Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie

One

      “Mr. Morgan?” Gillian Logue called above the driving rain.

      The man she sought stood there at the grumbling surf’s edge, staring at an angry North Pacific. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the wind, he almost didn’t look real—more like some mythical sea king surveying all that was rightfully his.

      Gillian shivered, hunching deeper into her pathetic excuse for a jacket.

      Even in the rain, the place reeked of fish and seaweed and all things not on her L.A. beat. They were achingly familiar smells she could try all she liked to pretend didn’t dredge up the past, but there was no denying it—it was hard to come home to Oregon. Not that this island was home, but the boulder-strewn coastal landscape sure was.

      The crashing waves.

      The tangy scent of pines flavored with a rich stew of all things living and dead in the sea.

      The times she’d played along the shore as a child.

      The times she’d cried along the shore as a woman.

      Shoot, who was she to judge Joe Morgan?

      Yeah, she’d lost a love, and yeah, it’d hurt, but it wasn’t like she’d been married to Kent, or they’d had kids. She couldn’t even fathom the complexities of Joe Morgan’s pain.

      Shouldn’t want to.

      She wasn’t on this godforsaken rock to make a new friend. She was here for one simple reason—to do her job.

      “Mr. Morgan?” she called again.

      He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, not bothering to shield them from the rain. “Yeah,” he finally shouted. “That’s me. Mind telling me who you are? What you want?”

      The wind slapped strands of her honey-blond hair in Gillian’s face. She took a second to brush them away before stepping close enough to hold out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Gillian Logue.”

      The set of his jaw told her he had no intention of shaking her hand, so she reached into the right hip pocket of her navy windbreaker and pulled out a black leather wallet.

      Flipping it open, she flashed him her silver star.

      “I asked you a question,” he said.

      “I heard you.” She notched her chin a fraction higher, hoping the slight movement conveyed at least a dozen messages. The loudest of which was that she might be housed in a small package, but she was as tough as any man—especially him. “I’m here on official business. Over a year ago, the drug lord responsible for killing your wife was released on a technicality. Now, we have him back, and we’d like you to testify.”

      “What?” He put his hand to his forehead.

      “The retrial starts in two weeks. Consider yourself subpoenaed.”

      His brittle laugh didn’t do much for her wavering confidence.

      “Because of your penchant for vanishing, my superiors thought it best you have an escort to the trial, along with someone to fill you in on current events—at least those pertaining to locking up this lowlife for good. Anyway,” she added with a tight laugh, “for the next two weeks, and the duration of the trial, you’re stuck with me.”

      The man she’d studied quite literally for months eyed her long and hard, delivered a lifeless laugh of his own, then turned his back to her and headed down the beach for the trail leading to his cabin.

      “Like it or not, Mr. Morgan, I’m staying!” Her throat ached from shouting over the rain. “Shoot, you may even need my protection! If we found you, one of Tsun-Chung’s henchman could, too!”

      He didn’t look back.

      “Your testimony’s vital to the prosecution’s case!”

      Still, he kept right on walking.

      Okay. Two could play this game.

      She jogged to catch up, coming within a few feet of him. “If you won’t do it for your country, sir, don’t you owe it to your daughter to see that the man responsible for her mother’s death is put behind bars?”

      He stopped, but didn’t turn around. His only movement was a slight clenching of his fists.

      “Mr. Morgan, sir, I’m here for the duration. We know you’re a private man and we respect that, so I’ve come alone. And again, in regards to your probability for flight—you have lived in fifteen places over the past twenty months—they left me here without a boat.”

      “But you have a radio, right? A cell phone?” His whole body clenched, and he still wouldn’t look at her.

      “Um, no, sir.”

      “Liar. Call yourself a ride. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the mainland.” He grinned, but the gesture didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “In these ten-foot swells, should be a fun ride in my skiff.”

      Wow.

      Gillian hadn’t figured this assignment would be a cakewalk, but never had she expected to encounter this barely human ice cube. Scrambling after him up the well-worn trail, she tried not to think about what amazing shape the guy was in to keep this harrowing pace on such a steep hill.

      Her footfalls fell silent along the pine needle strewn path.

      A little too silent.

      The place gave her the creeps.

      Nostrils flaring from the pungent smell of resin, she glanced over her shoulder, telling herself it was just the eerie gloom raising goose bumps on her arms. The forest of shore pine, red alder and towering western red cedars closed in on her, blocking the afternoon’s weakening gray light, reducing the wind’s howl to a gentle shush.

      Stepping over a branch that’d fallen onto the trail, hearing the chatter of small stones skipping down the hillside with each misplaced step, returned Gillian to afternoons spent hiking with her brothers. For the most part, lessons in frustration.

      Sure, the scenery had been gorgeous, but as overprotective as Caleb, Beau and Adam had been, it was a wonder they hadn’t figured out a way to safely stash her in their backpacks. Ever since their mom had died, when she was just eight, they’d treated her like a china doll, preferring she stay close to the house. Her dad shared that preference.

      By the time she’d left for college at eighteen, she’d had enough coddling. Enough questions about her every intended move. Enough—

      The slam of Joe’s cabin door jolted Gillian back into the present. The metallic thwack of a lock rammed home steeled her resolve to see this assignment through to a successful completion.

      This time around, she was in charge.

      Her dad had never been prouder than when all three of his boys graduated with honors from the University of Oregon, then went on to ace U.S. Marshal’s Service exams.

      How had he reacted when she’d done the same?

      I hope this makes you happy, cupcake. But I think your mother wanted you keeping a fine home. Raising lots of chubby babies.

      Gillian swallowed the sentimental knot at the back of her throat.

      The only baby she’d be handling was the overgrown variety who’d just locked himself in his cabin.

      Steeling her spine, she marched right on up to the covered porch, past a rick of neatly stacked firewood, then banged the heel of her hand on a weather-beaten pine door. “Mr. Morgan, open up. We need to talk.”

      From inside came a halfhearted bark—of the canine variety.

      Stepping a few feet to her left, Gillian cupped her hands to a large paned window and peered inside.

      A friendly eyed yellow Lab made his way to the door, doggy toenails clacking on