Marrying the Marshal. Laura Altom Marie

to Calumet City. This has to be in place by the end of the day. And I’m talking end of the business day—not midnight.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      ALLIE HAYWORTH looked up from her organized desk, wishing her life could be as tidy. “Watcha’ doin?” she asked her eight-year-old son, Cal.

      “Playin’ Legos.”

      “I can see that,” she said, rising to cross to the far side of her office where he sat on the floor. By U.S. District Court Judge standards, the space wasn’t all that attractive. The burgundy leather sofa had a tear she’d duct-taped, then covered with a throw pillow. The white drapes, carpet and ceiling had a faint yellow hue and smoky smell from the judge who’d served before her—an avid cigar smoker. In a dream world where she had plenty of free time, she’d love to paint the space some vibrant, exciting color. Cobalt-blue or jungle-green. Still, floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves added warmth to the overall feel, as did the fresh flowers she collected from her cutting garden at least once a week in the spring through early fall.

      Her current bouquet had seen better days. The snapdragons looked tired. For this year, the growing season had ended. Would she be around for next year?

      Squelching the macabre line of thought, she forced a smile, saying to her son, “Guess I should’ve asked what you’re making.”

      “What do you think?”

      “I dunno.” Glad she’d worn slacks, she plunked down beside him. “A boat? Upside-down skyscraper?”

      “Mo-om.”

      “What?” she asked, ruffling his short dark hair.

      “Don’t you know anything?” With dusky-green eyes that reminded her of dried sage, he gave her the look. The one that said despite the fact she was one of the state’s youngest federal judges—not to mention, a female—that he was and would always be wa-aa-aay smarter than her!

      “Yep,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You must be right. Guess I don’t know anything. So? Help me out. What are you building?”

      “It’s a gun.” He picked up the monolithic mix of colorful blocks only to pop to his feet, then run to the window and start shooting. “Pow, pow!”

      Allie cringed. “Caleb, get away from the windows.”

      “How come? The cops are right outside. No one can get us up here.”

      If only that were true.

      Allie scrambled to her feet and drew him back, safely out of view, before closing the drapes on the low-hanging clouds and persistent rain. “I, um, appreciate you looking out for us, but why don’t you leave the shooting to police.”

      “What’re they gonna do? They’ve been protecting us a whole two days and still haven’t caught the bad guys.”

      “I know, baby, but they will. Real soon.”

      “This is boring,” Cal said, slamming his gun hard into the plastic Lego tub. His creation shattered. “I wanna go to school. Henry’s bringing his dad for show and tell. He makes donuts for his job and we were gonna get free ones and everything.”

      “I’m sorry,” she said, drawing him into a hug. “But remember how we talked about this? And decided it would be safer if you just hung out with me?”

      “Yeah, but—”

      A knock sounded at the door.

      Allie jumped, then felt silly when her elderly secretary poked her head in. Guess being used for target practice set a girl on edge.

      “Allie, hon, there’s a gentleman here to see you from Portland. He’s with the U.S. Marshals. Shall I send him in?”

      “Of course,” Allie said, releasing her son to smooth her hair and straighten her aqua silk blouse. At first she’d been opposed to having the big dogs called in, especially on the off chance her and Cal’s father’s paths should cross. But after this morning’s latest attempt on her life, she was relieved help had arrived.

      Usually, federal courthouses had marshals’ offices right inside. Hers was no different, except the marshals were actually local policemen who’d been deputized into service. Not that they didn’t do a fine job—after all, she was still alive. But seeing how their usually peaceful district had never had something this serious happen, they were rusty on evasive maneuvers.

      Apparently the members of the white supremacist organization intent on taking her life were not.

      “Baby,” she said to her son. “Could you please make me an airplane while I talk to this man? A great, big one with maybe a swimming pool in first class, and—”

      “Allie.”

      She looked to the door and her pulse went haywire.

      Caleb?

      Of all the luck….

      It’d been nine years since she’d last seen him. For nine years she’d told herself she hated him. Never wanted to see him again. She’d told herself every morning and night that what she’d done, what she’d kept from him, had been for good reason.

      She made the mistake of meeting his direct stare. The exact shade of dried sage….

      Her gig was up.

      Caleb locked eyes with his son. Took a half step back, as if the air had been kicked from his lungs. But then his initial composure returned. Sort of. If you didn’t count the tightening of his jaw or the way his eyes narrowed with instantaneous rage. He’d just found out the baby she’d told him she’d lost was alive and well and making an airplane out of Legos.

      “This is—no.” The man Allie had loved with a sometimes frightening intensity gave her a hard look, then shook his head. “We’re not going to do this now. Not here. In front of…” Those gorgeous, all-too-familiar eyes of his welled with tears. “How could you, Allie?” He pressed the heel of his right hand against one eye, then the other, and cleared his throat. “Your honor, my name is Caleb Logue. I’ll be heading your security team.”

      “Oh, Caleb,” she said, fighting past her own wall of tears. “I didn’t mean for this to—”

      “As soon as you and your boy are ready to head home, I’ll accompany you.”

      “Please, let me…explain.” Too late. He was already out the door.

      “Who was that?” her son asked.

      Your father.

      CALEB COULDN’T BREATHE.

      “Dang, Logue,” his old pal from the Seattle office, Owen Richards, said. “You look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—only whiter.”

      “Thanks.” Caleb brushed past him toward the group of guys still out in the hall, who were feeling up a snack machine.

      “Damned thing stole my quarter,” his younger brother, Adam, complained.

      “Stow it,” Caleb said. “Everyone ready to rock?”

      “Not without my quarter.” Adam gave the machine another thump, then switched tactics by sticking his hand up the lady’s metal skirt. “What bug crawled up your behind?”

      What bug? Caleb snorted.

      The one that came with finding out the woman he’d thought he loved was a lying, conniving wench who’s still as freakin’ gorgeous as ever and had bore him a damned good-looking son she didn’t even have the decency to tell him existed!

      “THANKS FOR THE GRUB,” Adam said.

      “You’re welcome.” Allie stood at her black granite kitchen counter, wiping grease splatters from the burgers she’d fried for dinner.

      Burgers, boxed macaroni and cheese, and frozen peas.

      Her mother would report