Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  For now.

  Marsh glanced at the scenery through the windshield. Took in snow-capped peaks, deep valleys, and long swathes of uncut forest. The land was ripe with spring. Bright greens splashed against mountainous backdrops, wildflowers intermittent along the margins of the road.

  A pretty spot.

  “Triple H is just over the next ridge.” The sheriff nodded towards the approaching rise.

  “What are the owners like?” Marsh asked.

  “The Sullivans?” The sheriff looked grim. “Rose Sullivan, the mother, died of a coronary just yesterday, so they’re not really accepting social calls.”

  “This is far from a social call, Sheriff.”

  “Right.” Talbot nodded, threw a measured look over his shoulder. “Well, Nat Sullivan is a big guy, and I wouldn’t wanna rile him. But he should be down at the auction right now. They’re selling off a piece of land down near the reservoir.” The sheriff tapped sausage-like fingers on the steering wheel. “They’re good people. Been here for generations. Nat’s got a brother and sister that live on the ranch too. She’s a doctor down at County Hospital.” The sheriff shrugged. “Regular folk.”

  Talbot wound down his window and leaned his forearm along the sill. Adjusted his mirror. “It’s just a small place. They’re struggling to keep it afloat, but they’re stubborn. Too damned stubborn to go down without a fight.”

  They crested the ridge, and the ranch spread out below them in the small valley. Marsh took in the large central ranch house with its L-shaped frame. A big orange Dutch barn dominated the yard and a long shed, probably stables, crouched close besides it. There were three circular wooden corrals and horses dotted the meadows all around the valley.

  “Turn off the engine and coast down the hill,” Marsh said. He spotted a cowboy riding away from them on horseback up on the far ridge. Two small cottages were just visible at the edge of the trees, beyond the furthest corral. A Jeep and a red Explorer were parked beside the barn. “Everything look as it should, Sheriff?”

  Talbot stared at Marsh for a moment before the import of the question sank in. The sheriff turned back and examined the scene through law enforcement eyes.

  He pointed to the cowboy on the ridge. “That’s old Ezra Jenkins, one of the hands, heading to the upper pastures by the looks of it.”

  His gaze shifted to the ranch itself. “The Jeep is Eliza Reed’s, or whatever the heck her name is. The Explorer belongs to Sarah Sullivan. Don’t see Ryan’s truck. Could be parked in the old barn though.” He pointed to a ramshackle building on the far side of the ranch house. “Cal Landon, the other cowpoke who works here, doesn’t own a vehicle so he could be anywhere.” The sheriff brightened. “You here because of him?”

  Marsh shook his head.

  Talbot’s face dropped.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, there’s a little girl about the place too,” the sheriff added.

  Marsh and Dancer exchanged a glance. Shit. A kid to worry about as well as everything else.

  Marsh took out his SIG, bullet in the chamber. “I’m going around the back. You two drive around the front and check it out.”

  He slipped out of the car and ran across the gravel track, vaulted a wooden fence and sprinted to the side of the house. DeLattio could have come and gone already. Wasn’t likely, but it could have happened. Sweat beaded on Marsh’s brow and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. He didn’t want Elizabeth in that man’s clutches. The medical report had been bad enough and next time, Delattio wouldn’t stop until she was dead.

  Next time...

  Marsh gritted his teeth. Not if I can help it. He skirted the house. Trampled some shrubs and cut his hand on a rosebush. Sucking blood from his finger, he checked the windows. Didn’t see anyone. Ducking his head, he ran across the neatly trimmed back lawn to the far side of the house. At the corner he paused for a moment, scanned the area before running down the side of the house. The sheriff and Steve Dancer stood on the porch, knocking on the door.

  Dancer had his hand in his jacket pocket, weapon concealed.

  Marsh heard someone answer the door.

  “Hey. Sheriff Talbot, you back again?”

  “Sorry to impose, Ryan. Condolences on your ma.” Talbot placed his hands on his waist, formalities over. “Miss Reed around?”

  “What do you want her for this time?”

  Marsh heard the frown in the young man’s voice.

  “Just answer the question, Ryan.”

  Marsh measured the hesitation, knew with certainty that Elizabeth was around somewhere and then froze at the sound of a bolt chambering a round close to his ear.

  Shit.

  He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to dive, held his SIG up in the air. Didn’t breathe as he turned to face a blond cowboy who scowled down the length of a .308 Winchester.

  Marsh exhaled in relief. At least it wasn’t a gangster who’d gotten the drop on him. Not that the cowboy looked particularly friendly, but at least he had no reason to want him dead.

  Marsh looked the man over, tried to assess the light in the man’s blue eyes.

  Sharp, cool, focused.

  “Drop the gun and move out into the open where I can see you.” The cowboy’s voice was deep and flat. Calm. Not easily panicked.

  Good.

  Marsh threw his weapon into the yard, near the parked vehicles. He placed his hands on his head, and walked out from the side of the house.

  The three men on the stoop watched him, slack-jawed. The cowboy followed him, but kept close to the house for cover.

  “Jesus, Nat, what in the fuck are you doing?” Sheriff Talbot fumbled with his holster.

  “Touch that gun, Talbot, and I’ll nail your ass and bury you so deep, not even the bears will find you.” His attention never left Marsh. “Get your hands up, all of you, before somebody does something he regrets.”

  Talbot must have seen his career slide down the toilet and gasped. “He’s a goddamn federal agent.”

  Marsh saw no surprise on Nat Sullivan’s face. Now wasn’t that interesting? And he didn’t lower the rifle.

  “Get your hands up,” Nat repeated. “Now.”

  Marsh gave Dancer an imperceptible nod. Dancer raised his hands. The sheriff followed suit reluctantly.

  “What do you want?” Nat asked Marsh.

  “He’s a freaking federal agent, Nat. Doesn’t matter what he wants.” Sheriff Talbot’s voice cracked. “Put down the goddamned gun.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the President of the United States, Sheriff.” His voice was hard as steel. “What the hell is he doing sneaking around my property with a drawn gun?”

  Silence hung in the air. Marsh felt the weight of it as the others watched him, waiting for answers.

  “He’s looking for me.”

  Marsh glanced behind him and felt a flood of relief so strong his knees nearly buckled. Elizabeth moved from behind the stable doors, pushed her black Glock into her shoulder holster. She wore jeans and a faded shirt, draped over a faded University of Montana T-shirt.

  She looked tired and thin. Dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail and hidden under a ball cap. Cheekbones were stark above hollow cheeks and her lips, normally smiling, were bloodless and grim.

  It had been a long time since he’d seen her as anything except the highly fashionable Juliette Morgan. Eliza Reed was a different kind of woman.

  “Elizabeth.”

  Dancer bolted over the rail and ran to her. The guy picked her up and twirled her around. Marsh held motionless as Dancer crushed her in a fierce hug and kissed her full on the mouth. Tension radiated from Nat Sullivan in solid waves. He held the rifle pointed straight at Marsh’s heart.

  Way to go, Dancer.

  “I’d forgotten how butt-ugly you really were.” Dancer pulled off Elizabeth’s cap and ruffled her brown locks.

  Some of the tension eased from her stance and her lips curved into the smile Marsh remembered.

  “Jeez, Dance, get your
hands off me.” Elizabeth laughed and shoved him away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “When was the last time you shaved?”

  “I thought you liked the rough and ready type.” Dancer threw his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. Raised his eyebrows as he stared at the tall, angry cowboy who still held the rifle trained on Marsh.

  ***

  “Not as rough as you, idiot.” Elizabeth followed his gaze and her smile slipped. “Nat.” His name was a whisper on her lips.

  He was shockingly handsome in faded denim that brought out the blue of his eyes. She blinked away an image of him covered in blood.

  “Let me introduce Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes,” she put a hand on Dancer’s shoulder, “and this fool is Special Agent Steve Dancer. Both work for the Fine Art and Forgeries Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  There was a second’s pause as Elizabeth stared into Nat’s steady eyes. “Marsh is my old boss.” Elizabeth ignored the gapes from Ryan and Sheriff Talbot, concentrated instead on the man in front of her. The man who cared enough to aim his rifle at a top government official.

  Both men were important to her. Both wanted to protect her. Nat was as blond as Marsh was dark, the planes of his face harder and leaner compared to the square-jawed Bostonian. Both men were tall and fit, Nat having the extra bulk across the shoulders from hard manual labor he did every day of his life. Marsh’s suit contrasted vividly with Nat’s old denims, but both men held themselves with the natural grace of born leaders.

  Storm clouds had begun to gather in the distance. They grazed the jagged tips of mountaintops with ominous portent.

  “You can put the rifle down, Nat, he’s one of the good guys,” she said gently. Sweat gathered on her brow, beaded and slid down the side of her face.

  “Sure of that, Eliza?” Nat asked.

  Elizabeth shrugged away from Dancer and walked over to Nat, laying her hand on his arm. His pulse beat warm and vital and alive. She wanted to keep him that way. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Nat searched her eyes for doubt and finding none finally raised the rifle. He reached out a hand to cup her chin, rubbed her bottom lip with his thumb. Elizabeth leaned into the touch, wanted to throw herself into his arms, but held back. Nothing had changed. She still had to leave. Nat dropped his hand. He seemed to sense her withdrawal and she watched as he hauled his gaze back to Marsh.

  Nat walked over and picked up the SIG that lay on the ground. He balanced it in his free hand, blew off some of the dirt and hesitated.

  “Here.” He held it out for Marsh to take.

  The two men stood a couple of feet apart, weighing each other. Elizabeth watched them, amused and a little sad. Alpha males at play. Another time and they might have become friends.

  “Is someone going to explain this shit to me?” Sheriff Talbot barked. The slow drawl was gone. An aggravated rumble filled its place.

  Elizabeth ignored him and approached Marsh. She felt like a truant schoolgirl finally being called before the principal.

  “Hey.” She didn’t know what else to say after all the trouble she’d caused. Not that he’d had to track her down, but she’d known he’d try.

  “Hey yourself.” Marsh pulled her into his arms and squeezed her in a fierce hug. She could feel Nat’s gaze rake her back. Angry and tense. Demanding answers.

  “DeLattio’s escaped,” Marsh murmured into her ear.

  Her breath hissed out of her lungs and her stomach clenched. Pulling back she withdrew from his arms, her body a solid block of trepidation.

  “When?” Her voice was reedy and weak. God, she hated the effect the bastard had on her.

  “Night before last.” He re-holstered his pistol.

  Uneasy, her eyes flicked to the trees. Shit. He could be here already. Terror and hatred warred in her head. Blanked out all other thoughts. She scanned the woods. Picked out patches of shadow so dark they could have hidden an elephant. She backed away, the desire to flee as powerful as a shove in the back. Her hand crept up to the Glock she’d just holstered. Automatically, she loosened the clasp and pulled the gun free again. Sweat drenched her upper lip. Her heart hammered. She couldn’t sense anything evil from the woods. She couldn’t sense a damned thing, but hell, he could still be there.

  “I was about to leave.” She’d been saying goodbye to the little foal, Red, when the sheriff had rolled up. Stupid to hang around.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  She’d get them all killed.

  Nat’s questioning stare drilled her, but she ignored him. She hadn’t meant to be here when he got back from the auction, couldn’t bear to witness his pain.

  Marsh glanced from her to Nat then leaned towards her, hands on hips. “So how about we catch this bastard?”

  Shaking her head, she rubbed the gooseflesh that crawled across her skin.

  “We’ll set a trap. Draw him here.” Marsh regarded her with a small smile, like it was already accomplished. “Who knows? Maybe the bastard will get killed in the crossfire.”

  Her gaze wavered under Marsh’s intense scrutiny and she looked away. The urge to put a bullet between DeLattio’s eyes was so strong it was a physical pain in her chest. But the Law demanded judicial process. And she wanted Old Testament reckoning.

  “No.” She shook her head, set her jaw, impatient at the delay.

  “So you’re just going to run away from this asshole?” Marsh demanded.

  Elizabeth’s eyes went wide at his tone before logic took over. He was riling her. It was a technique that had worked in the past. “Him, the mob, just about anybody else who wants to put a bullet in my head.”

  Or worse—in somebody else’s head.

  Marsh was spoiling for a fight, but she didn’t have time. She started to walk away. Had to get out of there. Marsh grabbed her arm and swung her back to face him, his fingers bruising her flesh.

  “Which may include me if you don’t sort out this goddamned mess!” His shout blasted her eardrums about an inch from her face.

  Fury seared her, like he had any right to be angry.

  Laughter rang out, bounced off the trees and up the valley. Nat was almost bent double with amusement. The rifle rested across his thighs.

  “What the hell is so funny?” She raised a brow and glared.

  “You are,” Nat said bluntly. “You’re the most mule-headed stubborn female I have ever met.” He was still laughing and Elizabeth didn’t know whether to kick Marsh in the balls or slap Nat on the head.

  Her heart pounded with the adrenaline surging through her system. Fight or flight. Looking at Nat she knew what she had to do. She shook off Marsh’s hand and turned back towards the Jeep.

  “So that’s it? You’re just gonna leave?” Nat’s voice was filled with anguish.

  She froze, but couldn’t turn around. Tears were too close to the surface. She squeezed the grip of the Glock, her knuckles straining against the molded resin. “I’ve never had anything to lose before, Nat. Don’t make this harder for me.”

  She climbed into the Jeep as tears blinded her. She slammed the door shut and started the engine.

  A blast rocked the SUV, jerked her against the window so hard she banged her head. Her jaw dropped as she watched Marsh point his SIG at the back tire and pull the trigger again.

  He blew out the second tire.

  Son of a bitch.

  He started to walk around the front of the Jeep as Eliza pushed the door open and climbed out.

  “You sonofa— Stop!”

  Marsh pointed the gun at the third tire, his eyes flat as flint. “You staying?”

  Fear warred with anger and anger won. “Do I have any choice?” She glared at Marsh, wishing she’d never met him. Stuffing her Glock back in its holster, she turned and stalked back to the ranch house, careful not to look at Nat. The foundations shook as she slammed the door behind her.

  NINETEEN

  “So what do we call you, Slick?” Ryan asked. Evidence of grief and a hangover h
overed around his eyes and roughened his handsome edge. He sat at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee clutched between his palms as if that would stop them shaking.

  “Eliza, Elizabeth, whatever, it’s all the same to me.” Elizabeth shrugged and glanced toward Nat, who leaned against the far wall—expressionless, unreadable. “My parents called me Eliza.”

  Methodically, Nat began checking his rifle.

  The kitchen was crowded, but she had nowhere to go. Too many people and not enough air. She sat down heavily in the chair next to Ryan, her anger spent, took a sip of hot sweetened tea.

  “Special Agent Elizabeth Claire Paden Ward,” Marsh interrupted. “Aka Juliette Morgan, aka Eliza Reed.” He’d filled them in on most of the details, but she didn’t like being the floorshow.

  Marsh was trying to remind her who she’d been and what she’d done with her life, but she wasn’t proud of it anymore; the price had been too high.

  “Former Special Agent. I resigned.” She looked up, gave Marsh a bitter smile. “Look, I don’t have time to discuss ancient history with you, Marsh. We both know I have to get out of here.”

  Marsh was checking his laptop, but she couldn’t see what he was looking at. Whatever it was made him smile and that irritated the crap out of her. Nothing about this situation was funny. Dancer was supposed to be changing her tires. If she knew him he’d be setting up gadgets first.

  Damn.

  She scowled at the sheriff who leaned against the sink with a mug of coffee in hand. “So what did you do, Sheriff? Broadcast my address on the national news?” Turned out the lawman had ‘borrowed’ her cup the day he’d interviewed her and run a search on her fingerprints.

  Talbot glowered at her, his golden eyes narrowed over a pudgy nose. “I never gave out your address to anyone, ma’am, not even my deputies. The feds jumped all over me the second I put in a request for the fingerprint ID.” He gave a short disappointed laugh. “Thought I’d caught another Unabomber.”

  Nat loaded four rounds into his rifle, sliding each one in smoothly. He held the rounds down with his thumb and slipped in a fifth, closed the bolt.

  Eliza gripped her mug harder, looked away before he caught her staring. “What now, Marsh? If I don’t get out of here soon, innocent people could get hurt.”