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“He’s in a coma. He can’t ask you. That’s why I’m calling. He’s at Trinity Medical Center in Fire Creek. He’s in bad shape. You need to come.”

Another protest died on her lips. Reagan had imagined receiving a phone call similar to this, only then she pictured learning her father had died. As morbid as the daydream was, it was the only reason she could think of for someone to reach out to her about the old man. She always thought she’d feel a measure of relief, knowing this unpleasant part of her past was laid to rest. This was different. She didn’t expect the lurch in the pit of her stomach or the tightness in her chest to hear her father was hurt.

She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “Who are you? How do you know him?”

“I don’t have a lot of time to explain. My name is Becky Lathan. I’m a…friend of your dad’s. I found him this morning in the alley outside his bar. He’d been attacked, beaten, and stabbed. He’s critical.”

“He’s not my dad. He’s never earned the title.”

The response fell from her lips easily. She’d spent years denying her connection to English Barlowe. The only father she’d ever called “dad” was the man her mother eventually married, when Reagan was eight years old. English was nothing more than a sperm donor who chose to ignore her and her mother unless it suited him to do otherwise.

Becky sighed. “I know about your relationship with him. Whatever your feelings are doesn’t change what’s going on now. He needs you.”

“He’s never needed me. It sounds like he’s exactly where he should be. The doctors and nurses can do more for him than I can at this point. You must think I’m a horrible person, but I don’t wish any ill will toward him. I only want to be left alone.”

“You don’t understand, Reagan. You have to come. Decisions have to be made about his care, and you have his medical power of attorney.”

Reagan’s eyes bulged, and her mouth gaped open. “What are you talking about?”

“I know this is a lot to take in, but it’s true. I swear it’s not a trick. You have no reason to trust me, but I’m hoping you’ll believe me when I tell you this. The butterfly necklace you wear around your neck? The one with the diamonds at the corner of each wing? You got it for your sixteenth birthday. There wasn’t a card or anything to tell you where it was from. It was wrapped in pale pink paper with happy birthday written on it in yellow. The bow was silver and gauzy. It was pretty, but the gift looked like it had been wrapped by a child.”

Reagan’s hand touched the butterfly pendant resting against her throat. “What are you saying?”

“English insisted on picking the gift out and wrapping it himself. He knew the wrapping looked terrible, but he wanted to do it for you. He hasn’t always shown it, but he loves you, Reagan.”

She closed her hand around the pendant, fighting against the urge to yank it from her neck. She’d never considered the necklace a gift from English, but she somehow knew Ms. Lathan spoke the truth. He’d found a way to be a part of her life despite knowing she never wanted him to be.

“I can’t do this now. I need time to think.”

Ms. Lathan sighed again, and Reagan felt an odd twinge of guilt that she was disappointing this unknown woman. “There’s no time. I’m sorry, but the doctors need to talk with his next of kin. They refuse to speak to us without your permission. There’s more you should know, but it’s too much to get into over the phone. Please come. It’s a matter of life and death, and not just your father’s.”

Reagan felt the tug of indecision. Her stepfather would tell her to stay, because she owed English nothing and his life was not her responsibility. Her mother, though, would tell her to go. Despite everything, her mother still had a soft spot where English was concerned. Reagan never understood it, but then her mother was never inclined to explain it. The situation was too surreal to be believed. If she was writing this as a plot twist in one of her books, this would be the hook luring the heroine into danger. She knew the difference between fiction and reality, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to know if she was being set up.

“If you are friends with him, did he ever tell you the last thing he ever said to me?”

The phone line was silent. Reagan was ready to end the call, but Becky exhaled slowly as if hating what she was about to say.

“One day, you’ll understand.”

Tears pricked Reagan’s eyes, and she angrily blinked them away. “That day never came, Ms. Lathan. That’s why I can’t come now.”

“You have to, Reagan. Not only for English’s sake, but for your own safety. English was attacked. We think they’re coming after you to get back at him. I know this doesn’t make sense. We’re still trying to sort it out ourselves. But English would want us to do everything in our power to keep you safe. That’s why I sent one of the boys to bring you here.”

“Boys? What are you talking about? Why would anyone think English wants anything to do with me? I’m nobody to him.”

“That’s just it, Reagan. English had to separate himself from you and your mother because you’re everything to him. I swear, what I’m saying is the truth. It’s not safe for you there. One of the boys is coming. He should be there any minute. His name…”

The knock on the front door startled Reagan. She pulled the phone from her ear and missed most of what Becky said. She stood and walked from her office into the kitchen. Peering out one of the windows with her head tilted at the right angle, she could see who stood on her porch without the person realizing he or she was being watched.

He was considered a boy? The man wore jeans and a blue button-up shirt, the hem untucked and falling to his hips. He wore dark glasses to hide his eyes, but his face was handsome in a rugged way. He had to be six feet tall, give or take an inch or two. His frame was average, but his hands were large enough to do some damage if someone threatened him. He looked like one of the heroes from her books, the rogue police detective bent on catching the murderer no matter the cost.

She realized Becky’s voice had risen to a panicked shout. She stepped back from the window and returned the phone to her ear.

“Your boy is here. I’ll come, but only to get the truth about what’s going on. That’s all I can promise. I’ll drive myself because I want to be free to leave whenever I’ve had enough.”

“But, Reagan, wait. I need—”

Reagan didn’t want to hear anymore. She ended the call, not caring if she was being rude. She’d agreed to the woman’s terms with a slight variation for her own peace of mind. Heaven help her, but she believed what little information Becky Lathan told her. The woman might be the one person in the world who could explain her father to her. She didn’t want to care, but she craved answers. The little girl in her who had been devastated to learn her father was never coming back deserved the explanation which was more than twenty years overdue.