sweet, gentle nature and a warm, friendly personality, where on the other hand, he was quiet, stern, and very much an introvert. He preferred his own company to the company of others.
After his wifeâs death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffinâs Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sisterâs killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.
As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinanâs recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question wasâwhy had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?
âIâm overnighting the letters to our lab,â Holt had said. âI doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.â
Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadnât been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where heâd taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.
His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm Yorkâs domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.
And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.
Even if his wife and child had not.
A soft rap on the outer door of Griffinâs private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.
âCome in,â Sanders said.
Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didnât enter the study. âMr. Wilson just arrived. Heâs waiting in the living room.â
âI am ready to see him.â
âAll right.â She looked directly at Sanders. âPromise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack.â
The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.
âI promise,â he replied. âNow, send in Mr. Wilson.â
She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.
Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that
After his wifeâs death so long ago, he had believed that he would never be able to love another woman. And there had been no one of importance in his life until Griffin brought Barbara Jean to Griffinâs Rest three years ago. She had been the only witness who could possibly identify her sisterâs killer, and thus her life had been in danger. They had kept her under twenty-four-hour-a-day protection until the killer was finally caught. By that time, she had become a member of the household and had accepted a position with the Powell Agency. And little by little, as time had passed, he had grown to love her.
As Sanders drank the tea, he thought about Holt Keinanâs recent phone call concerning the Hilary Chambless murder case. He had sent Holt to Memphis with Tagg Chambless on Monday to begin the private investigation, and this morning new evidence had shown up. Tagg had discovered two threatening letters that had been sent to his wife before her death. The question wasâwhy had she hidden the letters instead of showing them to him?
âIâm overnighting the letters to our lab,â Holt had said. âI doubt anything will show up that will help us, but it needs to be done and we can get to it a lot quicker than the police.â
Sanders wished that Griffin was here. Griffin was much better at dealing with the authorities than he was. And someone would have to explain to the Memphis PD why those letters hadnât been turned over to them immediately. Maybe the explanations could wait until Griffin returned from the island retreat where heâd taken Nicole for a second honeymoon.
His years as a career soldier made it more difficult for Sanders to rebel against authority, to ignore rules and regulations. Even when he had lived under Malcolm Yorkâs domination, little more than a slave, he had been a good soldier, obeying commands, always doing what he was told. Griffin was a different type, a rebel, a risk taker, a nonconformist. Griffin made his own rules. And Sanders would follow Griffin anywhere, even through the gates of hell.
And why not? They had already been there and back together. And they had survived.
Even if his wife and child had not.
A soft rap on the outer door of Griffinâs private study alerted Sanders that Barbara Jean had returned, probably bringing him a second cup of tea and a snack. She had no doubt noticed how little he had eaten at lunch. The responsibility of being in charge of the Powell Agency weighed heavily on his shoulders.
âCome in,â Sanders said.
Barbara Jean eased open the door, but didnât enter the study. âMr. Wilson just arrived. Heâs waiting in the living room.â
âI am ready to see him.â
âAll right.â She looked directly at Sanders. âPromise me that after your meeting with Mr. Wilson, you will come to the kitchen for an afternoon snack.â
The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He almost smiled. Sweet Barbara Jean. A mother hen if ever there was one. She was the type of woman who should have had half a dozen children to smother with love and attention. But she would never have a child. Nor would he.
âI promise,â he replied. âNow, send in Mr. Wilson.â
She nodded, then turned and wheeled down the hallway.
Within minutes, a tall, slender man wearing a dark blue suit and a burgundy and blue striped tie stood in the open doorway. As Sanders came out from behind the desk, he inspected his visitor from the top of his gray streaked dark hair to his leather shoes. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties and from his demeanor, Sanders would have surmised that he was a confident, successful man. Of course, the background check on Mr. Wilson had given him that