Marrying the Marshal. Laura Altom Marie

he was dragging her back to an already sinking ship. “This shouldn’t be scary,” he’d said. “But it is. I mean, I want to be a dad. A lot. But right now?” He’d shaken his head. “We’ve both got full plates.”

      “Sure.” Nodding against his chest, she’d felt his frantic heartbeat.

      “We’ll make it right though, okay?” He’d tucked his fingers under her chin, raising it so that her gaze met his. “We’ll make it right.”

      HE’D SAID Make it right all those years ago.

      What had his words meant? That hadn’t been the way the night was supposed to have gone. Caleb was supposed to have proposed. Tell her he loved her and their baby more than life. And he could have told her, that minute, because he loved her, he’d give up his dangerous career in favor of something nice and safe. Maybe tax law. He, better than anyone, from their many late night talks, knew what had happened to her father. And how fearful she was of tragedy striking another man she loved. Because Caleb knew, he should understand her actions, but didn’t. In the end, the only thing he’d given up was her—them.

      So she’d formed a plan.

      One that had allowed her to keep her precious child, and Caleb to keep his apparently equally precious unfettered bachelor life and crazy-dangerous career.

      Chapter Two

      “Hey, it’s cool that we have kinda the same name. Can I see your badge?” Caleb’s son asked bright and early Monday morning.

      “Sure.” Caleb slipped it off his utility belt for the little boy to inspect. He was a good-looking kid. Seemed smart. Inquisitive. Interesting that he was an early riser. So was his dad.

      Outside, behind the closed kitchen shades, rain drummed on the patio and deck.

      “Thanks,” the boy said, returning Caleb’s silver star. “Want cereal? We got Cheerios and Life.”

      “That’s okay, buddy. I’m on the job. But I appreciate the offer.” After a few seconds of watching his son noisily get a bowl and spoon, he asked, “Ever eat oatmeal?”

      “Yeah. I like it, but Mom doesn’t make it that often.”

      “When I was your age,” Caleb said, “my mom made it for me nearly every day—especially when it was cold. It was my favorite. Ask your mom to make it for you. She knows my recipe.”

      “Okay,” Cal said, fetching a bright yellow cereal box from the pantry.

      Was it presumptuous to think Allie avoided Caleb’s favorite breakfast food—one that she’d always enjoyed, too—because eating it conjured memories of happy mornings with him?

      “Mom cried last night,” the boy said matter-of-factly while taking milk from the fridge.

      “Oh?” Though a part of Caleb was perversely glad she’d cried, most of him just felt sad. Not only for the years he’d missed with his son, but also with each other. They’d had a good thing going until she’d thrown it away.

      “I went and asked her what’s wrong, but she said nothin’. I think she’s scared about the bad guys. Anyway, she let me sleep with her. I like her bed. It’s bigger than mine and real squishy.”

      “Squishy?”

      “Yeah, you know.” Dowsing his cereal, Cal managed to spill a good cup of milk on the counter. When it dribbled over the edge, Caleb jumped in to help, grabbing a dish towel from the sink. “Squishy. Like bunches of pillows and stuff. Thanks for helpin’ clean. Mom likes a clean house.”

      “I know,” Caleb said.

      “How?”

      “Um—” Geez, where did he start?

      “Caleb’s an old friend,” Allie said, standing in the kitchen’s shadowy doorway, long blond hair a mess, eyes red and swollen. She wore a utilitarian white terry cloth robe. A yellow duck was the only decoration. He sat over her right breast. Directly over the tender patch of skin Caleb used to—no. He wasn’t going there. So he dropped his gaze to her bare feet and red-tipped toes. How many times had he painted them for her?

      “Where’d you meet him?” his son asked.

      “School,” Allie said.

      “Elementary?” Cal asked.

      “College.”

      “Oh.” Cal’s interest returned to cereal. Mouth full, he asked, “Hey, can we go toy shopping today? Oh—and then let’s go see that new movie, Power Force. Sam says it’s awesome!”

      “Sorry, but—” Caleb and Allie both spoke at the same time.

      “Go ahead,” Allie said.

      “You’re his mother.” Caleb loaded his voice with messages only she’d hear. I’m just his father. Don’t mind me.

      “Sorry, baby.” She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “But until this trial’s over, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, and out of public places.”

      “But can I at least go to school?”

      “No,” Caleb said.

      Having expected him to argue with her, Allie had been on the verge of aiming a “stop interfering” stare at Caleb. Knowing they were on the same team—at least as far as keeping Cal safe—cocooned her in a surprising calm.

      “Aw, man,” Cal whined.

      “I’ll make you a promise, though,” Caleb said to the boy, putting Allie back on full alert.

      “What?” her son asked, expression once again bright.

      “As soon as this trial is over, and we know that you and your mom are safe, not only can you go back to school, but me and a team of other marshals will go with you for a while, just in case.”

      “Really?!” Cal asked. “And will they have guns and everything?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Awesome!” The boy leapt from his tall counter stool. “I can’t wait to tell Sam and Reider!” He raced up the back staircase, presumably to his room.

      “Thank you,” Allie said.

      “For what?” Caleb asked.

      “Getting his mind off the depressing present and onto better times to come.”

      “Will times be better, Allie? Now that your secret’s out, you can’t expect me to just fade into the background.”

      After scooping ground coffee into an automatic drip filter, she shot him a look. “You know what I mean. Cal returning to school. To his normal way of life. It’ll be better. I wasn’t referring to us—you.” Allie silently stared at the dripping coffee, trying to let the rich aroma and happy gurgle calm her jangled nerves. Trying, but failing. “Obviously, I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen between us, Caleb. Do you?”

      For the longest time, her gaze locked with his. Neither speaking, breathing. And then, just when she’d thought he might be on the verge of saying something—anything—he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

      THAT AFTERNOON, the tension in Allie’s courtroom was unbearable.

      As was the heat.

      The accused, Francis William Ashford, sat grinning at her, as if he’d never been charged with blowing up a post office and killing the three clerks and five customers inside—one an infant. In her two years on the bench, Allie had presided over many cases, but this one topped them all.

      The gallery was filled with what had begun to feel like every reporter in the state, along with every citizen. Many used the folded take-out menu from the Chinese restaurant down the street for a fan.

      Caleb,