Free Shooting Starr by Kathleen Creighton

Caitlyn’s, her hair almost the same shade of sun-streaked blond, but worn long and sleek and fastened at the nape of her neck with a clip of some kind. She had the same colored eyes, too—a clear and pale gray-blue—but without that heart-stopping flash of silver C.J. couldn’t seem to forget.
    Charly glanced at her watch. “Well. I think I’m gonna go see about that cup of coffee. Any of you-all wanna join me?”
    Caitlyn’s father smiled the kind of smile that probably came naturally to him no matter the circumstances, and shook his head. C.J. cleared his throat and said, “I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while.”
    Nobody asked Jake Redfield what his plans were; he’d already gone wandering over to join the uniformed police officer seated in a chair beside the door to Caitlyn’s cubicle. Charly gave everyone a “See you later,” and went off to the elevators, and C.J. found himself alone with the man whose only child he’d almost gotten killed.
    Since he’d been raised by a mother who’d taught him to face up to the consequences of his actions no matter how painful they might be, he squared his shoulders and began with, “Uh, Mr. Brown—”
    Before he could get another word out, Caitlyn’s father took hold of him by his elbow and said in a low but friendly voice, “We might as well be comfortable, don’t you think?” and steered him toward the waiting area.
    They took chairs at right angles to each other, with a square table topped by a lamp and an assortment of magazines forming the corner. Perched on the edge of his chair, C.J. leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees, and tried again. “Um, Mr. Brown—”
    Again he was interrupted. “I wish you’d call me Wood—most people do. I was given the name Edward Earl after my dad, but the only person who uses it is my sister, Lucy.” His mouth tilted in a half smile. “Only my students call me Mr. Brown.”
    â€œYou’re a teacher?” said C.J., feeling dimwitted.
    â€œUsed to be. I’m a vice principal now.”
    C.J. tried a smile and he, too, only managed half of one. “Guess that explains why I feel like I’m sitting in the principal’s office.”
    Wood Brown’s smile was replaced by a look of dismay, then of compassion. He leaned forward, his pose almost a mirror image of C.J.’s. “Son—I know you feel responsiblefor what’s happened to my daughter and that other woman, but you’re not. Chris—Caitlyn’s mother—and I sure don’t blame you, and I don’t think Caty does, either. She put you in an impossible position, and you did what you believed was the right thing under the circumstances. That’s all any man can do.”
    â€œIf what I did was so right,” C.J. said, looking at the floor and forcing words through clenched teeth, “then how come I feel so damn—excuse me—darn bad?”
    Wood sat back with a sigh and ran a hand over his thick, iron-gray hair. His rugged features were somber. “It’s not always a matter of a choice between a right and a wrong. Sometimes it’s a matter of choosing the lesser of a whole bunch of wrongs. When that happens, you just do the best you can.”
    He sat silent for a moment, looking at nothing, then shook his head. “I have—had—this great-aunt. She lived to be well over a hundred, but she’s gone now, bless her soul. Aunt Gwen always believed if you wait long enough it usually turns out things happen the way they’re supposed to. Providence, she called it.” He smiled in a remembering way. “Take me, for example. I met my wife after I broke both my legs in a truck accident in Bosnia. At the time I thought it was the end of the world—the end of sports, my career, all the things I liked to do—but if it hadn’t been for that