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He’d failed already. Bennett leaned forward in the hard chair of the waiting room, dropping his head into both hands. His elbows pushed hard against his legs, but he was only vaguely aware of the pressure there.
How could he have failed within two days of this unsought arrangement?
A pair of strong hands, small and gentle, kneaded his tightly bound shoulders. “It’s going to be okay.” Hazel pressed against him as she leaned to offer comfort.
Head still in hands, Bennett shook his head. “I lost him.” Tears blurred his vision as he turned to look at the woman beside him. “How could I have lost him?”
Hazel shook her head. “Nathan is fifteen. And he wandered off into the darkness without a clue where he was going. You didn’t lose him. This isnotyour fault.”
“I can’t pin blame on a kid when I was given responsibility for him.”
Sitting up straight, Hazel took his face in between her firm hands. “He is fifteen, not five. And he admitted that he was trying to find the road to leave.”
A shuddering breath slowly left Bennett’s chest. He heard what Hazel was saying, but he couldn’t shake the heavy weight of guilt that proclaimed this was his responsibility. That Nathan was back in the OR of this tiny hospital, hopefully undergoing a successful surgery to realign his fibula and stitch up his opened leg, and that was entirely Bennett’s fault.
Or worse, the ugly, niggling accusation that Hazel had been negligent in allowing Nathan to wander out into the woods alone in the first place.
No. This wasn’t Hazel’s fault.
But was it Nathan’s? He was just a kid. A city kid who didn’t know any better.
“Zel isn’t wrong, Bennett.” From the row of chairs across from Bennett, Hunter offered his low consolation. “Nathan is old enough to make choices—good or bad. No one—you or Hazel—could have known that he intended to find the access road and hoped to make it to the highway.”
The enormity—and stupidity—of Nathan’s failed plan pressed hard against Bennett. What had made the boy think he couldhitchhikehis way back to Chicago? Insane.
And really, really dumb.
But Bennett should have suspected he’d try something like that. The kid lived in a world of virtual reality, thanks to his unending screen time. He had no concept of the wilds of Montana, no understanding of the dangers of real life.
Clenching his fists, Bennett bounced his forehead against them. “I can’t let this happen again.”
“What are you going to do—tie a rope around his waist and trail him wherever he goes?” Hazel asked.
“Maybe.” He sat back, slumping against the chair. “If that’s what it takes.”
Bennett could feel the disapproval from the Wallace siblings as they exchanged a look.
Hazel settled an expression that somehow combined compassion and resolution. “Pops used to say that when a guy acted like he had something to prove, it was usually because he needed to prove it to himself.”
“I don’t know what that means in this context. Nathan wanted to leave because he didn’t want to move to Montana in the first place.”
“I think Hazel might be right.”
Bennett glared at Hunter. “Still not making sense. And the ramblings of your backwoods grandfather aren’t helpful right now.”
“Nathan has been a pain in the butt since you got here.” Hunter crossed his arms. “I’m guessing he was a pain long before he left Chicago—and not just with you.” He paused waiting for confirmation. He must have taken Bennett’s lack of response as exactly that. “Which means he feels like he’s got something to prove.”
“Whatever. Right now I have to deal with a broken leg that requires surgery, so . . .”
Hazel crossed her arms and turned in her chair to face Bennett. “Teach him how to stand on his own two feet. Show him that he can.”
“Great. I’m sure that will help. Then he’ll be gone for sure, and I’ll never find him.”
“No he won’t. He’ll know he can take care of himself like a man should, and he won’t feel trapped. He won’t feel like he’s got to figure it out on his own.”
Bennett scowled at his girlfriend. Since when did she know all about fifteen-year-old boys and how to take care of them? She barely understood her own brother.
But . . .
