Grace put the manila envelope in her shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone.
Reno picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Babe.”
“I just got served.”
“Be there in two minutes.”
He was limping more than yesterday when he strode into the kitchen, which meant he’d hustled over here fast enough that his knee was talking back to him about it. He didn’t stop until he reached her and wrapped her up in a hug. She buried her face against his soft cotton T-shirt and the hard muscles beneath. Gratefully, she absorbed the comfort and support he was silently sharing with her.
After a moment, she nodded against his chest, and he turned her loose and took a step back. She fetched the envelope for him and he slit it open with a knife she handed him.
He read all three pages of the complaint, his concentration total.
“Anything I should know?” she said.
“She’s asking for two-point-three million in damages.”
“For what?”
“Lost revenue. Reputational injury. Emotional distress.”
“Hers or mine?” Grace asked dryly.
He pursed his lips in a combination of humor and disgust. Then he took his phone out of his pocket.
“Who are you calling?”
“Lincoln Sutter.”
“The lawyer over in Apple Pie Creek?” she asked.
“The Montana lawyer. I’m licensed to practice law in Texas, not here. I can build the case, argue it, and take Tara Marchand apart on the witness stand. The one thing I cannot do is file lawsuits in a Montana court. For that I need somebody licensed in this state to sign it and file it. Lincoln’s the closest lawyer I trust.”
He put his phone on speaker and set it on the counter between them.
“Lincoln Sutter.”
“Lincoln. Reno Steele. Dillon’s brother—we met at Fern Lawrence’s funeral.”
“The lawyer Steele brother.” A pause that had a smile in it. “Tessa told me you’d stopped practicing.”
“I’ve started again, as of about five minutes ago.”
“What can I do for you, Counselor?”
“A client of mine got served this morning. Civil suit, filed by a Bozeman firm on behalf of a woman named Tara Marchand. Unfair business practices. They’re asking two-point-three million.”
The line was quiet a second. “Tara Marchand.”
“You know her?”
“We’ll get to that. Go on.”
“I anticipated this suit might be coming and already drafted the answer and counterclaims. I need local counsel to sign and file, and I’ll come in pro hac vice. You’ll be co-counsel of record but never have to do more than put your Montana name where the state wants it. I’ll do the rest. I’m emailing it to you right now.”
Reno picked the phone up long enough to attach files to a message and send them. A few seconds later, Grace heard a chime from the other end of the call.
“I’m opening them now.” A long pause. Then a low whistle. “There are six individual lawsuits, here.”
