hell. Dylan shifted on the bench seat. The kid thought he’d killed someone with a BB gun? Those things could maybe take out an eye, but not a human. “The M.E. called late last night. Cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage. Although we don’t yet know if he fell or was hit in the head, I can assure you, your kid and his BB gun had nothing to do with Josiah’s death.”
“I never thought Peter shot Josiah,” she snapped out. “He fell. He hit his head. End of story.”
“It’s just the beginning actually. He could have been murdered. The coroner’s running more tests. If Jackson is here, there should be—”
“Jax,” Rachel ground out, her face going red. “His name is Jax. No one calls him Jackson. And you’re not going to find any evidence that he’s here or that he killed Josiah. How many times do I need to tell you he’s innocent?” Her words revved up, adrenaline ramping up the speed. “Get it through your thick head—even if my brother escaped, he did it because he was scared. Jax is not a killer.”
He waited, allowing her time to calm down, to get her emotions back in check. Quickly, he shot a glance at Julia. Jackson—Jax’s—lawyer. Like him, she sat on the bench seat, only she’d pulled her knees up to her chin. Her fingers had stopped their dancing across the keyboard and instead she stared at the screen as though riveted. Interesting. Had the lawyer found out the real reason Dylan was there? Did she now know what he knew?
What Rachel obviously didn’t know?
If she did, that meant the information had finally leaked to the press.
“I raised him,” Rachel said, breaking the silence, pulling his attention back to her. “Whatever decisions Jax made, I led him there. I know he’s not perfect. But if he’s made mistakes, it’s partially my fault.”
Dylan snorted. Barely stopped himself from cursing and snapping at her. She was acting just like his mother. Making excuses for someone else’s bad behavior. Blaming herself. “Listen to me—”
On the other side of the table from him, Julia snapped her laptop shut and rose to her feet. “Rachel,” she said, sliding the laptop under her arm and coming around to face her friend. “How long will you keep taking the blame for what Jax did? And are you really going to take the blame for what he’s done now?”
“So he ran away from jail. I know that’s bad, but it’s not like he’s killed anyone.”
“You have to tell her,” Julia said.
Dylan caught the woman’s full-on glare. Worry and not a small amount of anger shone in her eyes.
Justice. Integrity. Service. Those words meant something to him.
Neither Rachel nor Julia could see that. Rachel was worried about her son and brother. Julia was worried about her friend—with good reason. He wasn’t here to hold the hand of a widow who refused to accept her brother was dangerous.
Even so, what he had to say was going to devastate Rachel. He had to tell her, if only to get her to take this situation seriously. To take him seriously.
He had no other choice.
“Tell me.” The deepness of Rachel’s own tone sent a vibrato through her throat. What did the marshal know that he hadn’t told her? What was her best friend keeping from her?
In front of her, Julia shifted from foot to foot, her laptop slung under one arm, the other arm crossed in front of her chest. As if she was on guard. From Rachel? Or from what they were about to tell her?
Dylan had risen to his feet, as well. Unlike with Julia, his arms were wide—hands fisted and placed on his hips. With his feet apart, he reminded her of some top-notch official in the military. Or a bully.
Neither spoke.
Rachel fought back a swearword. “I said tell me. Tell me what’s happened to Jax.”
Julia took a tentative step forward. “You know what? Maybe I was wrong. You’re dealing with too much, Rachel. Maybe you should focus on Peter right now. Let your concerns about Jax go for a bit. You’ve had a shock, with Josiah passing away and Peter running off. I’ll handle Jax’s situation.”
Rachel turned on her. “I handle Jax. Me. You’re his lawyer, not his mom.”
“And you’re not his mom, either,” Julia pointed out. She’d used a soft tone, but the words pinpricked Rachel’s heart. “Your son needs you. Be there for Peter. Let me and the marshal handle Jax.”
Rachel fought for control. “How did you get my best friend to suddenly be on Team U.S. Marshals?” she snapped out at Dylan. “I know my son needs me. And I know my brother needs me. He’s alone out there, scared.”
“Who are you talking about, Rachel?” Dylan asked, his voice low. “Peter or Jax?”
She slumped. Both, she thought. How was she supposed to be a mother to two boys who needed her—one who was her biological son and still a kid, and the other whom she’d parented for the past eleven years and who could barely be considered an adult?
Tightening her spine, she stood straight, then stalked out of the kitchen and onto the wooden porch, letting the screen door slam behind her. The wind, light and gentle but stronger than a breeze, ruffled the tops of the grass in front of her. Peter needed to run the mower over the lawn. The alpacas needed feeding, the babies needed worming, the chickens and pheasants needed to be fed and watered and to have their cages cleaned. The horses needed to be turned out into the pasture. And it was just her. No ranch hand. No son. No brother.
Tears pricked her eyes. She ached to hold her son in her arms. To rock him and tell him Josiah’s death was not his fault. But the days when she could rock her son were long over. He’d be home soon. He always came home—either willingly or yanked by the ear by one of the deputies. But he wouldn’t want a hug. Would deny comfort, both for himself and for her.
And what of her brother? How could Rachel fix things for him this time?
The squeak of the screen door and the heavy thud of boots on the porch let her know Dylan had joined her. She remained standing, staring into the distance at the faraway creek, at the brush that rose on either side, and at Peter’s favorite cottonwood.
“Julia’s headed back to her office. She said she has some paperwork to file on your brother’s behalf.” Dylan stepped closer, his heat emanating off his chest and meeting her back. It made her feel as if a warm blanket of comfort and care had been placed on her.
Although he didn’t touch her, her hair was up in a high ponytail and the hairs on her neck quivered. She shivered involuntarily as she imagined him touching her—massaging the back of her neck with his strong fingers, his warm palm pressed against her skin.
And her body responded.
Aching in long-forgotten places that emphasized how different they were. How strong and masculine he was. How perfect he was made to press against and inside her softer more feminine parts.
God, how she wanted to lean back and rest her weight on this
