Texas Stakeout

She mentally chided herself when her gaze once again dipped to his left hand. His ringless left hand. Damn it! This was not some friendly guy seated next to her at a Back to School Night. This man was the enemy.

She pushed her glass forward and waited as Dylan unstoppered the alcohol and poured her a drink, then used a finger to push it back across the wooden table to her. Despite wanting to down the entire glass in one gulp, she forced herself to sip elegantly, letting the firewater drift down the back of her throat, wishing she could be sharing the drink with Josiah. Tears filled her eyes and she tipped her head upward. She cried easily, always had, but she didn’t want He-Man to see her tears. Not after he’d watched her sob, naked, on the floor of her shower. Granted, the glass of the shower surround had been so fogged Dylan hadn’t actually seen her naked. But still...

Dylan cleared his throat. “I don’t understand why you think it’s so unbelievable your brother would run from the law. He’s a convict.”

“A convict who was falsely accused. A convict whose case is under appeal. A convict who will win that appeal and be fully acquitted.”

Dylan shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing hers. “You can’t possibly be that naive, Rachel.”

“And you can’t possibly claim to know me. Just because you did the whole gallant-knight thing today, riding in on a charger, coming to the rescue, doesn’t make you the good guy. It doesn’t make you right.”

The corner of his mouth tipped upward in a crooked smile. “So I was a gallant knight, then?”

Funny how that curl relieved some of the tension of the day. The man probably made women melt and teenage girls swoon. But Rachel was far from a teenager, and she wasn’t in a melting or swooning mood. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to rip Dylan’s head off for being against her brother or spend the night crying into her pillow over Josiah’s death.

She let out a deep sigh, allowing the alcohol to blur her emotions, smooth the jagged edges. But then a thought suddenly occurred to her, and the jagged emotions were back with a vengeance.

“Josiah,” she breathed. “You implied he might have been murdered. You can’t possibly think...”

But he did. She could see it in his eyes.

“Josiah fell,” she said baldly.

“Maybe,” Dylan said. “Maybe not.”

She stood abruptly. “I think you’ve said all you needed to say. My brother’s escaped, and he might be on his way here. The U.S. marshals have my place staked out. Now I need to find my son and go about our evening chores. Tomorrow’s a big day—I have a funeral to start planning, and I need to figure out how to hire a ranch hand I can’t afford. So I think it’s time I thank you for your help with our crisis today.” She gestured to the front door.

The man remained seated.

“Seriously, did you not get what I said? I’d like you to leave now.”

He nodded. “I heard you. And yes, I understood the subtext without the need for added direction. But I’m not leaving. Not until you understand what kind of threat your brother truly represents. Not until you understand that you and your son may be in mortal danger from Jackson Kincaid.”

* * *

Dylan figured no one wanted to hear someone they loved could hurt them, but he’d seen too many instances of domestic violence not to know that sometimes the ones you loved the deepest were the ones who could cause the most harm. He also figured Rachel Kincaid had heard and experienced all she should have to in one day. Unfortunately he couldn’t give her the reprieve he wanted to.

He had a duty to the citizens of the United States to keep them safe.

Justice. Integrity. Service.

The motto of the U.S. marshals wasn’t simply words on letterhead. Those words meant something to him. If he did his job, fugitives were brought to justice. He did his job with integrity, respecting the rights of all concerned, be it family, victim or the fugitive himself. And he did it all for personal satisfaction, yes, but mostly to be of service—to his country and to its inhabitants.

Right now being of service meant convincing Rachel Kincaid her brother could harm her.

He wished he didn’t have to. The woman had gotten under his skin in just a few hours. If he were a lesser man, he’d say his connection to her was simply physical. The woman was a looker, no doubt. And although those glass walls in her shower had been steamed up pretty well, he’d seen the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her naked hip, when he went to check on her.

But he knew there was more to his feelings for Rachel than physical attraction. He admired her. She certainly put up with a lot from her son. Before that... According to the files he’d read, she’d taken over running the ranch when her parents died, and had raised her younger brother, Jackson. He’d been ten and she’d just turned eighteen. She’d quit college and moved back to the ranch. Six months later she’d married a local boy—Phillip Wright—who’d killed himself a few years later in a drunk driving incident, leaving Rachel a widow with a three-year-old son to raise even as her teenage brother got himself into more and more trouble. She’d been struggling to do the right thing for all of them ever since.

“I know you raised him, Rachel. That you were little more than a child yourself when your parents died. You had your hands full with him, didn’t you?” he asked.

She shot him a hard look. “Jax was like any other teenager. He got screwed by life and screwed things up in response.”

“Detention throughout high school. He didn’t even graduate—had to take his GED. Then two DUIs and a few minor drug busts followed. All that I could see blaming on losing his parents so young. Typical messed-up kid stuff.”

“So?” Rachel snapped at him.

He paused before going on. “Then a B-and-E that he got a light sentence on because he was a juvie. Then another B-and-E. Again, maybe you could blame the loss of your parents on him acting out. Being stupid. But then there was the bust for possession of marijuana for sale. His first potential felony. He got off on that one on a technicality. Still sounding like a screwed-up kid to you?”

Rachel sagged back down in her chair and let her hands fall into her lap. She stared at the floor. He followed her gaze to the cracked checkerboard floor tile that had her transfixed. At least she was listening. Not running. Not fighting.

He sucked in a deep breath. Time to wake up Rachel Kincaid. “But what convinces me he isn’t some stupid screwed-up kid anymore was the drug deal gone south. Your brother took a job delivering heroin to a drug dealer in Los Angeles. When the DEA showed up to raid the place— Well, you know what happened.” He let his words hang in the air.

“Jax never had a chance to fix the tile,” Rachel said, dully, still staring at the floor. “That week Peter had the flu. We needed money desperately—I couldn’t even afford to take Peter to the doctor. I was exhausted, trying to tend to Peter and the livestock. Jax was trying to help. He was making me a sandwich when he dropped the mayo jar and shattered that tile there.” She nodded to the broken tile. “Three days later he was arrested. Poor Jax. He hadn’t even turned twenty before he was taken from me and now he’s barely twenty-one. He’s spent the past year in prison. He’s been without his friends. His family...”

“Rachel,” he said softly, “Jax isn’t a victim. He admitted he knew what he was doing. He confessed. His first appeal was rejected for that very reason.”

She raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes nearly as dull as Josiah’s earlier in the day. “He was harassed into giving that confession. Scared.”

They stared at each other until Dylan sighed. The day had settled into evening. His teammate Eric Haynes had the night shift and would probably already be in position to spy on the ranch. No sense in staying any later. He didn’t want to ride Ginger back to Aaron’s ranch in the dark.

Besides, if Rachel was naive enough to believe her brother wasn’t the drug-dealing scumbag he knew the kid to be, he knew nothing he could say right now would change her mind. Hell, his own mother had been handed irrefutable proof that his brother was bad to the core, time and time again, and she’d never accepted it, even up to the day she died.

“I can see you’ve got your mind made up about Jax. But sooner or later, Rachel, you’re going to have to face the truth.” Dylan stood and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice catching in her throat.

Hand on the door handle, he stopped. “The Sleep-E-Z Motorcoach Lodge.”

“So the U.S. Marshals will be leaving me alone now?”

“Nope. The sheriff’s deputies swept your property—it’s clear. They’re gone, but my teammate Eric is already in place. He’ll keep watch until I show back up in the morning.”

“Jax is a good kid,” she stated. “He’s innocent. And if he did escape, and I’m not saying he did, he must have had a good reason, if only that he was scared.”

At that, he turned and caught her gaze with his. “A good reason? He—” He bit off his words. He was pretty certain that Rachel would collapse under the weight of any more bad news. He’d be back to tell her the rest of the story. Until then, maybe some rest would enable her to see reason come morning. So Dylan contented himself with saying, “Good night, Ms. Kincaid.” He stepped outside into the humid Texas evening air, frustration crawling around inside his skin. As he slammed the door behind him, he heard a crash and the breaking of glass.

Then he heard her crying.

Again.

He stood there a long time before he found the will to walk away.

Chapter 5

After Dylan Rooney left, Rachel threw herself a very brief pity party and then went looking for her son. Just in case he’d snuck back inside without her knowing it, she combed the inside of the house first. When that proved fruitless, she headed outside and to his favorite tree. Down at the creek, even with dusk not yet set and cool light still diffusing the air, Rachel could tell the cottonwood’s branches hung empty. No Peter.

She called Peter’s name, but only the trickle of the creek and the rise and swell of the cricket and frog chorus rose around her. A nearby bullfrog stopped its low bellow, but no boy’s voice responded. She doubted Peter was in the barn—the grass hay gave him allergies—but she’d try there.

She’d crumbled when she saw Josiah’s dead body. Peter had to be freaking out. He liked to be alone when he got upset, but still, this was going on too long.

Fifteen minutes later, with all the light from the fading dusk gone, she headed back to the house. Peter hadn’t been in the barn, either. Nor in the toolshed, or in the woodshed or in any of the corrals.

Upstairs, she paused in front of his closed bedroom door. She’d deliberately left it open before she headed outside to look for him. Relief swamped through her even as she braced herself and knocked on the door. “Peter?” No answer. She knocked again. “Peter, honey, I know you’re upset, but we need to talk. Peter?” When there was still no answer, she opened the door.

She let out a cry of dismay upon seeing it was still empty. Immediately she saw the piece of paper propped on Peter’s pillow. There, in Peter’s dismal scrawl, was a note addressed to her.

Mom. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was shooting the BB gun. I think I killed Josiah. I don’t deserve to live here and decided to be a railroad bum. I have a hat and extra socks and I took five dollars from the cookie jar. I’ll pay you back some day. Your son, Peter Kincaid.

An empty ache filled her heart as she realized what Peter must have felt, thinking he’d shot Josiah. She’d seen the wound on Josiah’s head. No BB could have done that kind of damage. It had never dawned on her that Peter could have assumed he’d killed a man.

“Oh, God, Peter,” she murmured, staring at the note she now held in her hand. She’d thought she was doing the right thing by leaving her son alone to work through his pain, when she really should have been seeking him out, making sure he was okay. Instead, she’d spent time wallowing in her own grief and arguing with a U.S. Marshal over her brother.

What kind of mother was she?

And where the hell was the rulebook on how to be a parent? Why didn’t kids come with a user’s guide?

Within minutes she called the sheriff’s department and reported Peter missing. The call didn’t go well. Sheriff Ryan expressed frustration over how many times Peter had run off in the past few years and how many times he’d been caught trespassing. Disturbed by the edge of warning in the lawman’s voice, Rachel listened with growing trepidation and worry for her son, then called her best friend, Julia. Her brother—and now maybe even her son—needed a lawyer.

Rachel needed more than that.

She needed a friend. A break. A hint of hope that her life was finally going to take an upward swing.

But given everything that had happened today, given everything that U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney had told her, she couldn’t imagine her life going anywhere but completely downhill.

Hours later, morning brought bright Texas sunlight streaming through Rachel’s kitchen window, but there was still no sign of Peter. She’d searched the surrounding area of the ranch until it got dark, and then she’d paced and worried and paced some more, praying for her son to come home. He’d run off before, but never for this long. The sheriff had called just over an hour ago, indicating his men had searched her property and the adjacent land—no signs of Peter.

Peter knew how to take care of himself, but Rachel’s mom Spidey senses had the creepy crawlies making their way up her spine. Even if Josiah hadn’t been murdered, Texas hosted a number of bad things that went bump in the night. Rattlesnakes, cougars, scorpions and brown recluse spiders. And the occasional bad guy. Scary stuff she didn’t want to think about. Not with her son out there, alone and thinking he’d killed a man.

Rachel busied herself making two foaming lattes. One for her, and one for Julia. Thank God for Julia, who’d shown up fifteen minutes after Rachel called her, then taken over with lawyerly efficiency, querying Rachel about U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney’s presence and why Peter had run off. Then she’d shoved Rachel in the direction of her bedroom and promised to bed the alpacas down. Of course, Rachel hadn’t slept a wink, but she didn’t tell Julia that.

“Thanks again for spending the night,” Rachel said, handing over Julia’s latte. There wasn’t anything she could do to find Peter, and until she heard otherwise, she had to assume he was okay. She needed, however, to distract her mind from her worry, and working on Jax’s case would help. “Did you find anything out?” She nodded to the open laptop on the kitchen table.

“Some,” her friend said, blowing on the foam of her drink. “According to the internet, this guy Dylan Rooney is who he says he is. U.S. Marshal. Part of a special ops team.”

“What makes him so special?” Rachel asked. Besides his wide shoulders, long legs and tendency to rescue kids and widows in need. She gave herself a mental smack. This marshal might be sexy as sin, but he was still after her brother. That meant he might have rescued them, but not because he’d wanted to keep them safe. He’d done it because he wanted something else. He wanted her brother, and she and Peter were just means to an end.

“His team usually goes after the really bad guys. International drug cartel kind of people. I’m surprised they’re interested in Jax. Yeah, the bust was big and two people were injured, but it’s not like Jax held the smoking gun or anything.”

“Have you found out anything about an escape?”

Julia grimaced. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I wish I had different news. But according to prison officials, Jax managed to escape during transport and the only reason they told me that is that I’m on record as his lawyer. He really got himself into a world of trouble with this escapade. Legally, he’s screwed himself, big-time.”

Rachel groaned and slumped against the refrigerator, letting the metal cool her skin. How was it she’d failed her brother so badly after their parents died? “How bad is it for his appeal that Jax took off?”

“Bad. Completely, totally, I-really–hope-there’s-been-some-kind–of-mistake bad.”

“There’s no mistake,” a male voice boomed out. “Jackson Kincaid is bad news. And if you want to keep yourselves and Peter safe, you need to accept that right now.”

* * *

Dylan knew he shouldn’t be staring, but wow—Rachel Kincaid had excellent legs. Dressed in purple cotton sleep shorts and a white ribbed tank, barefoot yet again, and even with her hair in a wild and disheveled ponytail, she looked delicious. His gaze traveled up her legs to meet hers.

She looked delicious and pissed.

And she wasn’t moving from where she leaned against her refrigerator, giving him the glare of death. Only her body had tensed, tightened. As if she were expecting a fight.

“Planning on letting me in, or doesn’t Southern hospitality extend this far west?” he asked, grabbing the handle of the latched screen door and giving it a rattle.

“Southern hospitality is reserved for gentlemen. And since you’re staring like a largemouth bass at a lady in her pj’s, you’re obviously no gentleman,” Rachel snapped out.

She’d shown some backbone yesterday, too, although the ordeal with the dead ranch hand had about done her in. Tough exterior, soft heart, he thought, remembering how devastated she’d been, crying for her friend in the shower. And how heart-wrenching her sobs had sounded as he’d stood outside her door, wanting nothing more than to stride back inside, gather her in his arms, and comfort her.

“Seriously, though, we need to talk about your brother. I’m happy to wait outside while you dress.” There. Gentlemanly behavior, right?

Ignoring him, Rachel headed up the stairs. The woman Dylan hadn’t been able to see popped around the corner and unlatched the screen door and held it open.

“I’m Julia Rickel,” she said. “I know why you’re here. I’m Rachel and Jax’s attorney. And Rachel’s best friend.”

“U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. Rachel’s...well...” Rachel’s what? Yesterday, she’d sarcastically referred to his knight-in–shining-armor routine. And that was before he’d told her that her brother was out to get her. Before she’d flipped on him and thrown a bottle of booze at what most likely was his head. “Rachel’s nemesis.”

Julia flashed him a quick grin, then stuck her hand out. He shook it, noting the lawyer’s strong grip. She looked to be about ten years older than Rachel. Nice looking, with short brown hair and a trim figure, and with very much a lawyer-type attitude, he realized as she checked him out just as thoroughly.

“Mind if I grill you while you wait for Rachel?” she asked, pulling her hand away and then motioning for him to sit at the rough-hewn kitchen table.

No polite chitchat for this woman. But if she was truly Jackson’s lawyer, he probably couldn’t say much in front of her. “Grill away,” he said, anyway.

“What on God’s green earth made you stake out the Kincaid place on horseback? And on Ginger, of all horses?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We didn’t want to call attention to ourselves. Aaron Jacobson had a notice in the paper that he rented out horses, so the team’s operations officer rented one for me, saying I was a bird-watcher.”

“Lame,” Julia said, then focused her attention on her laptop.

“Completely lame,” Rachel agreed, walking back into the room, this time wearing shorts that covered just an inch or two more than the other ones had, and a bra under her tank.

“Agreed,” he said, bringing his gaze from her rounded breasts up to her face. “I would have gone for a hiker so I could have stayed on foot. But at least Ginger got me down the ridge and to your place when Peter started hollering. My partner, Eric, told me some sheriff’s deputies came back to search for Peter. They told him he has a habit of running off. He’s not back yet?”

Rachel’s eyes welled up with tears and her muscles seemed to lose their strength, contradicting her earlier rigidity. “No.”

She turned and crossed the kitchen, then opened the refrigerator door, as if looking for ingredients. But he could see her swipe at her eyes. Once again, the woman was crying.

“Look, if he runs off a lot, then—”

“He doesn’t run off ‘a lot,’” she snapped out, slamming the refrigerator door shut and glaring at him, but tears still glistened in her eyes. “But in addition to being a kid and needing some space sometimes, he’s got ADHD. We’ve been working on different coping skills and it helps being able to run. To move. He knows this land. He always finds his way back safely, but...”

“But he’s grieving,” he said quietly.

“More than that. He came back when I didn’t know it, but only to grab some things and write me a note. He thinks he killed Josiah with his BB gun.”

Holy hell. Dylan shifted on the bench seat. The kid thought he’d killed someone with a BB gun? Those things could maybe take out an eye, but not a human. “The M.E. called late last night. Cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage. Although we don’t yet know if he fell or was hit in the head, I can assure you, your kid and his BB gun had nothing to do with Josiah’s death.”

“I never thought Peter shot Josiah,” she snapped out. “He fell. He hit his head. End of story.”

“It’s just the beginning actually. He could have been murdered. The coroner’s running more tests. If Jackson is here, there should be—”

“Jax,” Rachel ground out, her face going red. “His name is Jax. No one calls him Jackson. And you’re not going to find any evidence that he’s here or that he killed Josiah. How many times do I need to tell you he’s innocent?” Her words revved up, adrenaline ramping up the speed. “Get it through your thick head—even if my brother escaped, he did it because he was scared. Jax is not a killer.”

He waited, allowing her time to calm down, to get her emotions back in check. Quickly, he shot a glance at Julia. Jackson—Jax’s—lawyer. Like him, she sat on the bench seat, only she’d pulled her knees up to her chin. Her fingers had stopped their dancing across the keyboard and instead she stared at the screen as though riveted. Interesting. Had the lawyer found out the real reason Dylan was there? Did she now know what he knew?

What Rachel obviously didn’t know?

If she did, that meant the information had finally leaked to the press.

“I raised him,” Rachel said, breaking the silence, pulling his attention back to her. “Whatever decisions Jax made, I led him there. I know he’s not perfect. But if he’s made mistakes, it’s partially my fault.”

Dylan snorted. Barely stopped himself from cursing and snapping at her. She was acting just like his mother. Making excuses for someone else’s bad behavior. Blaming herself. “Listen to me—”

On the other side of the table from him, Julia snapped her laptop shut and rose to her feet. “Rachel,” she said, sliding the laptop under her arm and coming around to face her friend. “How long will you keep taking the blame for what Jax did? And are you really going to take the blame for what he’s done now?”

“So he ran away from jail. I know that’s bad, but it’s not like he’s killed anyone.”

“You have to tell her,” Julia said.

Dylan caught the woman’s full-on glare. Worry and not a small amount of anger shone in her eyes.

Justice. Integrity. Service. Those words meant something to him.

Neither Rachel nor Julia could see that. Rachel was worried about her son and brother. Julia was worried about her friend—with good reason. He wasn’t here to hold the hand of a widow who refused to accept her brother was dangerous.

Even so, what he had to say was going to devastate Rachel. He had to tell her, if only to get her to take this situation seriously. To take him seriously.

He had no other choice.

Chapter 6