Saving Joe

Why couldn’t his mouth form the words of blame he so badly needed to speak? Why couldn’t he unleash the wrath that’d lived inside him for so long even he wasn’t sure where the past ended and the present began?

Then again, was any of this real, or was it the final stage of him going all the way mad?

He heard the creak of the door, even this far from the cabin.

“Joe?” the woman called, her voice eerie and echoing through the drizzle. “Please come back inside. It’s cold out here.” There was blessed silence, then the crunch of her footfalls. “We don’t have to talk about the case. Hell, we can talk sports if you want. I grew up with three brothers, so I know every sport from football to skiing.”

Joe winced. Why wouldn’t she go away?

It’d been a long time since he’d carried on polite conversation with anyone besides his in-laws and daughter. With anyone else, he kept to the basics. Since his wife’s death, since her killer’s release, since the relentless surprise attacks on his life that had transformed him into the nomad he was today, Joe had become a stranger even to himself. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care—at least he hadn’t before she’d shown up.

Something about knowing this marshal was here made him once again accountable. Honor-bound to conform to society’s graces. To offer drinks and food. Shelter and warmth. And he hated that—feeling like he had to do what was expected instead of what he wanted, which was to fling the woman off of his island as if she were of no more consequence than a piece of driftwood marring his shore.

From between the pine boughs, Joe saw Bud saunter to the woman’s side, nudging his nose up under her hand in an attempt to get himself a pat.

Oh, but she did far more than just pat the dog.

She cupped her hand about the silky portion of his head beside his ear and smoothed her fingers across the same place over and over. That was Joe’s favorite spot to rub the dog. The fur there was perfectly smooth, almost downy in its consistency.

The fur was his.

The dog was his.

The island was his.

“If you’d like,” the marshal said, “I could make us something to eat. I make mean scrambled eggs.”

As if cued, his stomach growled. It’d been hours since his last meal.

“Joe,” she said, “I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean…” She flopped her hands at her sides. “Here you’ve been, thinking this whole ordeal was over, when yet again it rears its ugly head….”

Over.

Yes.

It was all supposed to be over.

Funny, though, how it didn’t feel over when he wanted to hold his daughter so bad he could scream, but didn’t dare go near her more than once every couple of months for fear of her meeting the same fate as her mother.

No matter the personal cost, Meggie had been through enough. It was his duty, as her dad, to protect her—yet he was the source of the potential danger.

“I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” the woman said, “with all the marshals assigned to your case.”

Damn straight.

“But Joe, the fact of the matter is that we need you. I need you. I hate this guy as much as you do. He killed four of my best friends.” She stepped closer, off the trail and into tall, winter-dulled weeds.

A sudden breeze whipped strands of her hair in her face, making her look softer, prettier, than a female marshal should. And he hated her all over again for that—for looking so vibrant and alive when his wife was—

“I saw your propane fridge, so I’m assuming you have the basics?”

Not knowing—not caring—if she could see him or not, he nodded.

“I’m great at garbage can casseroles, too,” she said. “You know, concoctions made out of the stuff in the fridge that should probably just go in the trash, but I’m too cheap to throw out.”

She’d passed the tumble of moss-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. He wanted her to be quiet, but at the same time, found himself straining to catch her next words.

How long had it been since he’d heard anyone’s voice, let alone a woman’s?

“French toast is another of my specialties, but I’m guessing you probably don’t have any syrup.”

Confused not by her question, but his need to answer, he said, “No. No syrup.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Just so happens, I brought my own. We had no idea how you were set for supplies, and since I eat like a lumberjack, I brought plenty of everything.”

“Where is it? Your stuff?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

“Down at the dock. I figured my being here would be enough of a jolt to your system without you catching sight of all of my junk, too.”

He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your radio is?” he asked. “At the dock?”

“I already told you, I don’t—”

“And I already told you—you’re lying.”

She flinched before forcing a smile. “Now, Joe, is that any way to treat a guest who just offered to share her syrup?”

“You’re not a guest,” he said, tired of her trying to woo him into conversation.

It’d almost worked, too.

Almost.

“Come on,” he said, leaving his shelter to meet her halfway through the field. “We’ll radio whoever sent you, and tell them you’re ready to go home.”

Bud bounded toward him.

She squared her shoulders and, as she had down at the beach, stubbornly raised her chin. “You just don’t get it, do you? For the next two weeks, this is my home.”

Chapter Two

In waning daylight and sheets of rain, Gillian pitched her government-issue tent smack-dab in front of Joe’s cabin.

She’d hoped he’d take pity on her and let her camp on his couch, but seeing how he hadn’t helped her lug so much as one measly can of beans up that rotten hill of his, she didn’t figure he’d cave on letting her back inside. At least his patch of grass was more bearable than those creepy woods.

She felt him watching her through the window, and sure enough, when she spun around to send him a jaunty wave and bright smile, acting as if she was having the most fabulous time of her life, he ducked behind the drapes.

Hard to believe she’d actually begged her boss, William Benton, for this assignment, which he’d begrudgingly, ironically, given her mostly because she was a she.