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

by Laura Marie Altom

  Joe shot her one last indescribably cold look before walking out the door.

  Bud glanced up from his cushion beside the fire, then fell back to sleep with his head on his paws.

  Had Gillian been a true marshal, instead of the wannabe her brothers and father knew she was, she would’ve chased after Joe.

  No matter how ticked she was at him, she shouldn’t have let him leave the cabin for even a second without her. But no, here she sat, feeling sorry for herself. Fighting back stupid, irrational tears over how she’d never be good enough to compete in a man’s world.

  She was trying to decide between whether to bake and then eat the entire box of cookies, or just go to bed, when it dawned on her that if she went with either of those choices, she would have become exactly what her family wanted. A nice, safe, stay-at-home wife. Baking cookies. Waiting for her man to come home. Only she’d always been better at homemade cheesecake than cookies, and Joe wasn’t her man, but her assignment. And by God, no matter how much he ticked her off, she wasn’t about to let him get hurt on her watch.

  “WE’RE SOME PAIR, HUH?” Gillian found Joe standing at the edge of the cliff where they’d shared their first civil conversation what seemed liked months earlier, but had actually only been a little over a week.

  “You do have issues,” he said above the roar of the wind, staring out at a churning black sea. “I’m not the only one.”

  “I know.” She hunched deeper into her jacket, noticing that Bud had followed her and now stood sentry by her leg. “I’m, ah, sorry for implying you’re solo in the issues department.” She stood beside Joe, and he slipped his arm about her shoulders, flooding her heart and body with forbidden warmth. She shouldn’t be standing here with him like this. Exposed. Physically, emotionally, in every way she could. Granted, it was dark, but not dark enough to avoid night-vision goggles or high-powered rifle scopes or worse—succumbing to his spell.

  “You really think Meghan would want to see me?”

  Swallowing hard past the instant knot in her throat, Gillian nodded. “I—I think she’d be thrilled to see you.”

  “If I agree to go back to being a full-time dad, would you have it out with the men in your life? You know, ask them to stop meddling? Treat you like a professional instead of a child?”

  She sighed. “Am I a professional? I came out here to do a job, but after the way I’ve acted with you…”

  Where they stood at the edge of a two-hundred-foot-high cliff, surf violently crashing below, they were literally one step away from death. Yet, since moving in with Joe, Gillian had never felt more alive. At the start of this mission, she’d wanted nothing more than professional glory. Now she wanted that and more.

  To wake every day to the sound of Joe’s even breathing beside her. To know the feel of his hands caressing her naked body. Beyond that, in the innermost reaches of her heart, she imagined the joy of carrying his son or daughter inside her. The pride of watching Meghan ace a ballet recital.

  “What’re you thinking?” Joe asked, leaning close enough that they felt connected.

  “Believe me,” she said with a tight laugh, “you don’t want to know.”

  “Try me.”

  After a deep breath, she gave him the abridged version. “It was pretty lame, actually. You know, just wondering how things might be between us if we’d met under different circumstances. Like before you’d ever even met Willow or before I’d adopted my whole, I-am-woman, hear-me-roar routine.”

  “How’s any of that lame?”

  “Because I’m here to do my job, and you’re here to mourn your wife. I mean, where could the two of us possibly go?”

  “AW…ISN’T THAT SWEET?” Wesson said in regards to Logue’s latest sappy remark to Morgan.

  Wesson had wired the whole place for sound days ago. Put a microtransmitter on the mutt’s collar. Made it handier for those on-the-go occasions when the love-birds took off on their epic hikes.

  Exercise had never been Wesson’s thing. He didn’t care for sweat. Made him itch.

  From his seat at the cabin’s kitchen table, he cranked up the volume on his receiver.

  Hearing the two of them go at it almost made up for the island’s lack of cable TV.

  But he needed snacks. Having already finished off the chili in both their bowls, he eyed the box of cookie mix and smiled.

  Could he be so brazen as to fix the couple a lovely surprise treat?

  Why not?

  Everyone deserved a little fun before dying.

  “SMELLS GOOD IN HERE,” Gillian said upon their return. She slipped off her jacket, tossed it over the back of the sofa, then froze.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked, pointing at the perfect pyramid of chocolate chip cookies on the table. “I’m gone,” he said a second later, already at the door.

  “Wait,” Gillian said. “There has to be an explanation.”

  “There’s no time for this,” Joe said. “You coming?”

  “Wait!” From under the kitchen cabinet, Gillian fished out her radio. “Kavorski? Brimmer? Finch? Wesson? Dammit, one of you answer me!”

  “Wesson. What’s up, Gillie?”

  “You been up here?” she said into the mic, trying to hide the trembling of her hands.

  “Huh? You mean to the cabin?”

  “Yes, dammit.”

  “Thirty seconds till I’m a ghost,” Joe said.

  “I take it you found my present?”

  “You left the cookies?” Gillian asked, relief sagging her shoulders.

  “Well, actually, it was Finch’s idea.” He laughed. “Poor kid, he’s been sick as shit. Missing his wife. Apparently the sea doesn’t agree with him. Said he’d die for thirty minutes in a hot bubble bath. We knocked, but when you and Mr. Morgan weren’t there, and the door was open, I didn’t figure you’d mind helping out a sick friend. Finch here said for me to make the cookies. You know, to show how thankful he is.”

  “I want to talk to him,” Gillian said.

  “Be kinda hard. Poor guy’s dead to the world.”

  “You know better than this,” she said, free hand on her forehead. “You nearly gave me a stroke.”

  “Sorry. Calm down. Trust me, this place is a total snooze.”

  “Right,” Gillian said, still trying to calm her racing pulse. “Over and out.”

  “Let’s go.” Joe’s hand was on the door latch.

  “Oh, sit down. Didn’t you hear a word he said?”

  “I don’t like it. The whole story…” Joe shook his head. “Something about it’s not right.”

  She sighed. “I agree, it’s unconventional, but if you knew Finch, you’d understand. He’s the most girly-girl man’s man I’ve ever known. Just married last year, and I swear, he cared more about the caterer, band and flowers than his bride.”

  Warily eyeing the cookies, Joe joined her at the table. “Those guys were in my house. Without my consent. Cooking. Bathing.” He shook his head. “Not only is it not professional, it’s a little sick—no, a freakin’ lot sick.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll turn them both in to my supervisor.”

  Joe pushed back his chair and stood. Grabbed at least five cookies in his left hand, opened the door with his right.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, clambering to her feet.

  He flung them into the yard. “Cleaning house.”

  “YO, BRIMMER, check it out.” It was barely seven in the morning when Kavorski waved Brimmer over to the port side of the boat. “This whale looks like it’s trying to hump our ride.”

  “For real?” The sunburned kid with a white streak of zinc oxide on his nose lowered his binoculars to hustle over for a look. “Damn,” he said beside Kavorski. “Did I already miss it?”

  “Nah. Lean over. There. See it? Don’t get too close. That water looks cold enough to be a real nut shrinker.”

  “Where? You see it right now? God, my niece loves whales. She’ll be so jealous if I—”


  Kavorski reached under a seat cushion for a .40 caliber SW with a silencer, then shot the kid twice in the back of his head.

  With barely a splash, he tipped him over the boat’s edge and into rolling blue-green water. The blood made pretty swirls. With any luck, a few sharks would stroll by to finish the job.

  “Damn, I’m good.” Kavorski gave the kid one last glance, then calmly slipped his piece back under the seat cushion before settling into the captain’s chair. “No man wants to deal with the wrath of a jealous woman. Even if she is just your six-year-old niece. One day, Brimmer, you’ll thank me for this.”

  With only two days until his boss’s trial, today was also Logue and Mr. Morgan’s last.

  Tsun-Chung wanted Kavorski and Wesson to wait until dark, but with their only possible witnesses already dead, and a cold front moving in, Kavorski figured what was the point? It was better to just do the job now—in broad daylight. Less chance for Logue or Morgan to escape in the unlikely event something went wrong.

  Logue was lucky she’d gotten to play house as long as she did.

  It’d been the boss’s idea to lull her into believing her part of the whole protection gig was a cakewalk. Then bam—hit her when she least expected it.

  They were far enough from the trial that even if somehow the canary escaped, there’d still be time to catch him—then shoot him. And close enough to the trial that the feds’ case against Tsun-Chung would be torn to shreds.

  Without Joe pointing his finger at Tsun-Chung for the three execution-style shots he’d made to the front of a few too-greedy customs agents’ heads, he was squeaky clean. No one but Joe had ever seen him so much as jaywalk.

  No one, that is, but his business partners, but they were so well paid, why would any of them be idiot enough to tell?

  Every so often, Kavorski thought back to the optimistic kid he’d once been. Full of the Pledge of Allegiance and all that crap. He’d been Captain America. Out to save the day.

  Then he’d hit the real world.

  Had his wife get cancer without health insurance. Had his son taken by his bitch of a sister-in-law, who’d called him unfit after Carol died. Yeah, well, after his pockets were so full of cash he could hardly walk, they’d see about who made the better parent of the two. They’d just see.

  Until then, he had a job to do.

  AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, Gillian was glad for the opportunity to take Bud out for a morning romp. As usual, Joe had wanted to do it, but she’d made him stay inside.

  He hadn’t liked it.

  Any more than she’d liked having to be heavy-handed, but this close to the trial, with this ever-increasing wariness gnawing at her gut, what else could she do?

  No matter how many times her partners told her everything on the island was as it should be, every bone in her body said it wasn’t.

  The day, achingly perfect, with sun-shot diamonds on the water promising warmth, didn’t remotely match her cold, edgy mood.

  Bud seemed oblivious to her dour vibes. At first, he’d done a considerable bit of “business” on a scraggly cedar. Now he was digging—tail wagging, dirt arcing behind him.

  “Hey!” she shouted, heading in his direction. “You wanting another bath?”

  Bud kept right on digging.

  “What’s over there that’s so—”

  She put her hand over her mouth.

  To her left were three dead rabbits. In front of them, a crumbled chocolate chip cookie.

  WHEN GILLIAN LEFT, Joe released a long-held breath, telling himself it was good having the place to himself. Whenever she was near, he got this tugging sensation in his stomach. Like he wanted something from her, but wasn’t sure what.

  For certain, he wouldn’t mind a few kisses for the road.

  He’d be a liar if he tried denying he wanted more, but that was just chemistry. It didn’t come close to explaining the other things going through his head. Like how much he’d like for Meggie to meet Gillian. Get to know her. Enjoy her.

  Need her the way Joe did.

  He owed Gill an incredible debt. She’d taught him how to laugh again. How to look beyond his pain into a cautiously bright future.

  Granted, it wouldn’t be the same. Meggie and he would still miss Willow. If he were wholly honest, there was a part of him afraid to be with Meghan because of the memories being around her might drag up. Was there a chance she’d smell of her mother’s perfume? Would she have grown to look more like her? Long, golden hair? Pale, creamy skin? A laugh that could sound like delicate, ladylike wind chimes one minute, then transform into pig snorts the next?

  He wiped wet eyes.

  Grabbed his cereal bowl from the table and stowed it in the sink.

  He should’ve insisted he be the one to walk Bud.

  Sitting around here thinking was getting old. Once the trial started, there’d be plenty of time for planning the days and years to come. Would he be greedy for wanting those plans to include both his daughter and Gillian?

  Taking a pot out of the cabinet beside the stove, he filled it with water, then set it on the stove to get hot.

  Hot.

  That about summed up Gillian. Most guys would probably feel lucky in his place—being guarded 24-7 by a woman who looked more like a model than a U.S. Marshal. Wonder if the guys at work constantly hit on her?

  The thought had him irrationally pissed.

  He and Gillian were friends. Good friends. It was only natural he wouldn’t want barrel-chested macho types trying to score. She had better things on her mind. Climbing the marshal ladder—whatever that implied. She didn’t have time for dating.

  At least not dating anyone beside him.

  Whoa.

  Waiting for the water to get hot, he paced. Who’d said anything about dating? Just because they’d shared a few kisses didn’t mean—

  The cabin door flew open, and Bud charged inside.

  “Get down!” Gillian shouted, chest heaving. “Guns. Two guys. Maybe three. They—” Still breathing too hard to speak, she bolted the front door, then ran to the cabinet where she’d stashed her radio. She pulled it out and turned it on.

  Only there was nothing.

  “Shit,” she said, knocking it a few times against the counter. The back fell off. Gnawed wires hung like spilled guts.

  “Mice,” Joe said, not really believing the scene unfolding.

  She ran to the bed. Reached under the mattress for the menacing-looking gun that somehow, during the time they’d played house, he’d managed to forget she even had.

  From the porch came the clomp of a heavy footstep on the wood planks, then another.

  “Get in the back,” Gillian said in a stage whisper. “Grab whatever food you can from the pantry. First aid stuff. I’ll eliminate this guy, then we’ll head cross-country to Wesson and Finch.”

  Eliminate? As in kill?

  Hand to his forehead, Joe froze.

  Was this how it had been with Willow the last few minutes of her life? Had her heart pounded? Palms sweated? Had she thought of him the way he was now thinking of…Gillian?

  He shook his head to clear it.

  This couldn’t be happening. He was safe. Gillian was, too. Just like always. Tucked away in his sheltered corner of the world.

  “Joe! Snap out of it!” Gillian hissed. “Focus.”

  He nodded, yet at the same time shook his head.

  Gripping his hand, she said, “Look at me, Joe. Right here into my eyes. I promise, I will never let anything happen to you. I will get you safely home to Meggie. You hear me?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I just—”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just grab a few supplies, then we’re out of here.”

  The front door latch clicked.

  “Go,” Gillian whispered. “I’ve got this under control.”

  “You going to kill him?”

  She nodded. That was what she’d been trained for, wasn’t it? What she’d supposedly been waiting for all these years? Real action? Why did the ide
a sound so repugnant now?

  “Don’t.”

  “What do you mean, don’t? It’s not like we have much choice.”

  He pierced her with a smile of such supreme confidence and calm, it took her breath away. “I’ve already lost one woman I care about to crazy guys with guns. No way I’m going to lose you, too.”

  From outside came a muffled male voice. “Thought they were in here, but from the looks of it, they’re off on one of their picnics.”

  Heart pounding, Gillian realized that, from where they stood—in the hall leading to the back door and pantry—they couldn’t be seen. From the view through the front windows, the cabin would appear empty.

  “Whatever,” said another man. “It’s an island. Not like they’ll get very far.”

  “Your call. Wanna go hunt ’em down? Or kick the door down and raid the fridge?”

  “Christ,” Joe said. “If they come in here, then—”

  Gillian put her fingers to his lips, then pointed to the hall door he closed on especially cold winter nights. The same door that helped keep the fire’s warmth in the living area. Now, the door would buy them a few extra minutes to escape.

  While Joe eased the door shut, Gillian shoved as many supplies as she could into a laundry bag hanging from the bathroom wall.

  Boom.

  Their company was early.

  Gillian took a folded stepladder from the pantry, braced it under the hall door.

  Boom, boom.

  “Ready?” she asked, one hand on the back door, the other reaching out to Joe.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s go. Straight out behind the house. It’ll be rough going at first, but—”

  “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand for a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I can handle it.”

  Boom.

  They’d just begun their escape when they heard the sound of splintering wood. Hopefully, once inside, the two gunmen would keep busy hunting for snacks.

  Outside, Gillian blinked a few seconds in the beating sunshine. It was unseasonably hot. Eerily still.

  Their footfalls sounded more like King Kong fleeing the yard than a man and woman. The scent of imminent death magnified each crunch of hiking boot on dirt, each snapped weed or twig.