

You’re home, Punkin. He fought to keep discouragement out of his voice as he opened the door to let Allyson out of the car. And there’s your mom.

Allyson! Hurrying down the front steps, Shelley launched into the same routine she pulled whenever he took Allyson out. Alerted to their arrival by the guard at the gate, she would be waiting when the Mercedes turned in the driveway, staring out the big front window with her arms clutched over her waist, the picture of maternal anxiety. As soon as the car stopped, she would run out of the house, hesitate for a second as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, then surge forward to sweep the little girl into a violent hug.

Not that Dex had ever been as much as five minutes late bringing Allyson back. He believed in keeping to the letter of their custody agreement and always made sure his plans contained plenty of time to spare. Even if Shelley was truly worried, Dex would have liked her to hide the fact for the child’s sake.

Instead, she went out of her way to be sure everyone—including Allyson—knew the trauma Dex’s time with their daughter caused her. No surprise there, of course—the woman had always put her own needs first.

But Allyson struggled enough in this situation without having to listen to her father snipe at her mother. Dex kept his opinions to himself as he strolled up the walk toward them, jingling his keys to distract him from his hostility.

Hi, Shelley. We had a great time up at the Triple A this weekend—went to a rodeo for a kid’s camp run by a friend of mine. Allyson thought she might like to try barrel racing and Mickey Buchanan promised to help her out when she comes back up.

Still clinging to Allyson, Shelley glanced up. In the glow of a streetlight, her face looked pinched, her short blond hair a bizarre shade of orange. I wanted to talk to you about that, Dexter.

This wasn’t the first time she’d said those words—he knew what would come next. I’m listening.

My mother is having a big get-together for the family that Sunday, and you know they’ll all want to see Allyson. She straightened up as she spoke, but even her three-inch heels couldn’t diminish the difference between their heights. Not to mention that it’s such a long ride from here all the way to Wyoming and back, and school starts the very next day...she’s always so tired after these trips. I really think Allyson should stay in town for the weekend.

Staring down at the keys flipping around his finger, Dex let the silence grow as he tightened his grip on his temper. Two years ago—even last year—he’d have fallen for the trick. Then he’d discovered that many of these special events never took place, that Shelley often used them as an excuse to cut down the actual time he was allowed to spend with Allyson.

He looked up when he had control. We can switch dates, then. I’ll come down and spend next weekend here so Allyson won’t have to travel. We’ll go to the zoo.

Allyson’s face brightened, but Shelley shook her head. We have to shop for school clothes, Dexter. I have tickets to a mother-daughter luncheon and fashion show next Saturday. And on Sunday there’s a ballet we’ve planned to see for months.

So much for compromise. I’ll come back as scheduled, then. Allyson and I will stay in town.

But the reunion—

You can’t do this, Shelley. He let his voice intensify just enough to convince her that he meant what he said. "The custody agreement gives me every other weekend. I’m willing to make compromises. I won’t—will not—give up my time with my daughter. Got it?"

She nodded, but her mouth thinned with annoyance. Ignoring her, Dex stepped forward to detach Allyson from her mother’s grip and walk her to the door. As always, she stepped up onto the porch and he stayed on the walk, so they met eye-to-eye, her hands on his shoulders, his at her waist.

I had a fantastic weekend, Punkin. I loved being with you.

Me, too, Daddy. For the first time in hours she smiled, but tears sparkled in her eyes.

Dex swallowed over the companion lump in his throat. I’ll be back in two weeks. You can come stay with me at the hotel. We’ll shop and swim and play some tennis and—

Dexter, she needs a bath before bedtime.

He choked on all the ugly words that rose in his throat. Give me a hug, Punkin.

Slender arms clutched convulsively around his neck and a wet face burrowed underneath his ear. His eyes stinging, Dex wrapped his little girl hard against him and held on for dear life.

Shelley gave them maybe thirty seconds before she brushed past to step onto the porch. Reluctantly, Dex loosened his grip, felt Allyson do the same.

Bye, Daddy. Her voice was a husky whisper.

Dex had lost his completely. He touched her soft pink cheek, then stepped back and raised a hand in farewell, watching as his ex-wife urged the light of his life into the house and shut him firmly outside.

But then Allyson reappeared at the wide window in the living room, waving at him. Dex grinned and waved back as he walked backward toward the driveway. She watched as he reversed the car and pulled out onto the street. He waved again.

The drapes closed suddenly, like the final curtain of a melodrama. He got a glimpse of Allyson’s startled protest—she always watched him out of sight Not tonight, though. Tonight Shelley had exacted her revenge.

Shoulders tense, chest aching, Dex pointed the Mercedes north on the interstate. He drove automatically, barely aware of the city disappearing into the dark on either side of him.

They couldn’t go on this way. Allyson deserved more than a ping-pong existence. She needed more genuine attention than her mother provided, more education than she got at the private school Shelley had insisted on. More time with her dad.

And Allyson’s dad needed his little girl like he needed air to breathe. His first look at her, red and wrinkled and squalling at the indignity of being born, had cemented her in his heart forever. Two years of watching her grow into her own person had brought him a love he couldn’t live without. He’d put aside. all thoughts of breaking up his marriage. The miracle of Allyson had made life with Shelley endurable.

Too bad his ex-wife hadn’t felt the same. Two weeks of living on the ranch had sent Shelley scurrying for a divorce. Confused over the wreck of his plans and battered by all the changes in his life, Dex had failed to realize just how crafty Shelley’s lawyer was. The custody agreement blatantly favored a woman who had never intended to be a mother in the first place. When Dex’s attorney had advised letting it stand, he’d gone along—what did he know about little girls, anyway?

In the three years since the divorce, Dex had learned enough to know that the current state of affairs hurt Allyson. Something had to be done. Soon.

He’d start making calls first thing tomorrow morning. Among his contacts in the Denver business community would be someone who knew the name of a first-class child custody lawyer. No matter what the cost, Dex was going to be a bigger part of his daughter’s life.

And he would let nothing—absolutely nothing—stand in his way.

HIS INITIAL IMPRESSION did not instill confidence. She’s too damn beautiful to be any good.

Claire Cavanaugh emerged from her office like a model on a fashion-show runway, and Dex silently cursed the libido of the friend who’d made this recommendation. He’d asked for the name of a lawyer, damn it. Not an introduction to a debutante.

The so-called attorney stopped before him in a drift of expensive scent, extended her hand and gave him a firm shake. Good morning, Mr. Hightower. Won’t you come in?

Hair the color of oak-aged whiskey fell back over her shoulders as she lifted her chin to meet his stare. Even at ten o’clock on a Monday morning, she had a sleepy, languorous look—the effect of eyelids weighted at the outer corners by long lashes too heavy to hold up.

Thanks, he said through a stiff jaw. He doubted he’d be here long, but at least he could be polite for the duration.

As she led the way to her office, he got a chance to appreciate narrow ankles in high heels, long strides through the slit of her skirt and the curve of that shining hair as it brushed against the shoulders of her gold suit jacket. Claire Cavanaugh held herself like a princess, wore silk like one.

But he needed a fighter, not a figurehead.

So he didn’t get too comfortable in the chair she waved him toward. Please sit down, Mr. Hightower. She walked around her desk and took her own seat. What can I do for you?

Dex cleared his throat. I understand from Jimmy Santos that you specialize in child-custody disputes.

The sleepy gaze sharpened. She folded her hands on the desk. That’s right. You’re in the process of a divorce?

No. The custody settlement is over three years old. He eased back a bit in the chair. I want it changed.

Why?

I want to see my daughter more often.

Claire Cavanaugh pulled out a legal pad and a sharp yellow pencil. What is the current agreement?

She didn’t ask him to stop or to repeat a single word as he ran through the list of provisions in the custody settlement. When he’d finished, she sat in silence a moment, tapping the pencil eraser against the desk as she stared at her notes. Her nails were perfectly manicured ovals, buffed to a soft gleam. She didn’t wear any rings.

Then she looked up, brushing a wing of hair out of her eyes with the tips of her fingers, and her gaze was cool and assessing. This arrangement is a bit unbalanced, maybe, but hardly penurious. The legal presumption, Mr. Hightower, is that the mother will have—and spend—more time with the child.

He had one coarse word for that so-called presumption. "Allyson is my daughter, too, Ms. Cavanaugh. Being the father doesn’t make me less fit to be involved or less interested. If I have the time and the desire, seems to me the court should consider making me the custodial parent and giving my ex-wife visitation rights."

At this point, without evidence of some very serious abuse or neglect, you won’t get nearly that far.

I know. He glanced out the window behind her, where the sun still hung high above the mountains in a cloudless sky. The recycled air in the office pressed on his chest all at once, stifling in its weight. Bringing his eyes back to Claire Cavanaugh’s flawless face, Dex just barely managed to keep from shifting in his chair. But from the moment she initiated the divorce, she’s attempted to block my time with Allyson, making up excuses why I can’t see her as often as I’m allowed. I won’t permit this travesty to continue.

The attorney lifted her eyebrows, as if surprised. But she only said, Have you discussed this with your ex-wife?

I’ve tried. She’s not receptive. And that was an understatement. Keeping custody of Allyson gives her a great deal of power over me.

Still, mediation might be more effective than reopening your custody case. She settled back into her chair. He heard a slither of silk when she crossed her legs. A third party could examine your disagreements—

Yes, that was a big help. We spent a whole day trading proposals through a mediator. Shelley walked away from the deal. Because, she said, I asked too much.

And did you?

You tell me. Leaning forward, Dex marked his points on the edge of the gold-stamped leather desk pad with one finger. I asked for more time with Allyson—much more time. I want a greater say in where she goes to school and who takes care of her afterward. A measure of control over how she grows up. Damn it, she’s my own child—don’t I have any rights?

Again she lifted those questioning eyebrows, then sat up and forward, leaning her elbows on the desk. "I’ll need more details, Mr. Hightower, and a chance to do some research before I agree to take the case. I’m quite choosy about which side I represent in a custody battle. My first concern is the child, whatever the parents want. If I think you’ve got a strong enough argument for your daughter’s welfare, I’ll be willing to represent you in changing the custody agreement."

He stared at her for a blank second. Are you implying, he said finally, keeping his voice level against a surge of rage, that you don’t believe I deserve a better custody arrangement?

I’m saying I don’t know. Until I do, I won’t commit to anything. But I haven’t refused.

He got to his feet. Don’t do me any favors, Ms. Cavanaugh. Lawyers are as plentiful as cowboys in this town. Have a good day.

His hand covered the door handle as she cleared her throat. That’s true, Mr. Hightower. He turned the knob. But you won’t find a better attorney in Denver. Would you like to leave me available to argue against you?

Damn her. Dex turned and faced her across the office. He found her smiling, her hands clasped easily on the desk in front of her. You wouldn’t work for me, but you’d work for Shelley? That doesn’t give me much faith in your integrity.

I told you, the child’s best interest comes first. But if I do refuse to take your side in this dispute because I think your ex-wife should have custody, I’ll sign an agreement not to represent her for a period of five years. In other words, isn’t it worth your time and patience to let me investigate?

Damn her, he thought again. The sheer guts of the maneuver, more than anything else, changed his mind. A woman who could argue like that might be exactly what he and Allyson needed. He came back to the chair and dropped into it. What do you want to know?

Let’s start with names.

FOR THE BETTER PART of thirty minutes Claire asked questions—dates of applications and decisions, names of attorneys, judges and references—and recorded the concise, deliberate answers. Dex Hightower had come prepared. which made her job easier for a change. Pleased, if not convinced, she smoothed down the pages of notes as she stood up. I may be able to get to this as early as tomorrow, and have some information for you later in the week, if the right people are in their offices when I call. Where can I reach you?

He stretched to his feet, drew a pen and a business card out of his lapel pocket and bent over the desk to write. You can leave a message at any of these numbers if you need to get in touch.

When he straightened, Claire extended a hand for the card. Without business to occupy her attention, her mind shifted gears...and the full impact of the man she’d been dealing with slapped her in the face.

Lord, he was tall.

Dark. Very dark, with black, gleaming hair, a slash of black eyebrows and a Rhett Butler mustache.

Handsome. Incredibly, romantically handsome. A face made up of tanned planes and polished angles, eyes of deep, mysterious gray, a mouth to die for. Broad, square shoulders under a custom suit, a wide chest behind the maroon silk tie...

And a phone number he expected her to take sometime in this century.

She reached for the card and clipped it to the legal pad. I’ll call as soon as I know something, she assured him, wondering where her breath had leaked to. Rounding the desk, she walked to the door and felt him behind her, felt the weight of his steps in the carpet and the press of his body against the air around them. When he stepped past her out of the office, she took her time following, seeking some cure for a dry mouth, damp palms and totally fractured focus. All in less than a minute.

Pull yourself together, Cavanaugh. He’s just a man. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Hightower.

Same here, Ms. Cavanaugh. He turned and clasped the hand she’d held out. An undercurrent of laughter in his even, mellow voice drew her gaze up to his face. I appreciate your willingness to consider the case.

Those gray eyes glinted with his smile. Claire swallowed hard. You’re more than welcome. I’ll be in touch.

I know you will. With a squeeze on her fingers, he stepped out the glass door. Fascinated, Claire watched him stride down the hallway toward the elevator, appreciating the confidence in his posture, the control in his walk.

When the doors had whooshed behind him, an exaggerated sigh wafted from the secretary’s desk. Beautiful!

Claire had to agree. But she didn’t have to admit it. When’s my next appointment?

Angela checked the book. Not for a while. You’ve got time for lunch.

An unusual break. Sounds good—why don’t you call the sub shop. I’ll have... A vision of the dress she planned to wear to the Women’s Shelter of Denver benefit dance next week competed with the vision of a steak and cheese sandwich. Maybe today was a good day to make a change. I’ll have a salad, with dressing on the side. And a diet soda.

You hate diet soda!

Even a leopard, Claire informed her secretary, has been known to change its spots. Diet soda—from now on.

Waiting for lunch, she straightened the papers on her desk as a way to avoid thinking about the way Dex Hightower’s aura seemed to linger in the office. But at the top of the stack, her notes on his case caught her eye and she found herself reading that business card he’d handed her.

Block letters in black on a white, linen-weave card: Dexter Hightower. Owner, Triple A Ranch. Flying Rock, Wyoming.

Oh, hell. Claire dropped into her chair and let her head hang back. "I’m thinking of working for a cowboy?"

She hadn’t asked him what he did for a living because there weren’t many lawyers in Denver who hadn’t at least heard of Hightower Associates. As founder and CEO, Dex Hightower handled most of their stock portfolios, their tax-deferred savings, Keoghs and 401K’s. Claire preferred to manage her own money, but she knew his reputation for devilishly brilliant investments. She’d just assumed he was still heading up the firm.

He’d earned a reputation as a ladies’ man, too, she remembered from her days as a naive law clerk. At least until the high-profile wedding to, one supposed, his now ex-wife. Together they’d headed Denver’s young elites, showing up at the right places on the right nights, donating to the right charities. The Women’s Shelter, Claire remembered with sudden guilt, still depended heavily on Hightower contributions.

Dex Hightower had vanished abruptly from the Denver social scene, about the time of his divorce, she guessed. She’d barely noticed the rumors about his marriage breakup, being caught up in her own push to make partner. His company still managed Denver’s money, but the boss... She picked up the card again. The boss now worked, it seemed, on a ranch somewhere in Wyoming.

Really, she should have observed the evidence. His swinging stride, the kind she’d seen in the men she grew up with...years on horseback could change a man like that. City men just didn’t move the same way.

That dark tan and those far-seeing eyes told of outdoor work, hard and steady. And the sense she’d had that the room confined him, almost choked him—Claire remembered all too well how her dad and her brothers, and even her mom, had twitched and fidgeted when they had to stay in the house.

At first glance, she’d seen an executive, because that’s what she expected. But regardless of what Dex Hightower had done in the past, he wasn’t just managing money anymore.

And he wanted her to find a way for him to gain custody of his daughter. Permanent, exclusive custody, for preference.

Did that mean he intended to take Allyson to Wyoming?

Could it mean anything else?

Putting the heel of her hand against the sudden pounding in her right temple, Claire closed her eyes. Her childhood as a rancher’s daughter had left behind bitter memories—the never-ending round of chores outside, the bareness of the house inside, the life-threatening emergencies of cattle lost in the snow, of prairie fires and lethal winds. Clumsy and bookish, Claire had been relegated for the most part to indoor chores, helping Gramma Jane with the cleaning and cooking while the rest of her family focused on that harsh outdoor life, meeting its demands with all the intensity of which they were capable.

And Dex Hightower wanted her to find a judge who would condemn his daughter to the same fate.

Well, think again, Mr. High-and-Mighty-tower. Whatever you will or won’t permit, I’ll do what’s best for your little girl!

And that did not, Claire was absolutely sure, involve incarceration on a dusty ranch in the middle of Wyoming!

CHAPTER TWO

THE RED MESSAGE beacon on the telephone cast the only light in the dark hotel room when Dex walked in at midnight on Tuesday. Pulling off his tie,