Free Far Harbor by Joann Ross Page B

haven’t seen him wear it on the air yet, word is that Dan Rather bought a jacket that reads Hard News Guy on the back. Needless to say, everyone in town’s been arguing exactly how Rather meant that….
    “You know,” he warned, “if you’re not careful, you’re going to sand that wood all the way down to the plaster wall.”
    Savannah spun back toward him, her planned retort cut off by the friendly warmth in his eyes. “I’m having a hard time picturing Dan Rather buying his clothing from a former felon in Coldwater Cove, Washington.”
    “My hand to God.” He lifted his right hand. “The guy’s a client of mine. In fact, he paid his bill with that jacket.”
    Of course she’d noticed the jacket the moment he’d shown up in her doorway. It was black, looked as soft as butter, and gave him a sexy James Dean rebellious appearance that she suspected hadn’t been encouraged at Stanford law school.
    “That’s quite a step, going from prosecuting criminals to springing Hell’s Angels from jail.”
    “He’s not a Hell’s Angel, just a wannabe who learned his lesson the hard way and paid for it with some hard time. Also, I didn’t spring him. I wrote up his shop’s lease agreement after his release and found him an accountant to handle bookkeeping and tax stuff.”
    The leather jacket may be a long way from Brooks Brothers, but Savannah could more easily imagine Dan arguing a case in a San Francisco federal courtroom than she could picture him doing routine paperwork for a convict biker wannabe. Even one who’d sold a jacket to Dan Rather.
    “You don’t have to do that,” she said as she realized he appeared inclined to stay. “Surely you have work to do.”
    “Not at the moment. I’ve got to run by a print shop in Port Townsend later this morning, but until then I’m free as a bird.”
    Savannah pursed her lips and nodded. “Good idea. Having flyers printed up to hand out at accident scenes.” She’d meant the uncharacteristically sarcastic dig as retaliation for his blatantly sexist defibrillator remark, but wasn’t all that surprised when he remained unwounded.
    “Speaking of accident scenes,” he drawled, “do you know the difference between a lawyer and a Dalmatian?”
    “I have no idea.” Her tone dripped with disinterest.
    “A Dalmatian knows when to stop chasing the ambulance.”
    “That’s the lamest one yet.” She squelched the bubble of answering laughter and felt her neck and shoulder muscles, which had been tied up in knots for weeks, actually relax. “I thought lawyers hated those jokes.”
    “Actually, there are only two lawyer jokes. The rest are all true.” He smiled at her.
    “Don’t you take anything seriously?” It was not exactly a rhetorical question. Savannah really wanted to know.
    “Sure. I’m gravely serious about plague, pestilence, wars, and anyone who hurts defenseless kids or dogs. I’m also a sucker for beautiful women in distress.”
    When he skimmed another appraising glance over her, Savannah tossed up her chin. That description might admittedly have fit her once, but no longer. Well, at least not as much as it had when she’d first arrived home, she amended, thinking back on how she’d given in to tears this morning after the electrician had packed up his voltage meter and left the lighthouse. But only for five minutes. Then she’d picked herself up, brushed herself off, taken out her sanding block and gone to work.
    “Which brings me back to the reason for going to Port Townsend.” His deep voice returned her mind to their conversation. “One of my clients is a struggling divorced mother of three who hasn’t received a penny of child support in five years. Her ex took off to Montana, but I’ve got a line on him.
    “At least I hope I do. If his pissed-off girlfriend, whose credit cards he maxed out, can be believed, he’s moved back to Washington and is currently working as a printer. The shop opens at ten. Meanwhile, I have some time