U.S. Marshals: Chased (U.S. Marshals Book 2)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “Sorry.” He stood behind her, not touching her, but close enough that she felt his heat. “I don’t mean to come on so strong, but you have to know, I’m not walking away from this. Cal is going to be told I’m his father, Allie. Soon. I’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

  “Okay,” she said. “You’ve made your point.”

  “And?”

  “What?” She spun around, only to wish she hadn’t, because facing him straight-on was infinitely harder. “What else do you want from me? To run right in there, and shout, surprise. Your dad’s not dead. He’s standing right here, wanting to take you away from me.”

  “That’s not what I want, it’s what—”

  “Mom? I thought I heard yelling.” Their son stood at the kitchen door.

  “Not yelling,” Allie said, bustling to wipe down the counters. “Just screeching. I saw a spider. You know how I hate spiders.”

  “Yeah,” Cal said to Caleb. “She does hate spiders.”

  “I know,” Caleb said while Allie gripped the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turned white. Why now? Why on top of everything else had Caleb had to reenter her life? Weren’t a few death threats enough to deal with for one week?

  “Mom, can I have some ice cream?”

  “Sure, baby.” She forced a smile. “What flavor?”

  “I would want cookie dough, but that guy Adam ate it all.”

  “My brother Adam?” Caleb laughed.

  “He gonna buy us more?” Cal asked as Allie filled his bowl.

  “Yeah,” Caleb said, “I’ll make sure he brings you at least three tubs.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Once Cal was safely out of earshot back in front of the TV, Caleb said, “I’ll tell Cal’s uncle to stay out of your fridge.”

  “I don’t care,” Allie said. “Adam always did eat his own weight worth of food at least four or five times a day. Remember the time we slow-baked that huge ham to take to your dad’s for Thanksgiving, then came home from class to find Adam had eaten half, thinking it was lunch?”

  Caleb smiled at the memory, as did she. And it was nice, at least for the moment, to share one of the more pleasant parts of their past rather than their rocky future.

  “We had some good times,” Allie said. “Let’s not ruin those.”

  “Who said I was trying to?”

  “No one. I just—let me figure out a win-win solution for all three of us, okay?”

  Brushing past her to help himself to ice cream, he said, “Great. That’s all I ask.” Gesturing to the sweet treat, he asked, “Want some?”

  “Thanks.” She gave him her first real smile of the day. “That’d be good.”

  “After that, how ’bout we watch TV with our boy?”

  “You like SpongeBob?”

  “I love SpongeBob—but I’m not knitting.”

  Barely one commercial break into the show, Allie was out, curled into a ball at the far end of the sofa from where Caleb sat. He swallowed hard, remembering how she used to fall asleep using his shoulder or lap for a pillow.

  Slipping a blanket from the sofa’s back, he tossed it over her.

  “Yo, Cal,” he said to his son. “What’s your bedtime?”

  “Aw, man. It’s eight-thirty, but can’t I stay up just a little longer? I won’t tell Mom.”

  “Sorry, pal. It’s nearly nine and you’ve got school work in the morning.”

  “Five more minutes? I’ll do an extra good job of brushing my teeth.”

  “Admirable negotiation skills, but no can do.” Caleb stood, held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

  “Do I get a story?”

  “Still going to do an extra good job on those teeth?”

  Ten minutes’ worth of tooth brushing and scrambling into pajamas later, Cal was all set for bed.

  Caleb, chest tight, drew back his son’s blue-and-red airplane sheets and comforter. Cal smelled like toothpaste and soap and kid sweat. Probably, he was supposed to have a bath, but seeing how he was still a virtual stranger to the boy, Caleb didn’t figure one night without a bath would hurt.

  He was still furious with Allie for keeping such simple pleasures from him all these years, yet he was also so damned grateful she hadn’t lost their child. That she’d loved him to a degree she’d wanted to have his child.

  She just hadn’t loved him enough to raise his child with him.

  Weary of the past, Caleb asked, “Which book do you want to hear?”

  “Dr. Seuss! Happy Birthday to You is my favorite.”

  “Mine, too.” Caleb took it from a nearby bookshelf, then flicked on the airplane lamp on Cal’s bedside table. “Like planes, huh?”

  “Yeah. I like ’em a whole lot. I wanna be an astronaut, but Mom says I have to learn to fly planes before the space shuttle. Look up.”

  Caleb did, and grinned. Spread across Cal’s ceiling was the Milky Way, along with a few extra planets and space ships NASA scientists probably hadn’t yet discovered. “That’s neat. Your mom hire someone to paint it?”

  He shook his head. “She did it. She’s a good drawer, huh?”

  “She sure is. I never knew that about her.”

  “Did you ever meet my dad?”

  Caleb coughed. “Let’s, ah, get started on this book.”

  “Yeah, but did you?”

  “Um…” Good grief, how was he supposed to handle this? “You know what, I did meet him, and he was a really great guy. You’d have liked him a lot.”

  “What’d he look like?” Cal popped upright in his bed. “We don’t even have pictures.”

  “It’s getting late. Shouldn’t we get started on this book?”

  “Yeah, but what’d he look like?”

  “Ah, come to think of it, a lot like me.” Caleb gently eased his son back to his pillow, then opened the book. “I wish we could do what they do in Katroo…”

  “Hey, Caleb?” the boy interrupted not half a page into the story.

  “Yeah?”

  “Think we could play soccer tomorrow? In gym last week, I was picked last for teams. Billy Stubbs said ’cause I’m a wuss and can’t kick or be the goalie.”

  Billy Stubbs is going down.

  “Sure, bud.” It might take some furniture rearranging, but— “We’ll play whatever you want. Get you so much practice Billy’ll beg to be on your team.”

  Popping back up in his bed, Cal tossed his arms around Caleb’s neck, giving him a fierce hug and sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

  “Sure, kid.” Fighting to speak past a throat tight with tears, Caleb said, “You’re pretty cool, too.”

  Allie yawned, slowly waking to find herself alone in the quiet living room. Last she remembered, SpongeBob had been terrorizing Squidward. Where was everyone?

  From upstairs came the muted sound of male laughter.

  Big boy and little boy.

  She groaned, pushing herself to her feet.

  Upstairs, she paused a short way from Cal’s open bedroom door, listening to Caleb’s rich voice as a familiar Dr. Seuss story unfolded. It was long. Much too long for this late at night. Cal knew that. Obviously, Caleb didn’t. Still, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt just this once for her son to stay up late.

  A burning ache took residence where her heart used to live. What was she going to do? Judging by Cal’s occasional giggle, he was enraptured by the guest in their home. To find out Caleb was his father—what would that do to him? Would her son be ecstatic? Or bitter over what she’d done?

  Why was a selfish part of her wanting Cal not to fall in love with his father? Why was she afraid of losing not just her son, but Caleb all over again? Lying to him had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, yet she’d had to protect her son.

  You didn’t do this out of some saintly desire to shelter your son—our son—from pain. You were protecting yourself.

  Sliding her fingers into the hair at her temples, Allie gro
aned.

  Damn him.

  Damn Caleb for his uncanny knack of always knowing just what she was thinking. But that didn’t change anything.

  Okay, so yes, maybe all those years ago she’d been more terrified of forging a life with Caleb and then losing him to violence, than she’d been afraid for her unborn child. But now, seeing how attached Cal had become to his father in under twenty-four hours, how could she not be afraid of the wreckage that could quite possibly become of Cal’s heart?

  Look at their current situation. Dangerous. Caleb could be shot and hurt—God forbid, killed—at any moment. Every day he actually looked forward to putting himself in danger. It didn’t make sense.

  And speaking of danger, the man was as charming as ever. She’d once fallen for him. Hard. Not that she fostered any current feelings for him. Just that—

  “Oh, hey,” Caleb said, startling her as he stepped outside Cal’s room. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

  “No.”

  “Cal asleep?”

  Nodding, he chuckled. “Took him long enough. For a minute there, I thought I might have to slip him a mickey.” He winked. “You, on the other hand, had no trouble falling asleep. Seeing you curled up on the sofa… It brought back memories.”

  “Good, I hope.”

  “Most.”

  Turning her back on him, heading to her room, she said, “Guess we should call it a day.” She flicked on the overhead light—a modern chandelier.

  “Nice,” he said, hot on her trail, shrinking the once generously sized room. “You always did have a flair for decorating.”

  “Thanks.” The money she’d spent had been her reward for having to sleep in there alone. The ultramodern acrylic canopy bed with its sheer white curtains was a floating cloud, complete with downy white sheets, comforter and pillows. She’d done the floor in dramatic black granite. Half the walls were white, the others bamboo-green. Aside from a few original botanical watercolors, all oversized and abstract, the room had few adornments.

  Clutter made her crazy.

  Not because it bothered her, but because Caleb had been renowned for his clutter, and she didn’t want to be reminded of him. One look into her son’s sage green eyes was painful enough.

  “It is a little cold in here, though.” He shot her a sexy-slow grin. “Needs paperbacks and newspapers. Definitely a few good flea market finds.”

  Arms crossed, she asked, “Am I in so much danger I need a marshal in my bedroom?”

  He reddened, tipped an imaginary hat. “Sorry, ma’am. Forgot my manners.”

  “It’s okay this once,” she said, trying not to smile at his antics, but having a tough time. He’d always been a big fan of the Old West, right down to adopting a truly awful fake cowboy accent. Guess he hadn’t lost his touch. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “Will do,” he said with another gorgeous grin. “Seriously, you all right? You know, about this afternoon?”

  She shrugged. Slipping off black leather heels, she headed for her walk-in closet, switching on the light.

  From the bedroom came the swish of blinds being drawn on the wall of windows overlooking the backyard and Cascades range beyond. “You gotta be more careful,” he said. “Until this whole mess is over, I recommend keeping all the curtains and blinds closed.”

  “Thanks.” She emerged from the closet wearing white flannel pj’s and her favorite white robe.

  “Sure.”

  He reached out to her.

  She flinched from his anticipated touch.

  “Geez, Allie, all I was trying to do was get that chunk of hair from your collar. You know how you were always getting it stuck.”

  “Please, don’t,” she said, biting her lower lip.

  “What?”

  “Try ingratiating yourself by dredging up old memories. Yes, Caleb, we share a past, but that doesn’t mean we share a futu—”

  He snorted. “Hate to interrupt, but there’s a boy in there with my DNA who says different. Our futures are intimately entwined.”

  “You’re not playing fair.” She gripped the clear acrylic bedpost, squeezing till the square edge dug into her palm. “No one’s denying Cal’s your son. All I asked for was time to digest all this. You showing up here out of the blue.”

  “Oh—like you haven’t already had enough time to tell a son obviously needing a dad that he just so happens to have one?”

  “What are you saying? That I’m a bad mom?”

  “Not at all. Just that you’re not a dad. Did you know your expert knitter’s being made fun of at school because he’s lousy at sports? When’s the last time you had him out playing catch or at a batting cage?”

  “Stop,” she said. “You’re coming across like a sexist pig. Besides knitting, Cal takes art lessons. He’s a highly skilled artist for his age. His teacher’s quite impressed.”

  “Great.” Caleb laughed. “Tell that to Billy Stubbs. He’ll beat our poor kid to a pulp.” Shaking his head, Caleb left the room.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Allie whisper-shouted, chasing him down the hall and stairs. “And who’s Billy Stubbs?”

  “Ask your son.”

  Well, obviously, Allie wasn’t going to wake Cal to ask, so she’d planned on asking first thing in the morning. But a storm and power outage during the night had messed up her alarm and she’d overslept, leaving her with barely enough time to ask Cal what he wanted for breakfast, let alone who this Billy Stubbs was.

  And could someone please tell her, with an entire team of highly capable men outside, all knowing the court schedule, how not a one of them had delivered a wake-up call?

  As if being late wasn’t bad enough, the first thing she encountered on the kitchen counter was the plastic bag Caleb had brought in last night.

  A note on it said: Allie’s relaxation supplies.

  Curiosity piqued, she looked inside only to swallow hard. How in the world had Caleb remembered?

  Her favorite way to wind down after a really tough day was with a guilty pleasure she hadn’t indulged in since…

  Well, since leaving him.

  With reverence, she removed the jumbo bag of mixed-flavor Jolly Rancher candies and a movie-star gossip magazine. She sniffed the bag. Her favorite green apple flavor shone through.

  Running her hand over the magazine’s glossy cover, she drooled over a starlet’s latest premiere gown—stunning. She snuck a quick peek inside…

  Mmm… Could Chris Pine be any hotter?

  Could Caleb be any sweeter?

  Cal bounded down the stairs. “Mom? What’re you doin’? It’s time for us to go.” He’d been so bored at the house by himself the day before, that today she’d decided to take him with her to the office. At least there, with her mostly female staff fussing over him, he wouldn’t lack for attention.

  “I know,” she said, tucking the magazine and candy in her satchel. Just having the contraband goodies tucked beside her felt akin to taking part of Caleb to work with her—the best part. His fun side!

  She was feeling good about her day ahead—how could you not feel good when gazing at Chris? Then, on the trip out of her garage past the front yard and onto the street, her day wasn’t just ruined, but pulverized.

  Gaping at the house, she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

  How could someone have done that?

  “Mom, what—”

  “Look away,” she said, covering Cal’s eyes, glad for once to be in the back of the government-owned SUV. Why hadn’t she left Cal inside, where he’d be oblivious to the malicious vandalism that’d gone on right under their noses?

  On the flip side, what if he’d still be in danger inside their house, across the front porch of which someone had scrawled in blood red, Die Commie Bitch!

  On the front steps lay the bloodied carcass of what, she didn’t want to know.

  “I—I thought there was round-the-clock protection?” she said to the driver. “How did those guys get so close?” />
  The driver sighed. Rubbed his forehead. “There was a diversion, ma’am. They were in and out in a matter of seconds. Trust me, this will never happen again.”

  Allie hugged Cal close, the marshal’s words offering no comfort.

  Upon arriving at Allie’s house, fury didn’t begin to describe Caleb’s cold rage. “Someone mind telling me what the hell happened here last night? ’Cause unless I’m mistaken, not a damned one of you was doing your job.”

  Adam said, “Peterson, Juarez and Franko got sick. Food poisoning. We’re guessing from that crappy convenience store on fifty-first. Old hot dogs and chili.” He shuddered. “Lethal combo. Anyway, we had to call in local guys till help gets here from New Jersey.”

  “New freakin’ Jersey?” Caleb raised his brows. “You trying to tell me the closest marshal we could get was all the way from out East?”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Sorry? That’s not gonna cut it. Adam, bro, I trusted you.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Allie is more than just a case to me. I mean, I’d protect any ordinary assignment with my life, but for her—” for my son, I’d give my soul.

  “I get it,” Adam said. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not.”

  Just when Allie thought her current case couldn’t get worse, it did. Mr. Foster, the sweet old man who lived across from the post office, was dead. The initial coroner’s report said heart attack. But there were a lot of unnatural ways a so-called natural death could be caused.

  “Ordinarily,” she said from her bench, the courtroom again bursting with reporters and victims’ families, “I’d want to recess in light of last night’s events. But in this case, I think it’d be best for all concerned if we forge ahead.”

  The defense attorney launched into a showboat cross-examination leading to a series of sustained objections, during which, Francis’s expression grew steadily darker.

  “Damn commie bitch,” the defendant eventually mumbled.

  “Mr. Ashford,” she said, slamming her gavel against the bench. “Congratulations. You’ve just earned a one-way ticket back to your cell. Bailiff.”