Texas Stakeout

Sometimes they died.

Personally...

He fought to erase the dead eyes staring dully at him in his mind’s eye, but he couldn’t.

Dead eyes all looked the same: unblinking and missing life’s sheen. But the first set of dead eyes he’d ever seen—his mother’s—haunted him every day of his life, reminding him of what could happen to a person who refused to accept the bad in others before it was too late.

“So your son’s name is Peter. And you are?”

“Rachel. We’re almost there,” she said. “Down the gulley to the right. Then the spring’s a few hundred yards south.”

He knew how to get to the spring already but kept silent, and instead neck-reined Ginger in the direction Rachel had given. The horse headed downhill and Rachel leaned back to compensate for her weight on the horse’s shoulders. Her still-wet hair brushed his face and he breathed in the scent. Soft and floral, with a hint of freshness. Ginger stumbled and Dylan tightened his grip on Rachel, appreciating the soft weight of her breasts on his forearm. Get a grip, he mentally chided himself. Yeah, Rachel was one hot woman, but she was also the sister of the fugitive he was hunting, and they were on the way to find out if her ranch hand still lived. Appreciating her sweet smell or the luscious weight of her breasts was the last thing he should be doing.

He reminded himself it had been three long months since he’d bedded a woman. Before that, he’d been in a long-term relationship with Ashley, a deputy D.A. back in San Francisco. They’d dated for several years and she’d been pressuring him for more. She’d wanted to move in together. Wanted to move toward marriage. He hadn’t been able to commit. He’d cared about her. Appreciated her in bed and out. But he’d known she wasn’t the one, just as the handful of women he’d dated before her hadn’t been the one. The ones he’d dated after her?

They’d been beautiful. Smart. Urban chic. But they’d bored him. Body, mind and soul. It had been far easier to immerse himself in work. Now there was Rachel Kincaid. Stimulating him in so many different ways and distracting him from his duty. It not only surprised him. It was beginning to piss him off.

Dylan grabbed his binoculars and scanned the surrounding area. It looked clear, but he was still conscious of the presence of his firearm inside his boot. Knew it would take mere seconds to draw his weapon if he needed it.

“There!” Rachel exclaimed, pointing to a spot of blue, deep down among the green rushes that surrounded a bubbling spring. She grabbed the reins herself and pulled Ginger to a halt.

Dylan swung himself off the horse, then helped Rachel to her feet. She stumbled and he caught her—their faces inches from each other. Her eyebrows swung together in a V before she pulled away.

“Josiah?” she called out, pushing through the rushes, gray mud sucking at her bare feet.

She came to a halt next to the bright spot of blue they’d seen, and Dylan came up behind her. When she sank to her knees in front of the crumpled figure, Dylan knew Peter had been right.

The man was dead.

* * *

On her knees, Rachel swallowed against the heave in her stomach. Josiah lay at an odd angle, a few yards from where the spring water bubbled to the surface. Coagulated blood stained his face, no doubt from the severe wound on the side of his forehead. Next to his head, a large jagged rock protruded from the ground. He must have slipped. Hit his head.

She hated that Peter had seen Josiah’s open eyes, so devoid of life. Was that what Jax saw when the school bus had dropped him off and he’d come home to find their parents, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning? She reached a hand out to close his eyes but was stopped by a firm grip on her elbow.

“Don’t touch him,” Dylan growled.

For a second, the timbre of his voice and the weight of his touch made fear shoot through her. This was a stranger, a stranger who’d appeared as suddenly as Josiah had been hurt. Killed. Dylan Rooney claimed he’d been riding after Peter because he’d only wanted to help, but what if that wasn’t the case?

But just as panic and fear started to choke off her breath, she reminded herself that he’d told both her and Peter to stay at the house to call 911. Someone bent on trouble would hardly want more witnesses to deal with, and he would most likely have tried to separate them.

After taking a deep breath, she slowly pulled her arm away from his grip. “I only want to close his eyes. Give him some dignity,” she argued.

“We can’t disturb the scene any more than we already have. This man is dead. We need to back up and wait for the authorities.”

Dylan’s words buzzed inside her head. Two phrases hung in the air, as if a spotlight was on them. Disturb the scene. Wait for the authorities. Then she remembered the way he’d initially ordered her and Peter to go inside the house and lock the doors after them. As if he’d wanted to make sure whatever had hurt Josiah couldn’t hurt them.

Aaron had been beastly over the past month, demanding rights to the water he’d found on her land. Even before that, he’d always been a bit of a jerk, which was why she’d initially wondered if Aaron had been causing Josiah trouble.

But she hadn’t been thinking murder. Now, based on the position of Josiah’s body next to the rock, the most logical assumption would be Josiah had fallen and hit his head.

Clearly this man suspected foul play.

Why?

Dylan held out a hand and after a slight hesitation, she took it. He tugged her upward and she came to standing, facing him.

“Why can’t I touch him?” she asked hoarsely. “What do you mean, ‘disturb the scene’?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he soothed. “It looks like he fell, but it’s always possible something else happened to him.”

“Like what?”

His fingers tightened around hers right before he ran his hands up and down her arms in a comforting motion. Her first instinct was to push him away and tell him she needed answers, not sympathy. But that would be a lie.

She suddenly felt on the verge of collapse. Wanted nothing more than to rest her cheek against his chest and beg him to hold her. Comfort her.

He sighed and lifted one hand to run his knuckles against her cheek. “There are always those who want to hurt others, Rachel. There’s always a possibility that there’s danger where we think we’re the safest. But I’m here. And I’ll help you. You just need to let me.”

Chapter 3

“I don’t understand,” Rachel said even as she pulled away from him. Fear had made her large eyes grow rounder, and Dylan barely suppressed a curse. Scaring her was the last thing he wanted, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that her brother had killed this man. For all he knew, Kincaid was still on the property somewhere, a threat to them all.

And yet for all Rachel knew, Dylan was the threat. He needed to extinguish the fear in Rachel’s eyes. Sometimes only the truth could do that.

“I told you my name is Dylan Rooney, ma’am. What I didn’t tell you is I’m a U.S. Marshal and I’m here on important business.”

Rachel backed farther away from him, her bare feet sinking even deeper in the mud that his boots protected him from. She winced, and once again he held out a hand to provide stability. This time she ignored it, staring at him warily.

“Business that has something to do with what’s happened to Josiah?”

“Could be. I’m not certain.”

“But you think he’s been murdered.”

“That remains to be seen,” Dylan said. She shifted, then winced again, reminding Dylan she’d run out of the house barefoot. She had to be in pain. “Here, let’s get you back up on the horse while we wait for help. No sense in you continuing to beat up your feet if you don’t have to.”

He moved toward her, but she held out her hand. “Stop. You think I’m going to just take your word you’re a cop? That you have any legitimate business being here?”

“I can show you my credentials. Will that help?”

She frowned, then nodded. Slowly, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He held it out and she took it. As soon as she flipped it open, she saw his badge and official ID. Her shoulders seemed to relax somewhat and she held the wallet back out to him. When he’d pocketed it, she turned and started walking toward Ginger, limping the whole time.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let me help you, ma’am. Please.”

She looked up at him, silent and looking a little lost, obviously numb from the shock of finding her ranch hand dead. She didn’t protest when he scooped her up in his arms and walked her the few yards back to Ginger, who was calmly grazing on green grass. Tall as Rachel was, she didn’t weigh much, but she did remain stiff in his arms while he raised her up onto Ginger’s back. Apparently dead bodies had no spook value the way tumbleweeds, bees and the occasional butterfly did, because the horse stood still.

When he settled Rachel onto Ginger’s back, she slumped in the saddle, as if all the strength had seeped out of her bones. “You were spying on us. Josiah? Or me?” she asked, her voice hollow, as if she’d forced the words out using what little energy she had left.

That was an answer he didn’t want to give just yet. Not until after Josiah was dealt with and he knew he’d have some uninterrupted alone time to explain everything to Rachel.

The sounds of sirens in the distance gave him an out. “Will Peter be able to lead the EMTs here?” he asked.

Rachel nodded, then sat up straight, agitation showing in her blanched face. “But I don’t want him to see—”

“I won’t let him near the spring. I’ll make sure he stays back, okay?”

A faint smile of gratitude curved the corners of her lips upward. Dylan realized that was the first time he’d seen even the hint of a smile on the woman’s face.

Rachel Kincaid was beautiful, but when she smiled it made him long for the rest of the world to disappear so he could spend hours simply staring at her.

“Thanks for that,” she murmured. “He’s just a kid. Seeing death at a young age can be so harmful. So destructive.”

Yeah, he knew.

In less than a minute, they heard the voices of the EMTs and he left Rachel to clamber up the gulley, intent on holding Peter back from going to his mom. From seeing Josiah’s body again.

But Peter wasn’t with the EMTs, who said they’d instructed the kid to go back to the house after he’d brought them close enough so they could find their own way to the spring. Silently, Dylan cursed. Now that he’d confirmed Josiah was dead, he was regretting letting the boy go off on his own. He wanted him near. To ensure his safety, yes, but also to settle Rachel’s worry about him.

Dylan showed the EMTs his badge. They confirmed Josiah Pemberly was deceased and made the appropriate calls to the police. Within a few minutes, a deputy from the sheriff’s department showed up. Dylan and the other man, whom Dylan had met days earlier, exchanged tense looks.

Deputy Mark Todd was one of the three sheriff’s deputies Dylan and his team had contacted when they first arrived in town. He knew who Dylan was and why he was here. Thank God he also knew better than to say anything in front of Rachel.

By the time a half hour had crept up and passed them, the deputy had agreed to make sure the body made its way to the medical examiner. He’d also agreed to call in another deputy so they could do a thorough search of the property together.

Dylan walked Ginger back to the house, an emotionally drained Rachel still perched on her back. He’d get her into the shower, bandage up her feet if need be and check in on the kid. Then he planned to see if Rachel had any whiskey in the house, pour her two fingers and tell her why he was in Texas, scoping out her house with high-powered binoculars on the back of a borrowed horse.

The odd thing was, part of him didn’t want to tell her. Instead, he wanted her to smile again. And he wanted to do whatever it took to keep that smile going, not extinguish it.

* * *

Rachel wasn’t sure what to make of Dylan Rooney. Correction: U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. By the way the sheriff’s deputies had deferred to his authority, he appeared to be law enforcement, just as his credentials indicated, but was there truly any reason for him to think Josiah’s death had been the result of foul play? Some reason to think that she needed his help?

Maybe he was simply being paranoid because of the work he did. At least that was what she told herself as the marshal led Ginger, with Rachel in the saddle, back to the ranch. When they got there, he gently lifted her off the horse and put her on the front porch, then told her he’d take off Ginger’s tack and set the mare up in one of the empty corrals.

Rachel immediately went in search of her son. She found Peter sitting on the floor in a corner of his room, his arms wrapped around his knees. “I was right. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Oh, baby,” she whispered, knowing there was no easy way to break the news. Peter had loved Josiah. She fell to her knees beside her son and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Peter, but yes, Josiah’s dead.”

“I knew it,” he choked out. Shooting to his feet, he pushed her arm aside and bolted away.

“Peter,” she called, jumping to her feet to follow him. But her feet hurt and she was blinded by tears and her son was so much faster than she was. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, he’d barreled down them and had slammed out the back door. She had covered her eyes with one hand, choking back sobs, when the front door opened and Dylan Rooney stuck his head in.

“You want me to bring him back?”

She shook her head. Peter often hid out in the huge cottonwood by the creek—he’d always liked to process difficulties alone, and she’d always respected his needs even before she came to understand that because of his ADHD, giving him extra space was important. Now, however, she wanted him by her side. Safe. She’d shower, get some clothes and shoes on, deal with Dylan, then find Peter and keep him with her so they could grieve Josiah’s passing together. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “I—I just need to clean up and then we can talk. You can wait in the living room.”

Before he could reply, she headed into the master bedroom and quickly shut the door behind her. Then she rushed to the bathroom and shut that door behind her, as well. Only then did she lean back against the door and allow herself to break down, trying her best to stifle the sounds of her sorrow. She cried for Josiah, taken too soon. For Peter, who’d seen the stare of death. And she cried for her parents and for Jax. Jax, too, had seen empty, lifeless eyes when he returned home from school and found their parents. She hadn’t been able to protect him from that pain any more than she’d been able to protect her son.

Some mother she was turning out to be.

For the second time in as many hours, she stepped inside the shower and let the cool water wash her clean. Her feet were a mess, cut by the sharp stones she’d run across on her way to comfort her crying son, then sliced again by the knife-sharp reeds at the spring. Jackson Pollock-ish designs were painted in gray clay from her feet to her calves.

Numbly, Rachel stared at the water sluicing down the drain and, even though part of her hated herself for it, her thoughts drifted to the practicalities of Josiah’s death. After her husband Phillip’s death so long ago, the only way she’d been able to afford a ranch hand was that Josiah had been happy to do extra chores for a place to sleep and three meals a day. He’d been with her for years, and was the only alpaca shearer her flock tolerated. Between her and Josiah, they’d been able to shear the entire flock in a couple of days. With spring upon them and shearing season right around the corner, she’d have to find some way to come up with the money to hire a professional outfit.

Money she didn’t know where she’d find. Money had always been scarce; Phillip’s parents were still alive, adored Peter and would help if they could, but they barely got by on a minimal fixed income as it was. Rachel had used what little money she’d had in her bank account for Jax’s appeal. Her friend Julia had insisted on taking on Jax’s second appeal pro bono, but even with Julia offering her services for free, money was tight. And Josiah had no one in his life besides her and Peter—she’d need to pay for a funeral. It was the least she could do to pay homage to a man who’d been a loyal employee for years. A man who’d tried to steer her son right when Peter acted out. A man who hadn’t deserved to die.

A man who, according to a U.S. marshal, could have been murdered.

Broken and choked sobs wrenched their way out from her body, the harsh sounds clashing with the soft raindrop lullaby of the shower spray. Her legs turned to jelly and she dropped to the tiled floor of the shower with a crash.

Strength seemed to have left her, so she sat, knees tucked in tight under her chin and arms wrapped around her shins, and sobbed. She closed her eyes, only to see Josiah’s vacant stare as he lay in the green reeds, his blue-checkered shirt covered in wet mud. “No, no, no,” she choked out, repeating the word until it became a mantra. Something that took her away from this place. Something that let her drift away from conscious thought, into the ether of nothingness where she could feel no stress, no pain. No fear.

“Rachel.”

Dimly, through the fog of pain and anguish, she became aware of someone calling her name.

“Rachel.”

There it was again. Her name. Spoken in a soft, male voice. A voice full of compassion and sorrow. A voice close by.

She forced her eyes open to see the shadow of a tall form standing outside the steamed-up glass shower walls.

U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. In her private bathroom. Invading her space. How dare the man? “Get out,” she managed to say. Instinctively, she cringed, then realized she was curled into herself, all the important stuff covered up, even if he could see anything more than her shadow through the foggy glass.

“I heard a thump and you crying out. Are you all right?”

“My son just saw his first dead body, and you told me my ranch hand and friend has possibly been murdered. No, I’m not okay.”

Silence followed her statement. Finally Dylan spoke again. “I meant, are you okay physically? I want to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffed.

“Yeah, right, and I’m Santa Claus,” he muttered. A deep exhale of breath followed his words, and then he said, “I guess you sound okay. When you’re done crying—I mean, when you’re done taking a shower—I’ll be in your kitchen. We need to talk,” he said, his voice grim. “You need to know why I’m here. And why I think Josiah may have been murdered.”

With dread, Rachel listened as he walked out of the bathroom.

Her mother had always told her to be careful what she wished for. Learning the truth about why U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney was here was what she’d wanted.

But now she wasn’t so sure. Now she’d give almost anything to believe he really had been bird-watching...and she desperately wished he’d turn around and leave—not just her house, but her ranch— just as abruptly as he’d appeared.

Chapter 4

Rachel stared at the man who’d claimed to want to help her only to then deliver the killing blow that might finally defeat her. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you. Jax would never have escaped prison.”

Rachel’s heartbeat thudded so heavily her chest ached. She glared at Dylan, who sat across her kitchen table, flicking a thumbnail against the rough-hewn wood. Her father had made the table when she and Jax were young. Jax had insisted on using the hand planer and ended up slicing off the tip of his finger, right on the spot Dylan was toying with.

Innocent, sweet Jax, who’d followed their father around as though their dad was his own personal hero. Rachel knew that sweet boy was still inside her brother even though he’d refused to show him in the past year. Even though he’d confessed to police that he’d knowingly transported drugs across state lines, a crime that had landed him a prison sentence.

According to police, Jax had been contacted by someone who’d heard he was looking to make a quick buck. All Jax had to do was drive a package from Texas to east L.A., give the package to the man at the drop site, receive a package in return and drive back to Texas. All for two thousand bucks and the cost of gas. He’d been told the package contained vital documents needed for signatures to sell some high-level computer tech company to a big conglomeration. But he’d known better than that. He’d known the package contained drugs.

When he’d arrived at the drop site, men with guns came storming into the warehouse. Jax had managed to escape and had hopped a freighter back to Texas.

Rachel hadn’t known any of this was happening. Jax had told her he was going out of town to look for work. She’d been so proud of him she’d been willing to let him go off for a few days, even though the ranch desperately needed his help.

Then DEA agents and the local sheriff, Howard Ryan, had arrived at the ranch a few days after Jax had taken off, scaring the hell out of her and Peter with their guns and yelling and stomping about. The sheriff had found Jax near the barn and handed him off to the DEA. With her crying and begging them for information, the agents had handcuffed her brother and hauled him away, leaving her with unanswered questions. Jax had refused to look at her. He’d refused to say one word to her. After he’d confessed, he’d refused to say another word to the police.

The last time she’d seen her brother was the day of his sentencing, before they took him away. The two times she’d tried to visit him in prison, he refused to see her.

She didn’t know why—whether he was ashamed of what had happened to him or whether he blamed her for his troubles. One thing was for sure in her mind—Jax’s confession had to have been coerced.

No matter how bad things looked, she had faith in her brother. He was a good man. And he had to know Rachel was doing everything in her power to get him out of prison—legally. He’d never put everything she’d done for him on the line by escaping his prison sentence.

Numbly, she stared at the bottle of whiskey and two tumblers Dylan had placed on the table. He’d obviously thought she’d need something to soften the news he was about to give her. The mistaken news, she told herself again. He was wrong about Jax. He had to be.

“There must have been a mix-up in the head count or something,” she insisted. “The wrong name answered during roll call. Jax didn’t run off.”

“Rachel,” Dylan said, setting an elbow on the table and leaning closer to her. “Your brother’s a fugitive. Has been for a few days now even though we’ve managed to keep his name out of the press. The U.S. marshals—including my team back in California—got the notification he was being transported from High Desert State Prison to San Quentin for overcrowding when he escaped custody. I’m the one who ended up stuck out here on top of Ginger with binoculars glued to my face and no bathroom for miles, on the off chance Jackson turned up.”

“And what were you planning on doing if he did?” she asked, anger revving her words to a fast tempo.

“The same thing I’m still planning to do. Watch and wait until capturing him doesn’t present a danger to you or your son, then nab him and bring him back into custody.”

“What do you mean wait until capturing him doesn’t present a danger to me or Peter? Were you planning to come in with guns blazin’? Have the big shoot-out at the O.K. Corral on my property?”

Instead of answering, Dylan stared at her, holding her gaze with his. She’d noticed before how startlingly blue his eyes were, but the expression he held now, one mixed with pity, compassion and a hint of fury, made the blue seem all that brighter. He shifted, and his plaid snap-front strained against the breadth of his shoulders. Under different circumstances, she’d label him a hunk. If she’d met him at the grocery store or the post office, she’d probably check for a wedding ring. And if she was being completely honest, she’d admit she’d already done the labeling and checking several times.