island was his.
“If you’d like,” the marshal said, “I could make us something to eat. I make mean scrambled eggs.”
As if cued, his stomach growled. It’d been hours since his last meal.
“Joe,” she said, “I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean…” She flopped her hands at her sides. “Here you’ve been, thinking this whole ordeal was over, when yet again it rears its ugly head….”
Over.
Yes.
It was all supposed to be over.
Funny, though, how it didn’t feel over when he wanted to hold his daughter so bad he could scream, but didn’t dare go near her more than once every couple of months for fear of her meeting the same fate as her mother.
No matter the personal cost, Meggie had been through enough. It was his duty, as her dad, to protect her—yet he was the source of the potential danger.
“I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” the woman said, “with all the marshals assigned to your case.”
Damn straight.
“But Joe, the fact of the matter is that we need you. I need you. I hate this guy as much as you do. He killed four of my best friends.” She stepped closer, off the trail and into tall, winter-dulled weeds.
A sudden breeze whipped strands of her hair in her face, making her look softer, prettier, than a female marshal should. And he hated her all over again for that—for looking so vibrant and alive when his wife was—
“I saw your propane fridge, so I’m assuming you have the basics?”
Not knowing—not caring—if she could see him or not, he nodded.
“I’m great at garbage can casseroles, too,” she said. “You know, concoctions made out of the stuff in the fridge that should probably just go in the trash, but I’m too cheap to throw out.”
She’d passed the tumble of moss-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. He wanted her to be quiet, but at the same time, found himself straining to catch her next words.
How long had it been since he’d heard anyone’s voice, let alone a woman’s?
“French toast is another of my specialties, but I’m guessing you probably don’t have any syrup.”
Confused not by her question, but his need to answer, he said, “No. No syrup.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Just so happens, I brought my own. We had no idea how you were set for supplies, and since I eat like a lumberjack, I brought plenty of everything.”
“Where is it? Your stuff?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.
“Down at the dock. I figured my being here would be enough of a jolt to your system without you catching sight of all of my junk, too.”
He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your radio is?” he asked. “At the dock?”
“I already told you, I don’t—”
“And I already told you—you’re lying.”
She flinched before forcing a smile. “Now, Joe, is that any way to treat a guest who just offered to share her syrup?”
“You’re not a guest,” he said, tired of her trying to woo him into conversation.
It’d almost worked, too.
Almost.
“Come on,” he said, leaving his shelter to meet her halfway through the field. “We’ll radio whoever sent you, and tell them you’re ready to go home.”
Bud bounded toward him.
She squared her shoulders and, as she had down at the beach, stubbornly raised her chin. “You just don’t get it, do you? For the next two weeks, this is my home.”
Chapter Two
In waning daylight and sheets of rain, Gillian pitched her government-issue tent smack-dab in front of Joe’s cabin.
She’d hoped he’d take pity on her and let her camp on his couch, but seeing how he hadn’t helped her lug so much as one measly can of beans up that rotten hill of his, she didn’t figure he’d cave on letting her back inside. At least his patch of grass was more bearable than those creepy woods.
She felt him watching her through the window, and sure enough, when she spun around to send him a jaunty wave and bright smile, acting as if she was having the most fabulous time of her life, he ducked behind the drapes.
Hard to believe she’d actually begged her boss, William Benton, for this assignment, which he’d begrudgingly, ironically, given her mostly because she was a she.
William and the other guys around the L.A. office figured because of her gender, Joe Morgan would cut her some slack. Right.
And just think, after having all this fun with tent stakes, she’d get to dig herself a latrine. Oh boy.
She fished a scrunchy from her backpack, securing her dripping hair in a messy ponytail, then got back to work raising her shelter.
She’d always wanted to go camping as a kid, but her brothers had never let her. Part of Kent’s charm had been that he loved all things outdoors, meaning she’d gotten to camp and hike to her heart’s content. What her brothers and father didn’t know was that while she was on those camping trips, she’d also learned to love rock climbing and white-water kayaking!
Two adrenaline rushes she’d never gotten while working the mind-numbing desk job of organizing the statewide California Court Security Officer Program, which she knew was important, but hardly the stuff of cutting-edge thrills. This assignment might be annoying, but it sure beat the heck out of sitting behind her desk.
Tent assembled, Gillian glanced back over her shoulder to see Joe darting behind bedraggled beige drapes yet again.
Bud licked the window.
Gillian smiled.
The cabin door opened and out bounded the dog, licking and wriggling his way into the tent, then promptly collapsing on the sleeping bag she’d just grabbed off the porch to toss inside.
“Why are you doing this?” Joe shouted over the rain.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. Pitching a tent in this weather? Are you trying to make some kind of point?”
“Only that I’m not leaving until it’s time to escort you to the trial.”
“What if I told you I’d make my own arrangements to get to the trial if only you’d leave?”
“Sorry,” she said with another bright smile. “But like I told you, I don’t have a radio we could use to tell anyone about a change in plans.”
“You and I both know that’s a crock,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Look,” she said, “this bickering is accomplishing nothing more than wasting what little remains of my daylight. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to set up a security perimeter, then grab a bite to eat.”
Lips pressed tight, Joe stared at her, shook his head, then closed the cabin door.
Gillian turned to the dog. “I take it you’re staying for dinner?”
Bud-Barney thumped his tail against the tent wall.
JOE YANKED THE LIVING ROOM curtains shut with such force, the old rod holding them shuddered.
She wanted to play games? Fine. He’d let her.
She had a radio stashed