The Heart Of Devin MacKade. Nora Roberts

You know what you need around here, Dev?” Still sipping coffee, Jared looked around the office. It was utilitarian, basic. Desks, wood floors, coffeepot, a ceiling fan that he knew squeaked when it was put into use in the summer, unpadded chairs, metal file cabinets. “You need a dog. Ethel’ll be dropping that litter any day now.”

      Devin raised a brow. Fred and Ethel, Shane’s golden retrievers, had finally figured out what boy and girl dogs could do together besides chase rabbits. “Yeah, I need a puppy puddling on the floor and chewing up my papers.”

      “Companionship,” Jared insisted. “Think how you’d look cruising around town with a dog riding shotgun. You could deputize him.”

      The image made Devin grin, but he set his coffee down. “I’ll keep it in mind. Now why don’t you tell me what you came in to tell me?”

      Jared blew out a breath. He knew how Devin’s mind worked, step by meticulous step. He’d let Jared ramble, but he hadn’t been fooled. “I had some business at the prison this morning.”

      “One of your clients not getting his full television rights?”

      Jared set his coffee aside, linked his fingers. “You arrest them, I represent them. That’s why it’s called law and order.”

      “Right. How could I forget? So?”

      “So. I had a meeting with the warden, and as he’s aware that I’m Cassie’s lawyer, he felt it reasonable to pass some news on to me.”

      Devin’s mouth thinned. “Dolin.”

      “Yeah, Joe Dolin.”

      “He’s not up for a parole hearing for another eighteen months.” Devin knew the exact day, to the hour.

      “That’s right. It seems that after a difficult period of adjustment, during which Joe was a disciplinary problem, he’s become a model prisoner.”

      “I’ll bet.”

      Jared recognized the bitterness in the tone, understood it perfectly. “We know he’s a bastard, Devin, but the point here is, he’s playing the game. And he’s playing it well.”

      “He won’t make parole, not the first time at bat. I’ll make sure of it.”

      “Parole’s not the issue. Yet. He’s been put on work release.”

      “The hell he has!”

      “As of this week. I argued against it. I pointed out the fact that he’ll be only a matter of miles from Cassie, his history of violence, his ties to the town.” Feeling helpless, Jared unlinked his hands, held them palms up. “I got shot down. He’ll be supervised, along with the rest of the crew. We need the work release program, need the park and the roads cleaned and maintained, and this is a cheap way to handle it. Letting cooperative prisoners serve the community is a solid method of rehabilitation.”

      “And when they take a hike from trash detail?” Devin was pacing now, eyes fiery. “It happens. Two or three times a year, at least, it happens. I hauled one back myself last fall.”

      “It happens,” Jared agreed. “They rarely get far. They’re pretty easy to spot in the prison uniform, and most of them don’t know the area.”

      “Dolin knows the damn area.”

      “You’re not going to get any arguments from me. I’m going to fight it, Devin. But it’s not going to be easy. Not when Cassie’s own mother has been writing the warden in Joe’s defense.”

      “That bitch.” Devin’s hands curled into fists. “She knows what he did to Cassie. Cassie,” he repeated, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “She’s just starting to pull things together. What the hell is this going to do to her?”

      “I’m heading over there now to tell her.”

      “No.” Devin dropped his hands. “I’ll tell her. You go file papers, or whatever you have to do to turn this thing around. I want that son of a bitch locked up, twenty-four hours a day.”

      “They’ve got a crew out on 34 right now. Trash detail. He’s on it.”

      “Fine.” Devin headed for the door. “That’s just fine.”

      It didn’t take him long to get there, or to spot the bright orange vests of the road crew. Devin pulled to the shoulder behind a pickup truck where bags of trash were already heaped.

      He got out of his car, leaned against the hood and watched Joe Dolin.

      The sixteen months in prison hadn’t taken off any of his bulk, Devin noted. He was a big man, thick, burly. He’d been going to fat before his arrest. From the look of him, he’d been busy turning that fat into muscle.

      The prison system approved of physical fitness.

      He and another man were unclogging the runoff on the other side of the road, working systematically and in silence as they gathered up dead leaves, litter.

      Devin bided his time, waited until Joe straightened, hauled a plastic bag over his shoulder and turned.

      Their eyes met, held. Devin wondered what the warden would say about rehabilitation if he’d seen that look in Joe’s eyes. The heat and the hate. If he’d seen that slow, bitterly triumphant smile before Joe tossed the bag in the bed of the pickup parked on his side of the road.

      Because he knew himself, Devin stayed where he was. He knew that if he got close, too close, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. The badge he wore was both a responsibility and a barrier.

      If he was a civilian, he could walk across the road, ram his fists into Joe’s leering face and take the consequences. If he was a civilian, he could pummel the wife-beating bastard into putty.

      But he wasn’t a civilian.

      “Help you, Sheriff?” One of the supervisors walked over, ready to chat, officer to officer. His easy smile faded at the look in Devin’s eyes. “Is there a problem?”

      “Depends.” Devin took out one of the cigarettes he’d been working on giving up for the past two months. Taking his time, he struck a match, lit it, blew out smoke. “You see that man there, the big one?”

      “Dolin? Sure.”

      “You remember that name.” Devin flicked his gaze down to the ID clipped to the supervisor’s shirt. “And I’m going to remember yours, Richardson. If he gets away from you, even for a heartbeat, it’s going to be your ass.”

      “Hey, look, Sheriff—”

      Devin merely fixed his eyes on Richardson’s face, kept them there as he pushed off the hood. “You make sure that son of a bitch doesn’t wander into my town, Richardson. You make damn sure of it.”

      Joe watched the sheriff’s car pull out, drive away. He bent his back to the work, like a good team player. And patted his pocket, where the latest letter from his mother-in-law was tucked.

      He knew what it said, almost word for word. She kept him up with Cassie just fine. How the little bitch had a fancy job now at the MacKade Inn. Lousy MacKades. He was going to take care of all of them, every last one of them, when he got out.

      But first he was going to take care of Cassie.

      She thought she could have him tossed in a cell. She thought she could divorce him and start strutting her stuff around town. Well, she was going to think again, real soon.

      Her mama was helping him out, writing him letters. They were preachy letters, and he couldn’t stand the dried-up old bat, but she was helping him out. And he wrote her every week, telling her how he’d suffered, how he’d gotten religion, how he wanted to be with his family again. He made sure he went on about the kids.

      He could have cared less about the kids. Whiny little brats.

      It was Cassie he wanted. She was his wife—till death do us part. He was