U.S. Marshals: Hunted (U.S. Marshals Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  From between the pine boughs, Joe saw Bud saunter to the woman’s side, nudging his nose up under her hand in an attempt to get himself a pat.

  Oh, but she did far more than just pat the dog.

  She cupped her hand about the silky portion of his head beside his ear and smoothed her fingers across the same place over and over. That was Joe’s favorite spot to rub the dog. The fur there was perfectly smooth, almost downy in its consistency.

  The fur was his.

  The dog was his.

  The island was his.

  “If you’d like,” the marshal said, “I could make us something to eat. I make mean scrambled eggs.”

  As if cued, his stomach growled. It’d been hours since his last meal.

  “Joe,” she said, “I know this must be awful for you. I mean…” She flopped her hands at her sides. “Here you’ve been, thinking this whole ordeal was over, when yet again it rears its ugly head….”

  Over.

  Yes.

  It was all supposed to be over.

  Funny, though, how it didn’t feel over when he wanted to hold his daughter so bad he could scream, but didn’t dare go near her more than once every couple of months for fear of her meeting the same fate as her mother.

  No matter the personal cost, Meggie had been through enough. It was his duty, as her dad, to protect her—yet he was the source of the potential danger.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” the woman said, “with all the marshals assigned to your case.”

  Damn straight.

  “But Joe, the fact of the matter is that we need you. I need you. I hate this guy as much as you do. He killed four of my best friends.” She stepped closer, off the trail and into tall, winter-dulled weeds.

  A sudden breeze whipped strands of her hair in her face, making her look softer, prettier, than a female marshal should. And he hated her all over again for that—for looking so vibrant and alive when his wife was—

  “I saw your propane fridge, so I’m assuming you have the basics?”

  Not knowing—not caring—if she could see him or not, he nodded.

  “I’m great at garbage can casseroles, too,” she said. “You know, concoctions made out of the stuff in the fridge that should probably just go in the trash, but I’m too cheap to throw out.”

  She’d passed the tumble of moss-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. He wanted her to be quiet, but at the same time, found himself straining to catch her next words.

  How long had it been since he’d heard anyone’s voice, let alone a woman’s?

  “French toast is another of my specialties, but I’m guessing you probably don’t have any syrup.”

  Confused not by her question, but his need to answer, he said, “No. No syrup.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Just so happens, I brought my own. We had no idea how you were set for supplies, and since I eat like a lumberjack, I brought plenty of everything.”

  “Where is it? Your stuff?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

  “Down at the dock. I figured my being here would be enough of a jolt to your system without you catching sight of all of my junk, too.”

  He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your sat phone 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 call 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.”

  2

  * * *

  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 phone we could use to tell anyone about a change in plans.”

  “You and I both know that’s a crock.” He shoved 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-Skye thumped his tail against the tent wall.

  * * *

  Joe yanked the living room curtains shut with such force, the old rod holding them sagged.

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

  She had a sat phone or 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 si
lver 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. “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 stripper 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 his dead wife.

  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.”