Being the oldest Graham Sullivan knew he was supposed to be protective, knew he was supposed to follow in his father's footsteps, and knew his duty as the oldest son was to tow the family line. Knowing what he was supposed to do, never actually made him want to do it, though. At fifty-whatever, Graham had no idea what he wanted to do, except never see the Godforsaken state of Kentucky again.
After thirty years of doing what he was supposed to do, and doing it well, he felt entitled to get the hell out of dodge. But then his father decided, after toying with the idea of not retiring in every conversation for the previous five years, to retire. "I'm leaving my life's work in your hands, Graham. Don't screw it up," he'd added supportively, chuckling over his cigar. Like Graham hadn't spent the last thirty years not screwing it up.
And then there was Clare. The youngest of his misfit sister's children with the backwoods, Cajun cop. She gets invited in and welcomed like the prodigal, while Brian keeps neglecting the office to go to soccer games and spelling bees. Graham's father never tells Brian not to screw it up after he passes on a business trip to catch Isobel's riding tournament. Never tells Clare that she doesn't know a damn thing about securities, while Graham had specialized in corporate law.
Thirty years of doing his duty, only to be equal to a half-Cajun med student, who'd had to graduate from a military school, and his 'family-man' brother.
Graham glanced across the room at the deputy…Gutterson. Same one as when Clare opted to run before. He reminded Graham of something, like owls in the woods when he'd been a Boy Scout, those eyes that follow you. Reading your darkest thoughts, seeing through you. The marshal's eyes would flit to Clare, like he was in love with her. Oh, well, Maggie's stock never did live up to its potential. Graham thought Clare would end up much better with Moss, although getting to know her, he realized that Clare didn't know what was good for her any better than her mother.
He explained what he could as calmly as he could without throttling her. Clare had a decent brain for business, better than most of her brothers, anyhow, but she was never satisfied with his conclusions, choosing to waste time finding her own. By five thirty, he'd had enough. "Sweetie, I should be getting home to Lou-Anne. Are you about done?"
"Sure," she nodded, pulling her head out of the printouts. "Tim?"
"If you could let me or someone in Security check your car, before you go home—"
"I've arranged it with Mr. Quinton, Deputy. Clare, darling," he pecked her cheek as she rose. Then offered his hand to the deputy, "Deputy Gutterson."
He shook it with a blank expression, trying to protect Clare, Graham supposed. People could be so sentimental.