Saving Joe

He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your radio is?” he asked. “At the dock?”

“I already told you, I don’t—”

“And I already told you—you’re lying.”

She flinched before forcing a smile. “Now, Joe, is that any way to treat a guest who just offered to share her syrup?”

“You’re not a guest,” he said, tired of her trying to woo him into conversation.

It’d almost worked, too.

Almost.

“Come on,” he said, leaving his shelter to meet her halfway through the field. “We’ll radio whoever sent you, and tell them you’re ready to go home.”

Bud bounded toward him.

She squared her shoulders and, as she had down at the beach, stubbornly raised her chin. “You just don’t get it, do you? For the next two weeks, this is my home.”

Chapter Two

In waning daylight and sheets of rain, Gillian pitched her government-issue tent smack-dab in front of Joe’s cabin.

She’d hoped he’d take pity on her and let her camp on his couch, but seeing how he hadn’t helped her lug so much as one measly can of beans up that rotten hill of his, she didn’t figure he’d cave on letting her back inside. At least his patch of grass was more bearable than those creepy woods.

She felt him watching her through the window, and sure enough, when she spun around to send him a jaunty wave and bright smile, acting as if she was having the most fabulous time of her life, he ducked behind the drapes.

Hard to believe she’d actually begged her boss, William Benton, for this assignment, which he’d begrudgingly, ironically, given her mostly because she was a she.

William and the other guys around the L.A. office figured because of her gender, Joe Morgan would cut her some slack. Right.

And just think, after having all this fun with tent stakes, she’d get to dig herself a latrine. Oh boy.

She fished a scrunchy from her backpack, securing her dripping hair in a messy ponytail, then got back to work raising her shelter.

She’d always wanted to go camping as a kid, but her brothers had never let her. Part of Kent’s charm had been that he loved all things outdoors, meaning she’d gotten to camp and hike to her heart’s content. What her brothers and father didn’t know was that while she was on those camping trips, she’d also learned to love rock climbing and white-water kayaking!

Two adrenaline rushes she’d never gotten while working the mind-numbing desk job of organizing the statewide California Court Security Officer Program, which she knew was important, but hardly the stuff of cutting-edge thrills. This assignment might be annoying, but it sure beat the heck out of sitting behind her desk.

Tent assembled, Gillian glanced back over her shoulder to see Joe darting behind bedraggled beige drapes yet again.

Bud licked the window.

Gillian smiled.

The cabin door opened and out bounded the dog, licking and wriggling his way into the tent, then promptly collapsing on the sleeping bag she’d just grabbed off the porch to toss inside.

“Why are you doing this?” Joe shouted over the rain.

“What?”

“Oh, come on. Pitching a tent in this weather? Are you trying to make some kind of point?”

“Only that I’m not leaving until it’s time to escort you to the trial.”

“What if I told you I’d make my own arrangements to get to the trial if only you’d leave?”

“Sorry,” she said with another bright smile. “But like I told you, I don’t have a radio we could use to tell anyone about a change in plans.”

“You and I both know that’s a crock,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Look,” she said, “this bickering is accomplishing nothing more than wasting what little remains of my daylight. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to set up a security perimeter, then grab a bite to eat.”

Lips pressed tight, Joe stared at her, shook his head, then closed the cabin door.

Gillian turned to the dog. “I take it you’re staying for dinner?”

Bud-Barney thumped his tail against the tent wall.

JOE YANKED THE LIVING ROOM curtains shut with such force, the old rod holding them shuddered.

She wanted to play games? Fine. He’d let her.

She had a radio stashed somewhere, and they both knew it. If she wanted to spend the next two weeks playing Girl Scout in the rain, who was he to stop her?

Who was he? he thought, storming across the room.

The owner of this freakin’ island, that’s who.

By God, he had a right to his privacy.

He looked up from his rage to catch a glint of light from the kitchen reflecting off the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel.

Sighing, hastily turning away, Joe swallowed bile-tainted shame.

He had a right to privacy just like Willow had a right to justice. Like Meggie had a right to live a normal life, as opposed to being surrounded by bodyguards 24-7.

What if this time, that murdering low life stayed behind bars? Didn’t Joe owe it to the memory of his wife and the future of their daughter to at least cooperate with the woman trying to right the wrong of Willow’s death?

He leaned both elbows against the wood plank mantel, landing his gaze on the photo not five inches from his face.

Willow with Meggie.

Sunset on Greystone Beach.

His little girl had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms after the three of them had been on a long walk. At the time Joe snapped the picture, he’d found the sight of mother and child enchanting. He still did.

Gazing at the image of them, he found it didn’t seem real that Willow was gone. The very idea was a bad dream. As if the reason he hadn’t seen her in so long was that he’d been away on extended business.

Business. Had it been a drug lord who’d killed his wife, or in essence was it Joe’s own fault? If he hadn’t been working that Sunday morning…

Bile again rose in his throat.

How many times was he going to ask himself the same unanswerable questions?

The past was gone, but the future…

He dreamed of one day having this nightmare behind him. Of bringing Meggie here to see the island. The sea cave with its hundreds of starfish lining the rocks at low tide. The pine forest with its tumbling boulders and moss and ferns. She’d love it here—his girl.

But what about the new girl in his life? Was she loving it here? Roughing it in the rain?

Joe groaned. If only he knew what to do.

Oh sure, the proper thing would be to invite the woman inside, share a meal, then listen while she briefed him on the upcoming trial. But the truth of the matter was that the past few years had turned him into a head case.

He didn’t used to be like this.

Indecisive.

Standoffish.

Downright rude.

He used to be normal—at least by society’s definition. He’d been a successful entrepreneur, having made a fortune for himself and his investors in the import game. He’d owned a fancy house, a Jag, a Mercedes and a Hummer, even a vacation home in Cabo. So why, when he’d so diligently followed the rules of success, had tragedy stolen everything he’d loved?

As afternoon faded to night, the question refused to leave his head.

Joe tried passing time without thinking of either the past or his future. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he’d ever done before the nosy female marshal arrived. He’d walked the island of course, but now, to get out of the cabin, he’d have to stroll past her tent.

What if when he was passing, she started to talk?

Even worse, what if like earlier, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to listen?

Ditching the idea of taking a stroll, he went to the small galley kitchen to scrounge up a meal.

Did he have a taste for something simple? Soup? Or was he craving a more substantial meal? Jarred spaghetti? Canned ham?

What was she having? Those scrambled eggs of hers?

French toast swimming in warm, buttery syrup?

The last time he’d eaten French toast he’d been on vacation in Maui with Willow and her parents. Willow had been six months pregnant, and her belly had been a constant source of fascination. He’d loved rubbing it, kissing it, feeding it and the growing girl tucked safely inside.

Needing to shut out the acute pain that usually followed particularly pleasant memories, Joe yanked open the nearest cabinet door.

In a messy parade along the shelves were canned, boxed and dry goods. Soups, chili, pork and beans, macaroni and cheese, pasta in a couple of shapes and sizes.

Finally figuring he was making too big a deal out of what should have been nothing more than a routine chore, he reached for a can of chicken noodle soup and a roll of stale crackers.

After eating his fill, Joe reflexively set the bowl on the floor for Bud to finish, only the dog wasn’t there.

Was he still with their supposed protector?

Anger flashed through him. Of all the places Joe had run, this island was the one where he felt most safe. He didn’t need or want her here.

He slipped on the hiking boots he kept by the door, and marched outside. A sliver of yellow moon peeked through a break in the fog. The rain had stopped and the wind had lessened, yet the damp air somehow felt wetter in his lungs than it had before.

Folding his arms across his chest, Joe gazed out at the restless sea, refusing to even glance in the tent’s direction.

He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come here, boy!”

About twenty yards into the dark, Bud barked, then scurried into the woods, hot on the trail of some small rodent. Ordinarily, Joe gave him the run of the island, but nothing about this night was ordinary and he didn’t like the idea of his dog wandering off. He wanted Bud close, safe.

Just in case.

Of what? He didn’t know. Just in case. For now, that was reason enough.

“Yo, Bud!” Joe’s cry fell flat against the fog. “Bud! Come on, boy, get back here!”

The dog barked, but judging from the sound, he’d traveled a good distance in the short time between calls.

“Damn dog,” Joe mumbled, stepping off the porch, and—

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!

He winced, brought his hands to his ears, blocking the electronic racket.

The annoyance was turned off, only to be followed by the even more grating sound of a tent zipper opening, then a sleepy, “Hmm…looks like I caught something.” Gillian grinned at him.

Joe groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. You put a perimeter alarm around my cabin?”

She shrugged, ran her fingers through sleep-tousled hair. She’d changed from her jeans, navy T-shirt and jacket into an all black number hugging her curves like porn star long johns. Swallowing hard, Joe looked away.

The woman was a damn nuisance.

“Was there anything in particular you needed?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

“My dog. Seen him?”

“Up to about an hour ago, he was sleeping next to me. I heard rustling outside the tent, got up to check it out, then the next thing I knew, Bud took off, bouncing like a bunny through the weeds.”

During the last part of her explanation, she’d done a little hop that—no. No, the below the belt movement hadn’t happened. Even if it had, he could ignore it. He’d been on his own for years.

He was a man.

She was a woman.

It wasn’t attraction, but an animalistic urge. An urge he’d damn well fight, out of respect for Willow and Meggie.

Damn this woman and his dog.

If this marshal hadn’t shown up—Joe still childishly refused to even think her name—if the dog hadn’t run off, his mind could have been mercifully blank after having spent the day pressing himself to the edge of his physical endurance.

As it was, after feeling trapped in the cabin all afternoon, he felt edgy, restless, like he’d be up all night searching for sleep that would never come.

Bud barked again.

Though the fog made distance hard to judge, Joe knew the mutt was on one hell of a romp. Probably he’d reached the far side of the bluff and still hadn’t caught whatever he was chasing.

Turning back to the yellow light spilling from the cabin, Joe washed his face with his hands and sighed.

What the hell. One of them might as well get what their heart desired. For Bud, the object of his desire was a rabbit or mouse. For Joe, it was a second chance.

One he knew would never come.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Just dandy.”

“Wanna hang out? Talk about it?”

“By it, I’m assuming you mean my wife and kid?”

“Look, Joe,” she said, “I’m not the enemy, I’m your friend. I’m here to help.”

“You wanna help?” he said, hating the low menace to his voice, but finding himself incapable of changing it.

She eagerly nodded.

“Then zip yourself back into that tent and don’t come out for the next two weeks.”

“COLDER THAN A WITCH’S titty out here,” Deputy U.S. Marshal Neil Kavorski said to his partner on the boat. He shrugged deeper into his coat, craving strong black coffee, but knowing with this choppy water he didn’t stand a chance of keeping it in a mug long enough to drink.

“You say something?” his kid partner asked, lifting his iPod headphone.

Kavorski shook his head.

The kid went back to using two plastic knives as drumsticks against the cabin cruiser’s dash.

“This is BS,” Kavorski mumbled, reaching for the binoculars. He held them up to his eyes, but in the fog, there was nothing to see.

He wondered if the other team, on the island’s south side, was having better luck. Probably not, but then what did it even matter?

He chuckled.

It wasn’t like he didn’t already know the outcome of this little party.

“Think I’m going to try for some shut-eye,” he said to the kid.

“Huh?” Brimmer tossed down his knives to lift both earpieces. Tinny bass leached through.

“I’ll be down below. Taking a nap.”

“Aye-aye, Skipper.”

“Knock that crap off,” Kavorski said. “I know I’ve put on a few pounds, but it’s because of the medication.”

“Relax, would you?” The kid grinned, reached for a bag of Cheetos. “That was a compliment. The skipper had his act together. Everyone knows Ginger was all into him.”

Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the steep stair rails, Kavorski snorted. “You ever think about anything but women?”

“When I’m not thinking about the job. Which reminds me—you catch that look Logue gave me right before we dropped her off? She wants me bad.”

“On that note,” Kavorski said with another snort, “wake me when she makes her first move.”

“Oh, sure. It’ll be two weeks before we even see her again.”

“Exactly. Meaning come get me when this gig is over.”

“JOE, HON, DID YOU already pack Meggie’s toothbrush?”

“Um hmm,” he murmured, tucking his arms about Willow’s waist. Burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair.

She smelled of…of—dammit, he couldn’t remember.

Why?

Why couldn’t he remember such a simple, basic thing as his own wife’s smell?

An insistent knock sounded on the cabin door.

Hands rubbing his eyes, Joe was slow to wake, even slower to realize who would be banging on his door in the middle of the night.

“Joe!” More banging. “Open up, I think Bud’s hurt!”

Heart pounding, mouth dry, Joe opened the door to see the marshal covered in mud, her hair wild and tangled with pine needles. “I heard him yelp not long after you went back inside, but with all the fog and everything—” She hunched over, bracing her palms on her thighs. “Sorry. Thought I could get him myself, but—”

Joe grabbed for his boots, then a flashlight, heading for the door.

“You’ll need a coat, too,” she said. “It’s chilly.”

“I’ll be fine.” He brushed past her. “You turn off your babysitting toys?”

She fixed him with a hard stare. “Cut me some slack, would you? I’m just doing my job. And yes—all my perimeter alarms are for the moment turned off.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She edged in front of him, holding out her own light. “Here, let me lead. It’s been awhile since I heard him, but I remember his general direction.”

Joe gave her a gentle shove. “I can handle this on my own.”

“No way. Not only am I already attached to that adorable, furry mutt, but if anything happens to you, my job’s on the line.”

He rolled his eyes. “Like anything’s going to happen to me. Besides, with all the rain we’ve had, it’s too slick out there for a woman. I don’t need you getting hurt, too.”

Gillian’s blood boiled.

How many times had her brothers pulled this stunt?

You’re just a girl. You’re not strong enough. You’ll hurt yourself.

“Get this straight.” Fists clenched at her sides, Gillian slowly raised her chin. “Until you appear at that trial, Joe Morgan, you’re my responsibility.”

“And you,” he said, stepping into her personal space, “get this straight. I don’t want or need your help looking for my dog. If I should happen upon any bad guys hiding behind a rock, then by all means, feel free to jump out, guns blazin’. But unless that happens, leave me alone.”

“No, sir…” She wasn’t backing down, not one inch. “I will not leave you alone.”

Lips tight, he stared at her before taking his coat from the peg beside the door—not because she’d told him to, but because if Bud was hurt, Joe might need it to keep him warm. “If you insist on coming—keep up.”

Chapter Three

Without turning to see what her reaction to his harsh words would be, Joe stepped outside, pulling the door shut with a thud behind him.

Five long, golden rectangles of lantern light fell from the cabin’s windows to weed-choked ground. Damp, still air that smelled of wood smoke and pine flared his nostrils. Beyond the glow surrounding the house, the woods stood dark, like an impenetrable row of thugs itching for a good fight.

They were in luck, he decided, raising the collar on his leather coat. His fists were already clenched.

“Bud!” he shouted.

Nothing.

No response other than a distant, rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore, at least until the cabin door opened, and his self-appointed bodyguard rustled through tall weeds in his direction.

“Damn dog,” Joe muttered, flicking off his light. “Should’ve left you in L.A. Willow’s parents would’ve treated you like a canine king.”

Bit by bit, Joe’s eyes adjusted to the gray-green blanket of night as by rote he headed down the path that ran beneath the cliffs to the small meadow where Bud could usually be found.

Joe’s footsteps fell heavily as he expelled his breaths in white clouds. The slender moon now hung high, giving off just enough light through the fog to create garish shadows that blocked his way.

“Bud!” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

Still no response.

Not a yelp, yip or whimper—out of the dog, or the woman tight on his heels.

Traveled by foot, the roughly five square mile island provided plenty of areas to get lost—especially at night. And for a citified mutt who spent most of his time lounging in front of the fire, Bud had roamed too far from the cabin.

Fighting a rush of panic, Joe quickened his pace, hopping over a gurgling stream that shone silver in the faint moonlight.

Just as he came upon the meadow where Bud often fled to chase butterflies, an owl hooted, its lonely voice only accentuating the silence.

Where was the stupid pooch?

Joe couldn’t lose that dog. He couldn’t. Bud represented so much more than a mere companion. He was Joe’s link to his old life. He’d been Meggie’s tearful gift to him the night Joe had made his goodbyes. “You take ’im, Daddy. Barney’ll protect you from the bad guys.”

As if that wasn’t reason enough to save the dog, there was another one, even more pressing. In light of what had happened earlier that evening with the marshal, the dog was now, in a bizarre way, serving as a chaperone—not against Joe’s actions, but his thoughts.

Standing close to her back, at the cabin, he’d been acutely aware of not just her vulnerable size, but her barely there perfume evoking the sweetness of candy and sex. She’d awakened his protective streak. Made him squash the urge to finger-comb pine needles from her hair.

“Yo, Bud!” Joe shouted. “Come on, boy!”

When there was still no response, he kept walking, hunching his shoulders against the cold, stumbling over exposed roots and brambles as he tried making sense of the night that was every bit as cloistering as his mixed-up emotions.

Nearing a bluff dotted with small holes that led to sea caves below, Joe remembered how much the dog liked to bark at the occasional sea lion hanging out on the rocks. They’d walked there together at low tide.

At high tide, the caves were a death trap.

To ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature, Joe cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Bud! Answer me! Where are you, you stupid mutt?”

At first, he heard nothing but the crack of waves breaking against an offshore bank of rocks, but then he barely made out what sounded like a whine.

“Barn? That you?”

“Oh no,” said a feminine voice from behind him. “Is he hurt?”

“Go away,” Joe said. He was scared, and angered by her intrusion.

By the fact that she might smell his fear.

His vulnerability.

Joe heard the whine again, off to his left. Judging by the muted, echoing tone, the dog had fallen. Was the friend his daughter had named Barney, the constant companion Joe had renamed the generic Bud, because he couldn’t bear thinking of Meggie every time he muttered the dog’s name, lying there hurt? Had he twisted or broken a leg? Crushed a rib? Was he slowly bleeding to death?

Joe took off at a dead run down the snaking path leading to the beach below. Even in full daylight, the route he followed was treacherous. At night, it was a natural minefield.

Rocks loosened beneath Joe’s awkward steps, clacking down the hillside. Adrenaline rushed through him.

“Joe!” the marshal cried. “Be careful! You can’t help him if you’re hurt!”

At the base of the cliff, Joe ran parallel to the shore, sloshing through frigid tidal pools a foot deep or more.

“Bud!” he hollered, approaching the cave. His voice echoed in the eerie stillness. A fog bank hugged the shore, dulling the lap of the surf.

The whine came again, close, but still muffled.

Scrambling into the mouth of the cave, Joe flicked on his flashlight, hollered the dog’s name again, then finally saw his glowing eyes. Just as he’d suspected, Bud had fallen into a crevice at the back of the cave. Even from this distance, Joe saw that he wouldn’t be able to reach the narrow space where the dog was lodged.

The marshal sloshed through shallow water behind him.

“Damn,” he mumbled. The tide was rising, and judging by the algae-and anemone-covered cavern walls, the entire area would soon be underwater.

If he didn’t figure out a solution—quick—the dog would die.

“Here, take my light,” she said, tucking it in his jacket pocket. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I’m pretty sure I can get back there.”

“Go away,” Joe ordered, already heading for Bud. He wasn’t sure how, but no matter what, he would find a way to save his dog.

“Come on, don’t be like this,” she murmured, tugging on his jacket sleeve with one of her small, cold hands.

He wanted to handle this on his own. Wanted to tell her to stay away—for good.

Unfortunately, his heart knew better. The sad fact of the matter was, he couldn’t handle this alone. The space was too small, his body too big.

He took a deep breath before aiming the flashlight’s beam deeper into the cave. “Follow me. It’s slick.”

She did follow him, without complaint, without concern for her own safety.