Fools.
She took pride in her work. Her record reflected that. Legal administration might not be the blood and guts of the Corps but it was important. Every separation, every investigative report that crossed her desk was dissected until nothing was left in question. So why would her word be doubted when she suspected foul play in the Lava training area?
Imagining things. That’s what Rowan had been told over and over again, despite the five seemingly unrelated incidents that had come across her desk this last month. Only Charlie would listen. And now he was dead.
She was sure the command would see she was right. But the finger of guilt was now shoved in her direction.
Rowan rested her head upon her knees, then winced as the bruised and swollen side of her face protested at the contact. Rocking back and forth on the metal-framed cot, she tried to quell the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. It was so small in the holding cell, and she was so alone…
"Stop it!" She pushed the words through clenched teeth. "This isn’t going to help you at all!"
Her gaze flicked to the camera mounted in the corner of the room on the other side of the cell partition. Its baleful eye watched her every motion, allowing her no privacy. This portion of the room was small, too small. The cell’s dimensions barely spanned ten feet across. Even the dim light in the hallway didn’t help.
Rowan closed her eyes. Breathe. Take deep breaths. No hyperventilating.
Phillip was her only chance at getting out of this. She had to be strong—strong enough to endure the claustrophobia closing in, strong enough to face him again after all these years.
Phillip. She had forgotten nothing about him. How could she when she lived with his image everyday? The way the sun gleamed off his golden head, the ready smile, and his eyes.
God, those eyes! They could burn like quicksilver when his temper flared, or glow a soft, satiny gray when they made love.
She was probably a fool for contacting him after all these years. But there was no doubt she needed his help, and she would accept whatever consequences resulted from having him back in her life. Only Phillip could save her now. That is, if he accepted her request for his services.
The hallway door opened. The roar of the evaporative coolers lessened. A military policeman walked in and glared at her through the bars. "Your request for counsel has been expedited. They’re waiting for the captain to either accept or decline the case."
"How long will that take?" Rowan fought in vain to keep the quiver from her voice. "And when will I be able to contact my family?"
"You work in legal. You tell me." He lowered his voice. "Frankly, I hope you get what you deserve. He was a friend of mine, murderer."
He slammed the door in his exit, putting pressure back on the cooler. The roar this time was nothing compared to the pulse of blood in her ears.
"Yeah…he was mine, too," Rowan softly replied.
She tucked into the farthest corner of the cot, her despair as smothering as the walls surrounding her.
Chapter 2
* * *
The sound of the Jeep’s tires scattering gravel jolted Phillip from his thoughts. Zach roared up to the rented bungalow, jerking his vehicle to a sliding stop in front of the carport.
Phillip gripped the edges of the armrest to keep from being launched head first into the windshield. "You will let me know when you bring the ride to a complete stop, won’t you?"
"Sorry, old man." Zach grinned. "Just remember to keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and you’ll be fine." His humor faded. "If you decide to—"
Phillip cut off further discussion with a slice of his hand. "I’ll let you know, Zach."
Swinging his legs over the edge, he jumped from the Jeep and drew in a deep breath of ocean-salted air. "I just need to think about this case." He scowled. "And thirty-three is not old."
Smiling once more, Zach sketched a mock-salute and tore out of the driveway, leaving Phillip in a small cloud of dust as he dug in his pocket for the house keys.
The rent for the small, one-bedroom cottage was high, even for the ocean view; but to Phillip, the solitude was worth the cost. It overlooked the Pacific from a cliff-side perch, a small rocky pathway being the only access point down to the beach. Everything was quiet except for the rustle of the encircling palms and the faint crash of the sea on the rocks below. In fact, the house was unusually silent.
Phillip eased the key in, unlocked the door, and slipped into the front hallway without a sound. Cocking his head, he strained his ears against the quiet. A sudden, yet faint noise from the kitchen at the back of the cottage brought his head up.
He crept through the living room and paused at the door to the kitchen. It was ajar. Rustling noises reached him from within, punctuated by a crunch-crunch. He narrowed his eyes and shoved his shoulder into the door, flinging it wide.
"Oscar!"
The mangled remains of a garbage bag lay in the center of the kitchen, its contents strewn across the linoleum floor from wall to wall. In the center of the mess lay the object of Phillip’s ire. The large gray Weimaraner was frozen in place, tongue extended in the act of licking the last morsels of chili out of a discarded tin can.
With a bark of pure joy, Oscar leaped to his feet and jumped at Phillip. Stubby tail wagging furiously, his food-stained muzzle smeared a trail of chili grease all over the front of his master’s once-immaculate courtroom uniform.
"Down! Oscar!" Phillip tried to push eighty-five pounds of exuberance from his chest. "Damnation dog, you are the most ill-behaved beast I’ve ever had the misfortune to own. I ought to drop you off at the nearest zoo. I’d swear you’re as big as an elephant anyway and definitely the right color."
He paused in mid-shout, looking into Oscar’s love-filled amber eyes. Useless. With all of the emphasis Phillip placed on rules and order in every part of his life, he had failed miserably with this particular facet. He supposed that the unconditional affection Oscar gave was more than enough compensation for his dog’s habit of rooting around in every garbage pail he could find. Besides, it was his fault for not taking out the trash before he went to work.
He sighed and gave Oscar’s head an affectionate scratch, then cleaned up the aftermath of the dog’s afternoon snack.
Later that evening, Phillip sat out on top of the carport in a lawn chair, watching a blood-red sun sink into the calm Pacific Ocean. In one hand he held a snifter of vintage cognac—a gift from his sister he was sure set her back more than a few dollars. In the other, the legal paperwork from the Twentynine Palms. Oscar lay at the foot of the carport ladder, occasionally issuing a gusty sigh and looking woe-be-gone at having been left below.
Phillip thought of Rowan, and the agony she had caused when she left him without a word or warning nine years ago. He shook his head and winced at the memories.
I was a fool to trust her.
He went over the paperwork for the umpteenth time and weighed the possibilities of the case. What attorney wouldn’t drool over a murder case, no matter which side they took?
"What do you think, Oscar? This case is going to be a big one for whomever takes it. It will make them a major-player, if you’ll pardon the pun." His mouth twisted in a cynical smile at the idea of being promoted to major.
Oscar tilted his head, his stubby tail shook his backside as he gazed up at Phillip.
"What’s she doing in the Marine Corps, boy? I don’t know how she knew where I was or what I was doing. She’s supposed to be a teacher, not a staff sergeant."
But then, hadn’t his career choice also changed from those crazy college days? Dreams were one thing—reality another.
He took another swallow of cognac, feeling his thoughts drift off to the first time he met the lovely Rowan McKinley.
* * *
It had been a perfect September day in Washington, D.C., and like a lot of his law school classmates, Phillip went down to the park-like expanse of the Mall to lay out on the grass, bask in the warm su
n, and try to get some homework done amidst the bustling din of the visiting tourists and sun-worshipping students.
A misguided Frisbee changed all that. His anger over being smacked square in the face by the flying projectile faded when he caught a glimpse of the long, bare legs of its owner. To this day that memory still managed to take his breath away and arouse him more than he could handle.
He closed his eyes and saw her again.
She was beautiful with shining, waist-length hair the color of new copper, and tall…taller than most girls he knew, almost six feet, he would later discover. Her long, coltish legs were lightly tanned and had sprinklings of freckles.
His gaze traveled upward past her slim hips and gently rounded breasts to her face, elfin in shape with a slightly pointed chin and small, delicate nose. Golden-brown eyes anxiously watched him as she repeated a question that he had not heard and to this day could not recall. He was too mesmerized by her tending to his bleeding cheek with the worn blue bandanna she pulled from her slender neck.
It was the beginning of the wildest, most wonderful and most heartbreaking affair of his life. After nine years he still agonized over those memories. And now to let her back into his life? It was personal suicide. And yet professionally, it could be the coup de grace of his career. That next rung on the ladder, the next challenge, he was looking for.
He swallowed the rest of the cognac and climbed down the ladder to scratch an ecstatic Oscar behind the ears.
"Well, boy, what do you think? Do I save the only woman I’ve ever loved, or let her rot in jail for walking out on me nine years ago?"
Oscar whined and dragged a wet lick across Phillip’s face. With a laugh, he wrestled the dog to the ground, tickling his belly. "You’re right, boy. This is just another assignment, not a trip down memory lane."
Oscar jumped to his feet and barked.
"All right, big guy. One good run down the beach, but then I’ve got some work to do."
* * *
Rowan tugged the olive drab blanket around her shoulders. Not that she needed it. Desert heat combined with rising humidity made the cell’s evaporative cooling worthless. The wool made it worse. Still she clung to it in the hope that it would provide some measure of security, however small.
Every muscle in her body ached from the killer’s attack the night before and the MP’s manhandling during her arrest. She tried to shut her eyes against the walls that closed in around her, but at the slightest noise they flashed open.
She focused on the roar of the coolers, hoping it would drown out other noise. Then she found herself cursing the blasted thing. She needed to hear, needed to be alert. With night approaching she wouldn’t put it past the guard to try something.
A month ago she never would have suggested such a thing, now she knew better. One of their own—a military policeman—was dead. Justice was not an option—revenge could be. Any action taken against her would be conveniently swept under the carpet. It was a terrible feeling to suspect conspiracy everywhere, yet finding herself behind bars had stolen the last of her optimism.
Rowan’s stomach rumbled. Throughout the day she refused meals out of fear for what they might contain. She would not allow hunger pangs to win now. She had to hold out a little longer. Another clenching of her stomach muscles made her wince, and she shifted uncomfortably on the lumpy mattress.
Voices in the hallway outside the door drifted to her cell. Rowan raised her head, heart pounding, expecting to see Phillip’s tall form. Disappointment plunged her spirits when door swung open and she saw one of the defense counsels from her own office.
She doubted Captain Connors ever cracked a smile. He was always worrying about all those around him. A father protector, and barely in his thirties. Here he was, rushing to her aid, his serious face interrupted only by the nervous habit of shoving his gold, wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.
He waited until the escorting MP left. Once the outer door slammed shut, he walked forward and curled his fingers around the bars of her prison.
"I came to see how you were doing."
"I’ve certainly been better. Have you heard anything from Captain Stuart?"
"Nothing yet, but it’s still early," Captain Connors replied. "Look, Staff Sergeant McKinley…Rowan…if it matters, there isn’t a soul in the office who believes you did this. If you would just let one of us help you—"
"I want Captain Stuart."
"He’s an arrogant, obnoxious S.O.B."
Captain Stuart perhaps, but not her Phillip. How little they knew of him. Still, people did change with time.
"An S.O.B. who has never lost a case his entire career in either defense or prosecution, sir. If you were going to be tried for murder, wouldn’t you want those odds on your side?"
He sighed. "Yeah, I guess I would. Because you are part of our office, a prosecutor has already been appointed from Camp Pendleton. Captain Laura Cushing. A real crackerjack. She’s been up against Stuart before and knows his strategy."
"You talk as if you believe he’ll take the case."
"A climber like him wouldn’t turn it down. It’s too high profile. Which is also probably why Laura Cushing agreed. Win or lose, any attorney involved will be watched closely. Their performance evaluated. That kind of promotion potential is hard to resist."
"Even for you, sir?"
"Especially for me. Because I want to help you. We all do."
"I’ll keep that in mind if Captain Stuart refuses."
He pushed away from the bars. "Your mother is on her way to see you. I’ll let you know when I hear something."
Rowan’s gaze followed his departure. With head tilted, she listened for the sound of her mother’s approach.
Emma McKinley entered the cellblock alone an hour later. Her status of civilian did not warrant the courtesy of an escort. She looked upset and panicked. And when she entered the small room and stopped before the barred enclosure, Rowan longed to throw herself into her mother’s arms.
She could normally pass for a woman ten to fifteen years younger. Rowan always hoped she inherited those genes. Her mother’s figure was trim and she took care of herself. And she still had the power to turn heads of all ages. But tonight worry made her look all of her fifty-two years and them some.
Stumbling to the bars, she grasped the loving hands that reached for her.
"Oh, Mom—"
"Hush, sweetheart. I came as soon as I could. Oh, Rowan, why in the world did you have to go snooping? Couldn’t you leave well enough alone?" Her gaze took in the livid bruise coloring Rowan’s cheek, and she winced.
"You haven’t been asked to give any statements yet, have you?"
"No, honey, not yet." Her mother looked understandably upset. "I still think you should talk with your colonel, tell him what you told me. Your theories about your friend’s death."
"I’ve tried, Mom, but everyone thinks my hypotheses are pretty far-fetched."
Her mother opened her mouth. Rowan interrupted. "Please, Mom, I know what you’re going to say, but you going to the colonel to explain isn’t going to help, either. I’ve been targeted because I know too much about something. If the word gets out that you know what I know, that person or persons could target you as well." She reached through the bars and tightly grabbed Emma’s arms. "Please, promise me you’ll let me take care of this my way."
Uncertainty written on her face, her mother nodded reluctantly.
"Good." Rowan forced a smile. It faded quickly. "Ian should get back from his camping trip sometime Friday."
"Unless they drive the Cub Scout master crazy before then."
Rowan couldn’t even force a smile. "I want you to get Ian and leave Twentynine Palms right away."
Her mother gave a barely perceptible sigh. "Aren’t you being a bit ridiculous? For one thing, I need to be here to support you. And for another, I have a good job and don’t intend to leave it."
"Especially when it could wind up being our only means of support if I g
et court-martialed out of the Marine Corps and sent to jail?"
"Being realistic never hurt. How many times have you said that yourself?"
Rowan bit back tears. "But, Mom, you don’t understand—"
"I understand all too well. I’m not going to run away and hide Ian while you fight this battle alone. You need us both here to support you. Plus, it’s time to face up to the past. You knew that when you asked for Phillip’s help. When he finds out he has an eight-year-old son, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t find a way to put you in jail himself."
Rowan let the tears fall. Her mother was right—with or without Phillip she was damned. She was relying on his professionalism to save her, and in exchange expected his undying hatred.
"I won’t hide Ian for you, Rowan. The boy needs his father. No matter what Phillip may have done, you should have found a way to tell him from the start. You should have—"
"Stormed the walls of Castle Stuart. Yes, I know, but I didn’t. What do you intend to do? March Ian to him the instant Phillip appears?" Rowan rubbed at the tears that continued to make tracks down her dirty face.
She saw her mother’s golden eyes, so like Rowan’s own, glimmer with irritation, heard her mother’s sharp reply, "I didn’t say that, but I certainly can’t disguise or hide Ian while Phillip is here. My God, Rowan, the boy is the image of his father, or had you forgotten that?"
Forgotten? Not for an instant. Ian was the constant reminder of the emptiness in her heart.
"Phillip will find out soon enough," her mother said. "If not from someone in your office, then surely the minute he gets a look at your record book."
Rowan cursed her own stupidity. How could she have forgotten about her military records? True, Phillip would discover her lie, but it had to be from her first. She had to have the chance to explain things before he read about Ian in her personnel file.
The door opened once more. Rowan turned and offered a weak smile. It was Captain Connors, looking tired and slightly rumpled.
Always Faithful Page 2
