Dakota Marshal

MCBRIDE SURFACED to shadows that were thick and air that was heavy with the prospect of yet another rainstorm. His limbs weighed fifty pounds apiece, and he swore someone was using a blunt ax on the back of his skull. Still, he managed to get his eyes open and make the connection between his brain and his vocal cords.

“Where am I?”

Alessandra didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the sudden question. “You’re propped up against a fallen tree in the Black Hills of South Dakota, and, by some miracle, still alive.” Sitting cross-legged in front of him, she folded a bunch of strange-looking leaves into a cloth and tied a string around it.

“Why don’t I trust that serene expression on your face?”

“Relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d have passed on before sunset.” She gave the string a hard tug.

Alarm bells began to clang in his head. “What’s that?”

“A medicinal poultice. We use them on horses after they’ve been gelded.” The glitter deepened. “I say ‘we,’ but I really mean I use them. Dr. Lang believes in the more traditional forms of pain management, his favorites being those that are introduced rectally.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Only for the past thirty seconds. Until then, I was calling you a bastard in every colorful way I could think of.”

He used his good hand to push himself away from the trunk. “You’re father’d be pissed.”

“No, he’d just straighten his shoulders, look stoically upward and blame my mother for influencing me. Then he’d sag and blame himself for giving in to temptation once and marrying her. I’m a sort of by-product of his lust. I don’t think he’s ever quite figured out where I fit into his straightforward, methodical world.”

It was a tragedy, to McBride’s mind, that Alessandra’s mother had died of an aortic aneurysm mere days after her only child’s eleventh birthday. Sadder still was the fact that she’d apparently really loved Alessandra’s father. Why else would any sane woman endure twelve years of marriage to a man who lived, worked and would ultimately die by an archaic set of rules that were more of his own making than those of the religious order to which he belonged?

Alessandra’s grandmother, her father’s own mother, called him a tight-ass. Not in those particular words, but that was the gist. She’d liked her son’s beautiful Bahamian-born wife and had, McBride knew, run interference for her granddaughter up to and including his and Alessandra’s wedding day—which was an entirely different memory.

As if she’d been following his thoughts, Alessandra’s lips curved. “You can puzzle it out for the rest of your life but you’ll never understand him.” She threw McBride the poultice and stood in a single graceful motion. “Sun’s set, you need rest and I want a shower. I’m also hungry. All I found in your truck were nacho chips, candy bars and some energy drinks.”

“Never know when you’ll need a quick buzz.”

“Mmm, I found the whiskey bottle, too.”

“Buzzes come in many forms, Alessandra. You’re right, though, we need to get out of here.” The pain had less of a rapier-sharp edge after he worked his way into a crouch. He tucked the poultice in his shirt pocket. “Can you drive a loaded 4x4?”

He knew she was watching him for signs of disorientation. He must have passed the test, because she began folding the blanket. “On good roads, yes. On a wilderness obstacle course, we’ll find out.”

He could go with that. “Do you know where we are?”

“More or less.” She caught his arm when he stood and the rapier took a nasty swipe at him. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d consider returning to Rapid City.”

He slanted her a dark look that brought a fleeting smile to her lips.

“Figured as much. In that case… Can you walk?”

Like a man who’d taken several pulls from that whiskey bottle. And her touching him didn’t make him any steadier. Her father’s thoughts for her mother were Puritanical compared to the ones currently flying through McBride’s head. He knew and vividly remembered every inch of her butt, her legs, her breasts and, God help him, her hands. She’d learned lightning fast how to drive him straight to the edge and over.

When the pain sheared through him again, he welcomed it. “Keys are in the ignition, Alessandra. If you’re sure you’ve got your bearings, we need to head southwest.”

“That’s the direction Rory’s taking, huh?”

Fat drops of rain began to fall from the bruised clouds above. “Rory’s heading for a border.” Although climbing into his truck was roughly equivalent to scaling Mount Rushmore during an ice storm, McBride persevered. “He’s zigzagging, wants me to believe he’s going to Canada, but my money’s on Mexico.”

She stopped pushing to peer around his arm. “Are you serious? You expect me to go to Mexico?”

“Did I mention I was sorry?”

“Did I mention I put some of Dr. Lang’s suppositories in that medi-pack?”

He managed to chuckle rather than wince. “Give me a viable short-term destination, Alessandra.”

She sent him a last biting stare, then swung on her heel to point. “Bodene’s about fifty miles southwest of here. Spruce Creek’s thirty, but in a slightly different direction. Joan’s rustic Dead Lake cabin’s our best bet. It’s a twisty twenty-mile drive from this old camp.”

“Sounds good,” he said. “Secluded.” Ghoulish, too, but hopefully not portentous.

Rain began to pelt the roof and windshield. In the driver’s seat, Alessandra tied back her hair in a long ponytail. Now how in hell could something so simple strike him as so damn sexy?

Once again, she seemed to know what he was thinking. Her lips twitched when she shoved the truck in gear. “Eyes forward, McBride. We’re off to Dead Lake, and Eddie’s nowhere to be seen.”

Which was, McBride reflected as he scanned the eerily silent clearing, the thing that concerned him most right now.

JOAN’S CABIN HAD a bathroom, a galley kitchen, a huge stone fireplace and a pull-out sofa that faced the hearth.

“Home sweet home.” Alessandra dropped her gear on a small window table. “It’s compact, but not all that different from my father’s house. There’s even a loft.” Humor invaded her tone. “No ladder.”

Overhead lights flared at the touch of a switch, as did the propane water heater.

“Quick trip into town for supplies, and I can have my long-awaited shower.”

McBride, who’d recovered even more rapidly than she’d anticipated, made a more purposeful circle of the room.

“There’s a lot of glass,” he noted. “And trees for cover.”

“There’s also a good chance we left Eddie in one of those potholes we slammed through last night.” She halted him by setting her palm on his chest. “The rain’s stopped, there’s a general store just over a mile from here and, honestly, given a choice at this moment, I’d rather die from a bullet than from starvation. We’ve seen, you’ve scoped, let’s go.”

“You’d make a lousy marshal, Alessandra.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” But she waited while he checked out the porch and small yard before returning to his truck.

“I’ll drive,” McBride told her. “Put on my leather jacket and hat, and try not to let anyone in town see your face. We go in and out, no hesitation. Basics only.”

Alessandra tipped back the brim of the hat he’d dropped on her head and frowned. “Have you been spending time with my father?”

“Better yours than mine. Which way?”

She indicated a narrow mud and gravel road. At his raised brow, she smiled. “I came here with Joan in June.”

“Did you go into the store?”

“Several times. The owner can’t see anything clearly that’s more than a foot in front of him.” She gauged his mood, then went for it. “How’s your father doing these days?”