Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie

      As it was, after feeling trapped in the cabin all afternoon, he felt edgy, restless, like he’d be up all night searching for sleep that would never come.

      Bud barked again.

      Though the fog made distance hard to judge, Joe knew the mutt was on one hell of a romp. Probably he’d reached the far side of the bluff and still hadn’t caught whatever he was chasing.

      Turning back to the yellow light spilling from the cabin, Joe washed his face with his hands and sighed.

      What the hell. One of them might as well get what their heart desired. For Bud, the object of his desire was a rabbit or mouse. For Joe, it was a second chance.

      One he knew would never come.

      “You okay?” she asked.

      “Just dandy.”

      “Wanna hang out? Talk about it?”

      “By it, I’m assuming you mean my wife and kid?”

      “Look, Joe,” she said, “I’m not the enemy, I’m your friend. I’m here to help.”

      “You wanna help?” he said, hating the low menace to his voice, but finding himself incapable of changing it.

      She eagerly nodded.

      “Then zip yourself back into that tent and don’t come out for the next two weeks.”

      “COLDER THAN A WITCH’S titty out here,” Deputy U.S. Marshal Neil Kavorski said to his partner on the boat. He shrugged deeper into his coat, craving strong black coffee, but knowing with this choppy water he didn’t stand a chance of keeping it in a mug long enough to drink.

      “You say something?” his kid partner asked, lifting his iPod headphone.

      Kavorski shook his head.

      The kid went back to using two plastic knives as drumsticks against the cabin cruiser’s dash.

      “This is BS,” Kavorski mumbled, reaching for the binoculars. He held them up to his eyes, but in the fog, there was nothing to see.

      He wondered if the other team, on the island’s south side, was having better luck. Probably not, but then what did it even matter?

      He chuckled.

      It wasn’t like he didn’t already know the outcome of this little party.

      “Think I’m going to try for some shut-eye,” he said to the kid.

      “Huh?” Brimmer tossed down his knives to lift both earpieces. Tinny bass leached through.

      “I’ll be down below. Taking a nap.”

      “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

      “Knock that crap off,” Kavorski said. “I know I’ve put on a few pounds, but it’s because of the medication.”

      “Relax, would you?” The kid grinned, reached for a bag of Cheetos. “That was a compliment. The skipper had his act together. Everyone knows Ginger was all into him.”

      Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the steep stair rails, Kavorski snorted. “You ever think about anything but women?”

      “When I’m not thinking about the job. Which reminds me—you catch that look Logue gave me right before we dropped her off? She wants me bad.”

      “On that note,” Kavorski said with another snort, “wake me when she makes her first move.”

      “Oh, sure. It’ll be two weeks before we even see her again.”

      “Exactly. Meaning come get me when this gig is over.”

      “JOE, HON, DID YOU already pack Meggie’s toothbrush?”

      “Um hmm,” he murmured, tucking his arms about Willow’s waist. Burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair.

      She smelled of…of—dammit, he couldn’t remember.

      Why?

      Why couldn’t he remember such a simple, basic thing as his own wife’s smell?

      An insistent knock sounded on the cabin door.

      Hands rubbing his eyes, Joe was slow to wake, even slower to realize who would be banging on his door in the middle of the night.

      “Joe!” More banging. “Open up, I think Bud’s hurt!”

      Heart pounding, mouth dry, Joe opened the door to see the marshal covered in mud, her hair wild and tangled with pine needles. “I heard him yelp not long after you went back inside, but with all the fog and everything—” She hunched over, bracing her palms on her thighs. “Sorry. Thought I could get him myself, but—”

      Joe grabbed for his boots, then a flashlight, heading for the door.

      “You’ll need a coat, too,” she said. “It’s chilly.”

      “I’ll be fine.” He brushed past her. “You turn off your babysitting toys?”

      She fixed him with a hard stare. “Cut me some slack, would you? I’m just doing my job. And yes—all my perimeter alarms are for the moment turned off.”

      “Thanks.”

      “You’re welcome.” She edged in front of him, holding out her own light. “Here, let me lead. It’s been awhile since I heard him, but I remember his general direction.”

      Joe gave her a gentle shove. “I can handle this on my own.”

      “No way. Not only am I already attached to that adorable, furry mutt, but if anything happens to you, my job’s on the line.”

      He rolled his eyes. “Like anything’s going to happen to me. Besides, with all the rain we’ve had, it’s too slick out there for a woman. I don’t need you getting hurt, too.”

      Gillian’s blood boiled.

      How many times had her brothers pulled this stunt?

      You’re just a girl. You’re not strong enough. You’ll hurt yourself.

      “Get this straight.” Fists clenched at her sides, Gillian slowly raised her chin. “Until you appear at that trial, Joe Morgan, you’re my responsibility.”

      “And you,” he said, stepping into her personal space, “get this straight. I don’t want or need your help looking for my dog. If I should happen upon any bad guys hiding behind a rock, then by all means, feel free to jump out, guns blazin’. But unless that happens, leave me alone.”

      “No, sir…” She wasn’t backing down, not one inch. “I will not leave you alone.”

      Lips tight, he stared at her before taking his coat from the peg beside the door—not because she’d told him to, but because if Bud was hurt, Joe might need it to keep him warm. “If you insist on coming—keep up.”

      Chapter Three

      Without turning to see what her reaction to his harsh words would be, Joe stepped outside, pulling the door shut with a thud behind him.

      Five long, golden rectangles of lantern light fell from the cabin’s windows to weed-choked ground. Damp, still air that smelled of wood smoke and pine flared his nostrils. Beyond the glow surrounding the house, the woods stood dark, like an impenetrable row of thugs itching for a good fight.

      They were in luck, he decided, raising the collar on his leather coat. His fists were already clenched.

      “Bud!” he shouted.

      Nothing.

      No response other than a distant, rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore, at least until the cabin door opened, and his self-appointed bodyguard rustled through tall weeds in his direction.

      “Damn