Saving Joe (U.S. Marshals, Born And Bred Book 1)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “Not a half-bad plan.” He raised his eyebrows. “Think it’d work?”

  She shook her head. “I’m small, but speedy.”

  WHILE GILLIAN MANNED the stove, waiting for the French toast to brown, she was acutely aware of Joe standing beside her.

  He took three peaches from a pottery bowl on the counter. Held them under the faucet. As cool water ran over his hands, her fingertips tingled. After turning off the faucet, then drying the fruit with a worn red dishrag, he grasped the peaches with just the right amount of strength to hold them steady while he sliced them. Gillian wondered if he’d hold a woman like that.

  Strong, but not crushing?

  Swallowing hard, she focused on the toast.

  He reached into the cabinet for two plates, then divvied up the slices between them.

  The French toast was soon done, and after heating syrup in a small saucepan, then dashing out to her tent for the bag of powdered sugar she’d added to her supplies at the last minute—despite knowing the ribbing she’d get if her fellow marshals ever found out—they finally sat down to eat.

  One bite, and Joe was gone.

  He closed his eyes and groaned.

  Whenever he stayed on the island, his diet mainly consisted of canned goods, and stuff like macaroni and cheese that he could make with canned milk. The wife of the guy who stocked and cleaned the cabin occasionally threw in extras like the peaches. Carl—that was the guy’s name—had once said his wife worried about Joe, being all alone out here.

  Joe looked up to catch Gillian smiling. “What?”

  “You. You finished your plate and all but licked it clean in, like, ten seconds. Hungry?”

  “I didn’t think I was, but yeah. Guess so.”

  “Want more?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, but why? What was denying himself the pleasure of one lousy breakfast going to do? After all, it wasn’t as if just this meal would make him forget his love for Willow, or his guilt over having been the cause of her death. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” She cast him another smile, only this one was more of a sliver.

  It did something to him.

  Made him want to smile, too.

  It’d been so long, did he even remember how? He tried, and found that—duh—he did remember. Not only how to smile, but so much more. “My wife…Willow…”

  “Yes?” Even though her meal was only half-eaten, Gillian was back at the stove.

  “Well, you might already know this, so if you do, stop me, but I was just going to say she was a magazine editor for a small, L.A.-based lifestyles magazine. They ran a lot of breakfast-brunch recipes, and on Saturday mornings she used to try out them out.”

  “Lucky you.” Gillian beat eggs and canned milk, then dredged thick-sliced wheat bread through it.

  “She would’ve liked this. Maybe used your recipe in the magazine.”

  “Nah. It’s nothing special. Just your standard everyday stuff.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  After they’d both eaten seconds, Gillian pushed her chair back and stood before grabbing their plates. “I’m assuming the dishwashing equipment is under the sink in the form of a scrub pad?”

  “Let me,” he said, standing as well. “You cooked.” He reached for the plates and, in the process, brushed his fingers against hers. The sensation hit him like a blow. Sure, he’d spent the whole night beside her, but this was somehow different.

  It wasn’t an emergency forcing them together, but him wanting them together. It was wrong, but felt right. Maybe.

  The truth was, he wasn’t sure how it felt.

  If he should even be wondering how it felt.

  The woman was here to do a job. She wasn’t here to be his friend, cook or housekeeper.

  It sounded simple enough, but nothing about this whole situation was simple. Aside from coming to grips with the loss of his wife—and for all practical reasons, his daughter—having Gillian in his house was probably one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

  Chapter Six

  Kavorski checked again to make sure the kid was sleeping, then headed out on the deck to radio Team Two’s leader, his pal and fellow deputy marshal, Allan Wesson.

  As cold as it had been the day before, today was hot. The sea was dead calm.

  At first, all that came over the radio was a whole lot of static, but then a scratchy voice said, “Kavorski, that you?”

  “Who else you expecting?”

  “That nosy kid. When you gonna off him? I cleaned house last night.”

  “His time’s coming. Finch give you any trouble?”

  “Nah. But then you know me. I’m not the creative type. Just point and shoot.”

  “Good. Where’re you now?”

  “I’ve set up camp just outside the cozy couple’s cabin. Can you believe that stupid bitch is cookin’ him breakfast?”

  Kavorski laughed. “You’re still pissed over her beating you at last year’s physicals.”

  “The hell I am. Just can’t stand the thought of having her on my planet another thirteen days.”

  “Maybe we’ll make it twelve. What the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  Kavorski turned off the radio and smiled.

  TWO DAYS LATER, Joe stepped off the back porch and released a long, slow breath.

  The generator chugged along, belching out diesel fumes.

  He’d grown accustomed to taking cold showers, but after Gillian had cooked him yet another fantastic breakfast, then laid off her talk of the upcoming trial long enough to let him eat in peace, he’d found himself in a charitable mood—even going so far as to offer to fire up the generator so she could take a hot shower.

  She was in there now.

  He heard her humming through the small slat window. If he closed his eyes, he’d see her. Standing beneath the water’s spray. Naked. Curves soap slick. And so he made a point to keep his eyes open until hearing the all-clear signal of the water being turned off.

  Why did everything all of a sudden feel so different? The sky was the same fathomless blue. The soaring fir forest just beyond the cabin stood as uncompromising as ever. Everything about his little world was the same. Or was it?

  He clenched his jaw, still struggling with the image of her raising one of her legs onto the side of the tub to dry it. Running one of his utilitarian white towels over and around her slender calf. Up and around her inner thigh. Through a nest of curls and higher still to her flat stomach that’d have maybe just the barest hint of a curve before sweeping its way to her waist and—no.

  Fighting the vision, he stormed to the shed to cut the generator, on his way dragging in a breath of caustic diesel smoke.

  The part of him who still remembered bits of Psych 101 rationalized what was happening. Yeah, he still dearly loved his wife. But it’d been over two years since he’d been with her. Simple logic told him the only reason he was having these thoughts about Gillian was because she was female and alive and most importantly—there.

  Hell, he’d probably have fantasies like this about Carl’s homely teenaged daughter.

  But did he?

  No.

  And not just because she was only seventeen, but because he didn’t like girls, he liked women. Independent-thinking, big-breasted—God, there he was, at it again.

  He’d hoped the generator’s noise would squelch the unbalanced feeling that had begun around about the time he’d caught Gillian carefully dusting Meggie and Willow’s pictures on the mantel. And then she’d gone and picked a wildflower bouquet to grace the center of the kitchen table. She’d picked another for the battered coffee table—and suddenly it didn’t look so battered anymore. Then she threw a colorful old afghan that’d been included in the cabin’s purchase price across one arm of the beat-up sofa.

  Through all of this, she’d relayed pertinent details about the trial, but never once had she made them feel force-fed. They were like na
tural extensions of their conversations.

  And more than anything she’d done for his home, he was thankful to her for that. For letting him make peace with this whole ugly situation in his own way and in his own time.

  Bud limped around the side of the shed, tongue hanging, tail wagging.

  “Hey, boy,” Joe said.

  “Whew, that feels better.”

  Just the sound of Gillian’s voice changed him in subtle, primal ways. He stood taller. Strained to catch her every word. Both of those actions were uncalled for, but dammit, he couldn’t stop.

  “During all of our recent adventures, I think my hair must’ve soaked up half the salt in the Pacific.”

  “That so?” He made a point not to look up as he headed back into the shed. Not that he had a reason to go back there, but then he didn’t really need one. He had to avoid her.

  These feelings…

  The anticipation brewing every time she stepped into view…

  It was no good. Not that he was afraid of loving Willow any less because of her, but because once Gillian left—and she would leave—then what was he going to do? He couldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security.

  “Is something wrong, Joe?” Her voice was laced with concern. “You don’t sound like yourself. Is that scratch on your cheek still bothering you?” Yesterday, while out gathering kindling, he’d nicked it on a low-hanging branch.

  She followed him into the shed, and in the close, confined space, he smelled the familiar scent of his shampoo, made exotic by the fact that he was smelling it on her. On him, the scent was just soapy. Lye. On her, it’d become exotic. Why couldn’t she have just used her own shampoo?

  “No,” he said, “the scratch is fine.” To get away from her, he walked the few steps to where the previous cabin owner had left yard tools hanging on wall-mounted brackets. He reached for a well-worn scythe. The weeds around the cabin were taller than the dog.

  He brushed past her, trying his damnedest to ignore the shots of awareness that’d rung through him when their shoulders touched.

  “Want me to help? We could go over a few more points on the trial.” She trailed after him into bright sunlight.

  “Nope. It’s a one-man job.”

  “Okay. Guess me and Bud’ll just sit out here and watch.”

  “Suit yourself.” Walking at a brisk pace to the far side of the cabin, he put all his frustration and pent-up energy into whacking the grass. The blade was dull and he had to work extra hard to cut as wide a swath as he liked.

  “That’s it, boy, go get it!”

  Curiosity got the better of Joe and he looked up to see Gillian and Bud engrossed in a game of fetch. Though the injured dog hobbled instead of his usual running, he yelped out a succession of high-pitched happy barks. The kind Joe hadn’t heard him make since he’d been with Meggie, wiling away summer afternoons playing tug-of-war on the grassy lawn by the pool.

  Gillian’s full lips and bright eyes united in one big smile. Her still-wet hair curled about her face. Where it fell to her shoulders, her navy-blue T-shirt with the yellow U.S. Marshal logo was damp.

  The shirt was big enough to allow her to fashion a halter of sorts that she tied just below her breasts. On Willow, the top would have been obscene, but Gillian’s build was so slight that only a narrow strip of bare skin showed above faded jeans. No marshal he’d ever seen wore that kind of getup. Was this part of her being so new to the work that she hadn’t yet learned proper protocol? Or was this a deliberate ploy to help put him at ease?

  “Good boy…yes, you are a good boy.” Bud had brought the stick back and was now reaping his reward—a thorough rubdown and petting.

  A flash of jealousy shocked Joe’s system.

  He wanted Gillian’s attention. He wanted to be the good boy. But then how could he ever again be good when the very fact that he was attracted to her made him bad?

  “Hey, Joe!” she hollered. “Bud must already be feeling better. Look at him go.”

  Joe pretended not to hear, instead focusing on his chore. The weeds were badly overgrown. This job had to be done. Right away. It was an urgent, urgent undertaking. One that would require all his physical strength and hopefully drain his emotions.

  Bud’s antics brought Gillian closer. “Wouldn’t this be a great day for a picnic?” she asked while the dog was off retrieving.

  “I don’t do picnics.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t do picnics? Everybody loves a good picnic.” She dragged in a deep breath. “Smell the air out here. It’s like one of those mountain fresh laundry detergent ads come to life.”

  “Yeah.” Thwack. The weeds directly in front of him got it really good.

  Bud dropped his stick at Gillian’s feet.

  She patted the panting dog’s head, then threw the stick deep into the forest undergrowth. “You’ve got to eat lunch, don’t you?”

  “Yep,” Joe said without missing a beat in his slicing and dicing. “Inside, at the table. I’ll pop open a can of tuna. You can have a can, too.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a grouch. If I agree to cook it and pack it and haul it, then will you go? On the picnic?”

  “Woman…” With the long sleeve of his denim shirt, Joe soaked sweat from his forehead. “What’s it gonna take for you to understand I’ve got better things to do than sit around in the grass gabbing? Look at this place,” he said, gesturing to the cabin and its overgrown yard. “This break in the weather could be put to much better use than pleasure.”

  She frowned. “What kind of attitude is that? Lord knows after what you’ve been through, Joe, you deserve a little pleasure—even if it is just in the form of a low-key picnic lunch.”

  As much as Joe wanted to lash out at Gillian for her optimism, looking at her standing there, so pretty with strands of her drying hair being fingered by the warm breeze, he couldn’t fault her for having such an idealistic view of the world. Not when he wanted to share that view with her.

  He wanted to once again find pleasure in small things. Like a shared meal with a friend. But then maybe sharing a meal under the sky with someone you could really relate to wasn’t such a small thing, after all.

  Maybe that was everything.

  For all he knew, a boatload of Tsun-Chung’s hired guns could show up tomorrow.

  This one, heart-stoppingly beautiful afternoon might be all he had left to share with the first woman—no, make that the first person—who’d actually made him think about there being a tomorrow. For that monumental good deed, the least he could do was grant her this one small wish.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You grab a few leftover breakfast muffins, fix a couple PB and Js and I’ll round up a blanket and drinks. Sound like a plan?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “A good one.” Her easy smile did funny things to his stomach that he didn’t want to over analyze, but instead, selfishly enjoy.

  GILLIAN HAD JUST FINISHED making two sandwiches when she froze. Along with eggs for breakfast, she’d made a batch of box-mix blueberry muffins. There’d been an even dozen.

  She’d eaten one. Bud, one. Joe, three.

  She’d put the remaining seven in a pretty clay bowl she’d then set in the center of the kitchen table.

  The bowl was now empty.

  Bud? He’d been pretty energized during their game of fetch.

  Joe was rummaging in the closet for the blankets.

  “Joe?” she called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you eat the rest of the muffins?”

  “I’m still stuffed from my first round. Why?”

  “No reason,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Had to be the dog who ate them. Had to be. Because if Bud hadn’t eaten them, that only left…

  She swallowed hard, then, just to be safe, slipped off to put her gun and radio in a side pocket of the backpack where she’d stashed their lunch.

  “WELL?” Gillian asked three hours later. So far, the day had been idyllic, utterly uneventful as far
as her job was concerned, leading her to the conclusion that Bud had indeed been behind the missing muffin mystery. Resting on her elbow with her head propped in her palm, she leaned forward to snag another cracker. “You can’t leave me hanging. What happened after Willow backed out of the house deal? Were you mad?”

  “Nah,” Joe said without a moment’s hesitation. “And you know, back then, losing that thousand bucks earnest money was a big deal. Hell, I still remembered what the days of eating only Spaghettios were like. But I guess the one thing that’d always been more important to me than making money was making Willow and our little girl happy.”

  Not knowing how to respond, Gillian just nodded, then nibbled the cracker. What would it be like to be loved to such a degree?

  While Joe fully reclined on the red plaid blanket, crossing his arms behind his head, she abruptly sat up.

  Where only moments earlier she’d felt indescribably content, she now felt restless. Was it all of Joe’s stories about his family that’d made her so blue? So full of longing for what she didn’t even know?

  She finally had a decent job assignment, so why now have regrets for what might have been with Kent? Or even worse, what she might’ve given up by choosing to follow her brothers’ paths just to spite her dad. And was that what she’d done? Abandoned all hope of ever having her own family just because it was what her father wanted—expected—her to do?

  From where she and Joe were perched, high atop a rocky, windswept bluff, she could see for miles in all directions. The few scrub oaks and pines hunched from relentless oceanic wind, yet today, all was calm.

  A pair of butterflies fluttered around a patch of early wildflowers, and the lonely cry of gulls carried from the shore below. Sun glinted off the windshield of one of her fellow marshals’ boats.

  While she didn’t begrudge Joe his memories, she did envy them. Yeah, she had a few happy times she could remember from her childhood, but beyond that, it seemed as if life had been a constant struggle. Jockeying for favor in her father’s eyes, then doing still more jockeying in school and work.