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.”
3
* * *
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 mutt?
Joe couldn’t lose that dog. 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. Skye’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?”
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.
“Skye? 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 Skye 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.
He gripped her firmly by her forearm, helping her over slimy rocks where brutally cold water already swirled. The mammoth cavern ate the ineffectual beam of light. Incoming sea slapped the rocks.
“Bud!” he called.
No answer.
“He’ll be all right,” she said.
“You can’t know that.”
“No, but I want to believe it, and sometimes that makes all the difference.”
That was just the kind of Pollyanna crap he’d have expected from someone like her.
He knew firsthand that sometimes, no matter how hard a person hoped for certain events to happen, people and dogs don’t return from the dead. He held the light high, searching again for the red glow of his pet’s eyes.
“There,” she said, taking hold of the situation by splashing through the water to the rear of the cave, then scrambling over more algae-covered rocks. “Shine the light this way,” she cried. “I’ve nearly reached him.”
Joe did as he was told.
“Hey, Bud,” she softly crooned. “Remember me? Your new roomie?”
The dog let out a scratchy whimper.
“How is he?” Joe stood frozen to the spot. “Can you get him?”
“Oh…oh, God.”
“What? What does that mean?” Though he asked the question, Joe didn’t want the answer. Sure, the dog might be alive now, but that could be a temporary thing.
“There’s…blood. Everywhere. And his right front leg, from the way he’s got it positioned, I…I hope it’s not broken.”
The dog was going to die.
Cold misery washed through Joe, replacing the blood in his veins with ice. Hadn’t he already been through enough?
“Come on, Bud,” the marshal said, her voice sounding faraway and gentle, so gentle. “I know it hurts, but you’ve got to let me get you out of there. That’s it,” she crooned. “Good boy. Oh, you’re gonna kiss me now, are you? Thank you. A girl can never have too many kisses.”
Listen to her, rambling on. Give it up, lady, the dog’s a goner.
“Great job.” Despite his internal warning, she persisted in comforting the dog. “I knew you could do it. Oh, thank you, more kisses, huh? You’re a sweetie pie, aren’t you? What a good boy. That’s it, just a little farther.”
Why was she doing this? Teasing him by making him believe the mutt had even a chance at being all right?
As if speaking to a child, she’d lowered her voice to a hypnotic, deceptively seductive tone. Over and over she crooned sweet nothings to the dog, assuring him that he would be fine because she had come to save him. How long had it been since Joe had heard a woman speak like that?
How long had it been since he’d wanted to?
Hot tears sliced the cold in his cheeks, dredging gullies in his fear.
Why couldn’t he be anywhere but this stupid cave? In here, the seduction of her strength, her compassion, echoed off the walls and the rocks and the water, filling a small corner of his mind and spirit with the crazy notion that maybe she was right. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe her words didn’t only apply to the dog, but to himself.
“Joe,” she cried, “I’ve got him. I just need your help to pull both of us out.”
No. She no more had his dog than he had his sanity.
“Joe, please. Help. The water’s rising.”
He swallowed hard, willed his legs to move, promised that if she helped see Bud through to safety, he’d cut her some slack.
She’d wedged herself into the crevice, and he set the flashlight on a protruding rock while settling his hands about her hips. While he pulled, she cradled his dog. Bud’s blood was smeared on her face and in great dark splotches across her coat. Yet for all the gruesomeness of that image, it contrasted sharply with the brilliance of her smile.
“Whew, thanks,” she said. “It was getting a little close in there.”
He helped her perch on one of the rocks, thinking the dog seemed ridiculously large in her arms.
“You’re smiling,” he said, more to himself than her.
“Well, yeah. Bud’s pretty banged up, but I don’t think that leg’s broken, after all. The bleeding was coming from this impressive gash.” She parted the fur on the dog’s left front leg to show him. A clean cut about five inches long looked crusty with blood. Tangled and matted into the dog’s fur were bits of dried algae, leaves and twigs. “I brought a first aid kit. When we get back to the cabin, I’ll fix this up. Maybe numb it, then stitch it a couple times. With rest, he should be right as rain.”
Her message sounded too good to be true.
“How do you know something’s not broken?” he said. “Or bleeding internally? And how would you know how to give a dog stitches?”
Settling her chin companionably atop Bud’s head, she cocked her own head and grinned.
The angelic sight took Joe’s breath away.
Mussed as she was by the events of the long night, she still looked beautiful.
Wholesome.
Alive. So very alive.
In the dim light, her eyes sparkled. Strands of tousled blond hair clung to her cheeks. “What do you mean, how do I know?”
It took a second to get past his unexpected appraisal of her appearance and remember what their conversation had been about. “The stitches. How would you know how to give the dog stitches? How do you know he doesn’t have more serious injuries?”
A cloud passed over her features and he wished he could take back the words. Had he always been such a grouch?
“Give me some credit. As for the stitches, I have had a little first aid training, you know. As for how I know Bud’s not more seriously injured…” She shrugged. “I don’t know how I know. I just do. Something about his eyes. It’s a gut feel kind of thing.”
And judging by the sincerity in her face, she was telling the truth. She truly didn’t know, and he liked that.
Earlier, Joe had vowed that if she helped rescue Bud he would in turn cut her some slack. She’d fulfilled her half of the bargain, so why wasn’t at least part of his quivery sense of relief caused
by gratitude for her good work? Why did he still feel so empty inside and cold?
“Hello? Earth to Joe.” She waved her slender, bloodstained hand in front of his face. “Just because we’ve got the dog doesn’t mean we’re out of trouble. Have you seen the rising tide?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
Dark, churning sea choked the cave’s mouth. There was no telling if the inky black was inches or feet deep. With the strong currents and frigid water temperature, it’d be crazy to attempt to make it out that night.
“Come on,” he said, gently scooping Bud from Gillian’s cradled arms. Gillian. At the very least, he owed her the simple courtesy of calling her by name.
In the flashlight’s dimming glow, fear came alive in her eyes. “We’re not going to swim through that, are we?”
“No,” he said, already on the move. Leading more by memory than actual sight, he stepped onto the nearest boulder, praying he wouldn’t slip on the slick seaweed. He landed with a jolt, and the dog in his arms whimpered. “Sorry, boy. We’ll be there soon.”
“Be where?” she inquired from behind him, shining the light over his shoulder.
He shouted above the crack of waves against rock. “We’re going back to where you found Bud. You can push Bud through the hole he fell through, then climb up yourself.” He paused to gauge her reaction to his plan, but she’d stopped.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“You’ll never fit through that hole. How are you getting out?”
“I’m not.”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.”
“Joe…” She held out her hands, a feeble attempt to show him the danger of their surroundings. Her one word said it all.
To stay in the cave would be deadly.
He knew it.
She knew it.
“Go on,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be all right.”
“The hell you will.”
A cold wave slapped Joe’s right foot and the numbing water seeped through his boot, wetting his thick wool sock, slithering like an icy vine around his ankle.
U.S. Marshals: Hunted (U.S. Marshals Book 1) Page 3
