Page 125 of Not Mine to Rescue

“You know better than that!”

Wombat squeezed around him. “Go home, Jim. She’s obviously still mad at you.”

No, I was mad at both of them. They had teamed up. Traitors.

“Leave my house.” I pointed at the door.

Jim and Wombat gaped at each other. Wombat spoke first. “She used the tone.”

“I know.” Jim grimaced.

“I told you, she’s tough.”

I’d had enough. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here. Otherwise, neither of you get an invitation, claim or not. Lawyer or not. Leave.”

Jim held up a piece of paper.

I didn’t bother to read it. I knew what it would say. “Since when are you taking parental rights cases?”

“Since one of my clients is going to be a father.”

“Might be,” I reminded him. I threw that out with all the anger bubbling inside. No sooner than the words drifted away, I wanted to break down and cry.

Luckily, I carried a box of tissues around with me. “Fucking hormones.” I wiped my eyes dry and powered away from the door and up the stairs. The door clicked as Jim exited. Wombat followed me with Molly prancing around him like she’d missed him.

Of course she did. He’d taken a bullet for her.

And just like that, I was reaching for a fresh tissue.

“He’s a dick, but for what it’s worth, I think he’s a good lawyer.”

I tossed the soggy paper into the trash. “I can’t even be that.”

Wombat’s face was blanched and blotchy. His eyes were soulful and the hurt in them tore at my chest. He shifted his weight. “A five-year suspension isn’t that long.”

If I was found guilty of the lowest charge or took the reduced plea, I’d lose my ability to practice for five years. Yet, it could be longer, or never. “I might as well find another career. Five years is a death sentence. I’ll never work in criminal law again.”

He sat down on my couch, still moving slower than normal. His gunshot wound was healed, but he was always careful around me. Like one wrong move would make me snap. Which was the truth. I’d been snapping at everyone lately. Or puking. Or crying.

He spoke, “You know what this does, right?”

I glared at him.

“We’re equal.” He held his end of the staring contest.

I broke first. “What?”

He leaned back, going as far to put an arm across the back of the couch and crossing one leg across the other. “We’re both starting over. Walt has me fixing trucks. I’m finding out I’m not bad at it. I’m going to be a diesel mechanic. Bonus, the pay is decent. Lemon’s going to vet school and there’s a non-profit paying for it. Plus, they’re covering the renovations on the farm so we can keep doing rescues if needed.”

Meanwhile, my career was in ruins. So much so, that I’d probably never recover. That negativity made me fire back at him, “That’s not how it works. People don’t just give you money.”

“I know. Jim set it up. The club’s helped to get donors and Jim’s beating down doors to find more.”

No wonder those two were so chummy.

“He thought you might like to manage the non-profit.”

Color me speechless. Jim did all that? “Oh?”