Chapter 14

Marshall had always liked the end of the day. There was a quiet satisfaction that stole over him, as the sun disappeared and the moon trotted out—when his muscles ached from a hard day’s work and his thoughts finally slowed down.

Most nights, he sat out on his deck with a beer in hand, listening to the ball game on the radio, while looking out over his fields. He tried to live his life without sweating the small stuff and believed that no accomplishment was greater than the one a man earned through his own hard work, with his own two hands. Wealth was never going to be his—unless he won the Powerball—but Marshall felt his life was a good one.

Raising Justin was going to work out. He just had to take it slow.

“Evening, Marshall.” His grandmother’s voice reached him as she came around the corner of the deck from the driveway. He lifted his beer in a casual salute.

“Hey, Grammy. How are you?”

“Fine. Why are you outside?”

Marshall couldn’t help but smile. “Justin is inside, taking a shower.”

Justin didn’t want him anywhere near when he was changing. At first, Marshall had worried that the boy’s discomfort stemmed from some kind of past abuse, but after taking him to the pediatrician, he learned it had more to do with having had several men walking in and out of his mother’s life. Not trauma—just guardedness.

Justin simply hadn’t been with Marshall long enough to trust him yet.

“What did the pediatrician say when you took him in yesterday?” There was a note of rebuke in Grammy’s voice—clearly, she wasn’t thrilled he hadn’t called her right after.

“I told Gramps what the doctor said when I saw him yesterday afternoon. Didn’t he pass it on?”

Grammy snorted. “Get serious, Marshall. Your grandfather has a word limit per day. He probably used them all up on you and had none left for me.”

Marshall chuckled. “Well, there wasn’t much to tell. Doctor Franklin said Justin is fine—physically, at least. He’s on the low end of the weight chart, which could be just his build or the result of poor nutrition.”

He took a sip of his beer and stared out at the fields.

“No signs of abuse—sexual or physical. No bruises, no broken bones, no sign of trauma, Thank God.” He’d nearly sunk to the floor in relief when the doctor had said those words. “The doctor said he seemed bright—when she could drag a response out of him. She recommended getting an early assessment through the school and suggested counseling.”

Grammy’s reaction was exactly what he’d expected.

“Counseling? That boy doesn’t need some shrink poking around in his head. He just needs some love, which I’d be happy to give him—if he’d let me.”