Marrying the Marshal

She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“You off duty?” she politely asked.

“Cut the chitchat, Al. You not only lied about losing my son, you didn’t even have the decency to lie to my face. You took the coward’s way out by doing it in a Dear John.”

“Caleb, if you’d just let me explain.”

“Explain?” He laughed. “Oh, I’ve spent the past nine years of my life mourning the loss of your—our—child and you’re going to explain?” He thumped the red fireplace wall in anger.

“I’m sorry,” Allie said. Tears were pouring down her face. “You were so focused. All you ever talked about was getting your silver star. It was an obsession. As if, along with your fascination for those awful spaghetti westerns, you were going to become part of some modern-day posse. I knew if I told you I wanted to keep the baby, you’d do the honorable thing and marry me. You’d probably even have given up your dreams. Taken some boring desk job. You’d have been miserable.”

“Don’t give me that. Seriously, Allie, you’re a highly intelligent woman. Surely you can come up with a better excuse for a keeping a father from his son. A son from his father. You think every marshal spends every day shootin’ up the hills? You think my own father ordered me and my two brothers and sister from the back of the Sears catalogue?”

“I—I said I was sorry.” Allie rose, went to him, tried to give him a hug, but he backed away. Just out of reach.

“Yeah,” he said, jaw hard, eyes harder. “I’ll just bet.”

Allie winced from the obvious disgust behind his words, winced harder at the slam of the door as he left the room.

Sure, he’d had a right to know about his son, but she had rights, too. Intrinsic rights to security and well-being and happiness and love. How convenient Caleb had managed to block out how many of her hopes and dreams he’d squashed. Did he even remember what’d really happened nine years ago on the night she’d told him she was pregnant?

She did. Remembered it like it was yesterday….

THE NIGHT HAD BEEN rainy, yet hot, making the air heavy.

“Damn, this is quite a spread,” he’d said.

“Thanks.” She’d been warmed by Caleb having noticed she’d gone to extra trouble. Wildflowers picked in the empty lot behind her rented house graced an antique Ball canning jar he’d bought for her at a flea market. He was always doing that. Finding her little odds and ends to fill her home—their home. They’d met their junior year in college. And now, their third year of law school, she’d supposed it was time for what she was about to tell him.

True, there could have been a better time for this to happen—say, after graduation when they’d both found great jobs. But you couldn’t always plan a pregnancy, and there wasn’t much they could do about it, other than fast forward the marriage plans they’d each hinted at.

“What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, stepping up behind her at the stove, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the sensitive spot on the nape of her neck.

“Patience, counselor.”

He’d laughed. “Right. Trial lawyer I will never be. You know why I’m going after the fancy degree.”

Her heart had plummeted. So much for her wish for a lovely surprise from him. Something like a spontaneous proposal, then a heartfelt vow to not go into the marshals’ service.

“You just watch.” With his chest puffed out the way it always was when he talked about his career plans, he’d said, “Once I get this law degree behind me, then combine it with a stellar field service record, no mere Deputy Marshal status for me, darlin’. I’ll be the youngest presidentially appointed U.S. Marshal ever in the state. You can be the youngest U.S. District Court Judge.”

“Great.”

“Doesn’t sound good to you?” He’d swept aside her long hair, kissing a partial ring around her throat.

“Caleb, hon, I was going to wait until after dinner to tell you, but—”

Hands still around her waist, he’d turned her to face him. “Wait a minute. I know this pouty look. You bomb Valerio’s midterm?”

“No,” she’d said, suddenly overcome with emotion. Tears had started and wouldn’t stop.

“Damn, sweetie. What’s wrong?” He’d held her close, protecting her from the world. Trouble was, the thing hurting her worst was him.

“I—I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted. Hoping, praying, he’d propose on the spot.

Instead, he’d gripped her tighter, like she’d fallen overboard and he was dragging her back to an already sinking ship. “This shouldn’t be scary,” he’d said. “But it is. I mean, I want to be a dad. A lot. But right now?” He’d shaken his head. “We’ve both got full plates.”

“Sure.” Nodding against his chest, she’d felt his frantic heartbeat.

“We’ll make it right though, okay?” He’d tucked his fingers under her chin, raising it so that her gaze met his. “We’ll make it right.”

HE’D SAID Make it right all those years ago.

What had his words meant? That hadn’t been the way the night was supposed to have gone. Caleb was supposed to have proposed. Tell her he loved her and their baby more than life. And he could have told her, that minute, because he loved her, he’d give up his dangerous career in favor of something nice and safe. Maybe tax law. He, better than anyone, from their many late night talks, knew what had happened to her father. And how fearful she was of tragedy striking another man she loved. Because Caleb knew, he should understand her actions, but didn’t. In the end, the only thing he’d given up was her—them.

So she’d formed a plan.

One that had allowed her to keep her precious child, and Caleb to keep his apparently equally precious unfettered bachelor life and crazy-dangerous career.

Chapter Two

“Hey, it’s cool that we have kinda the same name. Can I see your badge?” Caleb’s son asked bright and early Monday morning.

“Sure.” Caleb slipped it off his utility belt for the little boy to inspect. He was a good-looking kid. Seemed smart. Inquisitive. Interesting that he was an early riser. So was his dad.

Outside, behind the closed kitchen shades, rain drummed on the patio and deck.

“Thanks,” the boy said, returning Caleb’s silver star. “Want cereal? We got Cheerios and Life.”

“That’s okay, buddy. I’m on the job. But I appreciate the offer.” After a few seconds of watching his son noisily get a bowl and spoon, he asked, “Ever eat oatmeal?”

“Yeah. I like it, but Mom doesn’t make it that often.”

“When I was your age,” Caleb said, “my mom made it for me nearly every day—especially when it was cold. It was my favorite. Ask your mom to make it for you. She knows my recipe.”

“Okay,” Cal said, fetching a bright yellow cereal box from the pantry.

Was it presumptuous to think Allie avoided Caleb’s favorite breakfast food—one that she’d always enjoyed, too—because eating it conjured memories of happy mornings with him?

“Mom cried last night,” the boy said matter-of-factly while taking milk from the fridge.

“Oh?” Though a part of Caleb was perversely glad she’d cried, most of him just felt sad. Not only for the years he’d missed with his son, but also with each other. They’d had a good thing going until she’d thrown it away.

“I went and asked her what’s wrong, but she said nothin’. I think she’s scared about the bad guys. Anyway, she let me sleep with her. I like her bed. It’s bigger than mine and real squishy.”

“Squishy?”

“Yeah, you know.” Dowsing his cereal, Cal managed to spill a good cup of milk on the counter. When it dribbled over the edge, Caleb jumped in to help, grabbing a dish towel from the sink. “Squishy. Like bunches of pillows and stuff. Thanks for helpin’ clean. Mom likes a clean house.”

“I know,” Caleb said.

“How?”

“Um—” Geez, where did he start?

“Caleb’s an old friend,” Allie said, standing in the kitchen’s shadowy doorway, long blond hair a mess, eyes red and swollen. She wore a utilitarian white terry cloth robe. A yellow duck was the only decoration. He sat over her right breast. Directly over the tender patch of skin Caleb used to—no. He wasn’t going there. So he dropped his gaze to her bare feet and red-tipped toes. How many times had he painted them for her?

“Where’d you meet him?” his son asked.

“School,” Allie said.

“Elementary?” Cal asked.

“College.”

“Oh.” Cal’s interest returned to cereal. Mouth full, he asked, “Hey, can we go toy shopping today? Oh—and then let’s go see that new movie, Power Force. Sam says it’s awesome!”

“Sorry, but—” Caleb and Allie both spoke at the same time.

“Go ahead,” Allie said.

“You’re his mother.” Caleb loaded his voice with messages only she’d hear. I’m just his father. Don’t mind me.

“Sorry, baby.” She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “But until this trial’s over, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, and out of public places.”

“But can I at least go to school?”

“No,” Caleb said.

Having expected him to argue with her, Allie had been on the verge of aiming a “stop interfering” stare at Caleb. Knowing they were on the same team—at least as far as keeping Cal safe—cocooned her in a surprising calm.

“Aw, man,” Cal whined.

“I’ll make you a promise, though,” Caleb said to the boy, putting Allie back on full alert.

“What?” her son asked, expression once again bright.

“As soon as this trial is over, and we know that you and your mom are safe, not only can you go back to school, but me and a team of other marshals will go with you for a while, just in case.”

“Really?!” Cal asked. “And will they have guns and everything?”

“Absolutely.”

“Awesome!” The boy leapt from his tall counter stool. “I can’t wait to tell Sam and Reider!” He raced up the back staircase, presumably to his room.

“Thank you,” Allie said.

“For what?” Caleb asked.

“Getting his mind off the depressing present and onto better times to come.”

“Will times be better, Allie? Now that your secret’s out, you can’t expect me to just fade into the background.”

After scooping ground coffee into an automatic drip filter, she shot him a look. “You know what I mean. Cal returning to school. To his normal way of life. It’ll be better. I wasn’t referring to us—you.” Allie silently stared at the dripping coffee, trying to let the rich aroma and happy gurgle calm her jangled nerves. Trying, but failing. “Obviously, I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen between us, Caleb. Do you?”

For the longest time, her gaze locked with his. Neither speaking, breathing. And then, just when she’d thought he might be on the verge of saying something—anything—he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

THAT AFTERNOON, the tension in Allie’s courtroom was unbearable.

As was the heat.

The accused, Francis William Ashford, sat grinning at her, as if he’d never been charged with blowing up a post office and killing the three clerks and five customers inside—one an infant. In her two years on the bench, Allie had presided over many cases, but this one topped them all.

The gallery was filled with what had begun to feel like every reporter in the state, along with every citizen. Many used the folded take-out menu from the Chinese restaurant down the street for a fan.

Caleb, along with the rest of his six-man crew, stood vigilant watch over the crowded courtroom, occasionally speaking into microphones hidden in their suit coat sleeves.

Her current task was hard enough. And Caleb’s surprise appearance had made her time off the bench insanely complicated. Still, what she was going through was nothing compared to the pain of the grieving victims’ families here in the courtroom.

The prosecution asked the latest witness, a wiry, elderly black man who’d lived across the street from the post office for the past forty-two years, “Sir, could you please tell the court what you observed the morning of the bombing.”

The witness cleared his throat. “I was watching my shows. Price is Right and the like, when I went to the front window to draw the curtain. That time of morning, sun shines right through. Produces a glare.”

“Yes, sir, and did you see something suspicious?” asked the chief prosecuting attorney.

“Objection!” the defense attorney shouted. “Leading the witness.”

“Overruled.” To the clearly shaken witness, Allie said, “Please, Mr. Foster, continue.”

“All right, well, Bob Barker had just started the second Showcase Showdown. I was pulling the curtain closed, when I saw this primer-gray truck pull up to the post office. Ford. Powerful dirty. Mud splatters all over. Had those big, oversized tires. A confederate flag hanging in the back window.”

“Did the flag shock you?”

“Objection! Leading.”

Allie, in no mood for attorney jockeying, shot Mack Bennett, lead attorney for the defense, her most stern look. “One more outburst, Mr. Bennett, and you will be fined. Mr. Foster, please, go on.”

“All right, well, that boy—”

“Excuse me,” the prosecution said, “but which boy? Is he here? In the courtroom today?”

“Yessir.”

“Would you be so kind as to point him out?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’ll shoot me.”

The courtroom erupted in low rumbles.

“Order!” Allie slammed her gavel.

“Mr. Foster,” the prosecution said once the crowd quieted. “Rest assured, in the county jail, the defendant has no access to firearms.”

“Not him I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“His friends. Everyone in town knows Francis has lots of friends living on that compound of his, and every danged one of them have lots of guns.”

The accused jumped to his feet. “That’s a bald-faced lie. I ain’t never—”

“Order!” Allie said when the gallery exploded again. “Mr. Bennett, control your client or I’ll have him removed!”

“Shut up, you commie bitch!” From out of the gallery someone flung an object. A balloon?

By the time she’d registered what’d happened, the courtroom had erupted in screams. Caleb and another marshal ushered Allie out of a scene that could only be described as chaos.

In her chambers, trembling, she put her hands to her face. Something wet and warm coated her cheeks. She pulled her hands down to find her palms stained with…blood?

“Hurry,” Caleb said, tugging Allie’s ashen-faced secretary and clerks into her office, then dead-bolting the door. He shut the drapes, then barked directions into the radio in his sleeve. “Everyone okay?” he finally asked the women assembled.

Allie nodded while her secretary fussed over wiping the blood with a tissue.

“Excellent,” Caleb said. “Looks like everyone in the courtroom’s all right, too. They’ve all been cleared. Francis is headed to his cell, and I’ve got a cleaning crew on the way.”

“Cal?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Just called his detail. All’s clear. Per his teacher’s instructions, they’re at the kitchen table practicing multiplication by making macaroni necklaces.” Caleb shot her a grin. A wonderfully sweet, strong grin so out of place in their current situation, it made her burst into a relieved nervous laugh.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—wow. That was—”

She was still-rambling when Caleb pulled her into his arms. Impossibly strong, capable arms. How long had it been since she’d been held? Since she’d had someone to lean on? Yet as good as leaning on Caleb felt, she couldn’t open herself to the hurt of falling for him again. It would be all too easy, losing herself in the good. Forgetting the bad.

“S-sorry,” she said. Releasing him. Backing away. Trying hard to look anywhere but at his face. Only that tactic landed her gaze squarely on his chest. On the rumpled white shirt he’d worn under his suit, now covered in blood. If she’d needed a sign to warn her to steer clear of the man she’d once loved, this was it in blazing neon.

Sure, this time the blood was part of a sick prank.

But what if next time, it was for real? What if her worst fears about Caleb being shot came true?

Somehow she managed to say, “I—I should clean up.”

Movements stiff and robotic, Allie locked herself in her small, private bathroom. Washed her hands and face, then sat on the closed toilet and prayed blood-balloons were the worst of Francis’s friends’ arsenal.

“GOOD,” CALEB SAID late that afternoon from the courthouse parking lot, hand lightly shaking as he held his cell up to his right ear. “I caught you.”

“Caleb?” his sister, Gillian, asked. “What’s up? I thought you were on assignment?”

“I am.”

“You got a cold?” she asked. “You sound weepy.”

“Weepy?” He hadn’t cried in like…a day? Just the previous afternoon, upon his first sight of his son, hadn’t he spouted like a sprinkler? “I’m, ah, outside. It’s damned cold.”

“Cut the whole defensive tough-guy routine,” Gillian said, “and just tell me what’s wrong. I thought over the past year or so we’ve gotten further than this. You know, like we could talk.”

“We can,” he said. “Which is why I called. Gil, you sitting?”

“No. But I can be. Just let me put the baby down for her nap. I’ll be right back.”

“’Kay.”

In rapidly fading daylight, drumming his fingers on the hood of his SUV, he grinned at the sound of his six-year-old stepniece’s cartoons blaring over the phone.

A few years back, his sister married a great guy, Joe. The marriage turned out to be healing not just for Joe, but also for Gillian, who’d carried a chip on her shoulder the whole of her adult life.

Caleb’s sister had never bothered to say anything to either her three brothers or their dad. He guessed she’d always felt as if they didn’t believe she could accomplish anything other than being a classic girly girl, and the men in her family went out of their way to shelter her. Or were condescending because she wasn’t their equal.

What they all knew was that hell no, she wasn’t their equal. She was better than any of them! Tougher, smarter, with a forked tongue a guy didn’t stand a chance of winning an argument against!

Good thing for them, since finally figuring out all of that for herself, she’d mellowed. Taken time from her crazed agenda of proving herself better than the guys to instead learn to appreciate her own unique feminine strengths and weaknesses.

“Hi, Uncle Caleb,” six-year-old Meggie said into the phone.

“Hey, potato bug.”

“I’m not a bug,” the girl said with giggle.

“Then what are those things sticking out of your head? I thought those were your antennae?”

“Those are my ears!” she shrieked.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Caleb said, “maybe instead of a bug, you’re just a Mr. Potato Head?”

“I’m a girl! I’d be a Missus Potato Head!”

“You sure? Let me ask your momma. You might be an imposter, and I’ll have to call the police.”

She giggled again. “You are the police!”

“Gimme that phone,” Gillian said in the background. “You big sneak.”

Giggling shrieks said his favorite little potato bug was getting tickled.

“All right,” Gillian said. “I’m back. The baby’s hopefully asleep, and your niece is getting popcorn crumbs all over my new sofa.”

“What was that?” Caleb asked. “My tomboy sister’s feeling protective toward a sofa?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. It’s a really comfy sofa. Perfect for making out on.”

“Ack.” He clutched his chest. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“Hear it? Just wait till Thanksgiving when you’ll get to see it. Think you’ll be done in time? We’re doing turkey and a ham. Dad and Beau are coming. Joe’s former in-laws, too. I’m assuming you’ll be holding Adam hostage?”

Caleb sighed. Rubbed his forehead.

“Out with it, sweetie. Here I am going on about the holidays when something’s obviously bugging you.”

“All right, here goes. Remember Allie?”

“The girl who broke your heart?”

“Aw, geez, it wasn’t all that bad.”

“The hell it wasn’t. Adam said you didn’t get out of bed for two weeks. He also said she was pregnant, then told you in a letter she’d lost the baby after leaving town.”

“Adam’s got a big mouth,” Caleb said. “Anyway, the short of it is, she didn’t really lose the baby.”

“What?!”

“Gilly, I’ve got a son. He’s so damned handsome it hurts to look at him. He’s got my eyes.”

“God, I’d like to hug you right now. Congratulations, honey. I can’t wait to tell Dad—and Joe. I’ve got to see if he can wrangle time away from the office, then we’ll be right over.”

“Not a good plan.”

She laughed. “Just try keeping me away. I love staying home with Chrissy, but truthfully, I could use a little action.”

“Yeah, well, there’s too much action here. And Allie and my son are at the heart of it.”

“MOM,” CAL SAID at the dinner table that night, “I wish you’d let me go back to school. Sam called and said Kelly got her noodle necklace stuck up her nose. And then Miz Talbert came over to try yanking it out, and then the whole thing broke, and noodles were like, wham—” he swung his left arm for emphasis, in the process dumping his chocolate milk “—everywhere. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, sopping the mess without skipping a beat.

“Need help, ma’am?” The newest marshal assigned to protect them stepped in from the living room. She didn’t know him, but he seemed nice enough. Cal seemed fascinated by his size and smooth-shaven head.

“No, but thanks,” she said.

“Sure.” All eight feet of him ducked back into the living room.

“You mad?” Cal asked, munching on a carrot stick.

“Not even a little bit.” She tossed the milk-soaked rag in the sink, then joined him at the table.

“How come you’re not sayin’ anything?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“Then how come you’re not eating? I thought Great-Grandma Beatrice’s meat loaf’s your favorite.”

“It is. Guess I’m not all that hungry, either.”

“I am.” He helped himself to thirds on meat loaf and mashed potatoes, carefully steering clear of the steamed broccoli along the way.

“That’s good,” she said, not in the mood to lecture Cal about vegetables.

“Man,” he said, mouth half-full of potatoes. “This was the crappiest day ever. At least Sam told everyone I have bodyguards. Wish that Caleb guy could’ve stayed here with me, but he said he had to hang out with you. Bet he was bored.”

If only!

“Yeah,” Allie said, sipping iced tea. “It was a pretty dull day.” Nothing but a few blood-balloons whizzing through her court.

“Sorry. Wanna stay home with me in the morning? After I do my work, we can go see Power Force.” The dear look on his face was so sincere, so hopeful, she couldn’t help but smile. Then she happened to flash back to that afternoon, and how Caleb had worn the same concerned expression.

A pang ripped through her at the notion that no matter how hard she’d tried convincing herself that in her mind Cal’s father was dead, he wasn’t. He was alive and well and quite possibly lurking just outside the house.

“Oh, baby,” she said, grabbing her son’s small, sticky hand. “I would love to stay home with you, and then go to a movie, but I can’t—we can’t.”

“How come you look like you’re gonna cry again? You never have before.”

“I know. There’s just a lot going on that—”

“You’ll understand when you get older.” Caleb strolled into the kitchen. His choppy, dark hair was wet, as were the shoulders of his denim shirt. For the most part, his faded jeans were dry, kind of like her mouth once she’d finished eyeing the ridiculously gorgeous combo of his body and face. In his left hand dangled a plastic bag.

“It still rainin’ outside?” Cal asked.

His father nodded. His father.

“Sure is,” Caleb said. “Want to go outside and play?”

“Yeah!” Cal leaped from his seat. “Can I take my plastic boats?”

“Whoa,” Caleb said, rubbing the boy’s head. “Slow down, mister. That was a joke. It’s a nasty night.”