Texas hosted a number of bad things that went bump in the night. Rattlesnakes, cougars, scorpions and brown recluse spiders. And the occasional bad guy. Scary stuff she didn’t want to think about. Not with her son out there, alone and thinking he’d killed a man.
Rachel busied herself making two foaming lattes. One for her, and one for Julia. Thank God for Julia, who’d shown up fifteen minutes after Rachel called her, then taken over with lawyerly efficiency, querying Rachel about U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney’s presence and why Peter had run off. Then she’d shoved Rachel in the direction of her bedroom and promised to bed the alpacas down. Of course, Rachel hadn’t slept a wink, but she didn’t tell Julia that.
“Thanks again for spending the night,” Rachel said, handing over Julia’s latte. There wasn’t anything she could do to find Peter, and until she heard otherwise, she had to assume he was okay. She needed, however, to distract her mind from her worry, and working on Jax’s case would help. “Did you find anything out?” She nodded to the open laptop on the kitchen table.
“Some,” her friend said, blowing on the foam of her drink. “According to the internet, this guy Dylan Rooney is who he says he is. U.S. Marshal. Part of a special ops team.”
“What makes him so special?” Rachel asked. Besides his wide shoulders, long legs and tendency to rescue kids and widows in need. She gave herself a mental smack. This marshal might be sexy as sin, but he was still after her brother. That meant he might have rescued them, but not because he’d wanted to keep them safe. He’d done it because he wanted something else. He wanted her brother, and she and Peter were just means to an end.
“His team usually goes after the really bad guys. International drug cartel kind of people. I’m surprised they’re interested in Jax. Yeah, the bust was big and two people were injured, but it’s not like Jax held the smoking gun or anything.”
“Have you found out anything about an escape?”
Julia grimaced. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I wish I had different news. But according to prison officials, Jax managed to escape during transport and the only reason they told me that is that I’m on record as his lawyer. He really got himself into a world of trouble with this escapade. Legally, he’s screwed himself, big-time.”
Rachel groaned and slumped against the refrigerator, letting the metal cool her skin. How was it she’d failed her brother so badly after their parents died? “How bad is it for his appeal that Jax took off?”
“Bad. Completely, totally, I-really–hope-there’s-been-some-kind–of-mistake bad.”
“There’s no mistake,” a male voice boomed out. “Jackson Kincaid is bad news. And if you want to keep yourselves and Peter safe, you need to accept that right now.”
* * *
Dylan knew he shouldn’t be staring, but wow—Rachel Kincaid had excellent legs. Dressed in purple cotton sleep shorts and a white ribbed tank, barefoot yet again, and even with her hair in a wild and disheveled ponytail, she looked delicious. His gaze traveled up her legs to meet hers.
She looked delicious and pissed.
And she wasn’t moving from where she leaned against her refrigerator, giving him the glare of death. Only her body had tensed, tightened. As if she were expecting a fight.
“Planning on letting me in, or doesn’t Southern hospitality extend this far west?” he asked, grabbing the handle of the latched screen door and giving it a rattle.
“Southern hospitality is reserved for gentlemen. And since you’re staring like a largemouth bass at a lady in her pj’s, you’re obviously no gentleman,” Rachel snapped out.
She’d shown some backbone yesterday, too, although the ordeal with the dead ranch hand had about done her in. Tough exterior, soft heart, he thought, remembering how devastated she’d been, crying for her friend in the shower. And how heart-wrenching her sobs had sounded as he’d stood outside her door, wanting nothing more than to stride back inside, gather her in his arms, and comfort her.
“Seriously, though, we need to talk about your brother. I’m happy to wait outside while you dress.” There. Gentlemanly behavior, right?
Ignoring him, Rachel headed up the stairs. The woman Dylan hadn’t been able to see popped around the corner and unlatched the screen door and held it open.
“I’m Julia Rickel,” she said. “I know why you’re here. I’m Rachel and Jax’s attorney. And Rachel’s best friend.”
“U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. Rachel’s...well...” Rachel’s what? Yesterday, she’d sarcastically referred to his knight-in–shining-armor routine. And that was before he’d told her that her brother was out to get her. Before she’d flipped on him and thrown a bottle of booze at what most likely was his head. “Rachel’s nemesis.”
Julia flashed him a quick grin, then stuck her hand out. He shook it, noting the lawyer’s strong grip. She looked to be about ten years older than Rachel. Nice looking, with short brown hair and a trim figure, and with very much a lawyer-type attitude, he realized as she checked him out just as thoroughly.
“Mind if I grill you while you wait for Rachel?” she asked, pulling her hand away and then motioning for him to sit at the rough-hewn kitchen table.
No polite chitchat for this woman. But if she was truly Jackson’s lawyer, he probably couldn’t say much in front of her. “Grill away,” he said, anyway.
“What on God’s green earth made you stake out the Kincaid place on horseback? And on Ginger, of all horses?” she asked.
He shrugged. “We didn’t want to call attention to ourselves. Aaron Jacobson had a notice in the paper that he rented out horses, so the team’s operations officer rented one for me, saying I was a bird-watcher.”
“Lame,” Julia said, then focused her attention on her laptop.
“Completely lame,” Rachel agreed, walking back into the room, this time wearing shorts that covered just an inch or two more than the other ones had, and a bra under her tank.
“Agreed,” he said, bringing his gaze from her rounded breasts up to her face. “I would have gone for a hiker so I could have stayed on foot. But at least Ginger got me down the ridge and to your place when Peter started hollering. My partner, Eric, told me some sheriff’s deputies came back to search for Peter. They told him he has a habit of running off. He’s not back yet?”
Rachel’s eyes welled up with tears and her muscles seemed to lose their strength, contradicting her earlier rigidity. “No.”
She turned and crossed the kitchen, then opened the refrigerator door, as if looking for ingredients. But he could see her swipe at her eyes. Once again, the woman was crying.
“Look, if he runs off a lot, then—”
“He doesn’t run off ‘a lot,’” she snapped out, slamming the refrigerator door shut and glaring at him, but tears still glistened in her eyes. “But in addition to being a kid and needing some space sometimes, he’s got ADHD. We’ve been working on different coping skills and it helps being able to run. To move. He knows this land. He always finds his way back safely, but...”
“But he’s grieving,” he said quietly.
“More
