Peter in line and working on the appeal process for her brother to deal with Aaron’s constant haranguing, but she’d finally referred him to Julia Rickel, her friend and lawyer, who’d threatened lawsuits and police action and whatnot if Aaron didn’t back off. Aaron had made it clear he hadn’t liked what he considered to be Julia’s threats.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the stranger beat her to the question she was about to ask.
“Kid,” Dylan said, “what happened? Where’s Josiah?”
Peter hitched a breath and pointed back to the fence line. “He’s over there. B-b-but it’s too late. We’re too late.”
The cold hand on Rachel’s back now gripped her throat. No.
“Too late for what, Peter?” she whispered.
“Too late to help. Josiah’s dead.”
Rachel’s face had turned so white that Dylan expected her to faint at any moment. He reached out a hand, offering to steady her, but she waved him away. Of course she did. He was a stranger. She had no reason to trust him.
He turned to Peter, whose expression was still alight with panic. Had Jackson Kincaid snuck on the property without Dylan noticing? Seemed unlikely, but...
He followed the kid’s pointing finger with his line of sight.
The boy’s voice shook as he said, “Way up the fence line, next to the spring.”
“Did you see anyone up there with him?” Dylan asked.
The boy shook his head.
“Are you certain he’s...dead?” Rachel’s voice came out on a whisper of a breath.
Peter swallowed and nodded, his eyes filling back up with tears. “He has a big hole in his head and there’s a lot of blood and his eyes are open and not moving and he doesn’t have a pulse,” he said breathlessly. “I checked. Then I ran to get you.”
Oh, hell. This wasn’t some kid making a desperate bid for attention. This was real. “You and the kid get into the house and lock yourselves in,” he ordered even as he mentally cursed. As if that would do a lot of good if Jackson Kincaid was on the ranch. He was her brother, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d view him as a threat to her or her son. And truth be told, Dylan had no reason to think Jackson would hurt them. Still, the man had proven himself to be violent and if he’d killed Josiah...
Rachel started, staring at him with wide brown eyes, pupils dilating. “What— Why?”
“Just to be safe. Call 911. Use the landline. Tell them to get an ambulance here immediately.”
Rachel looked from Dylan to her son, then raised her chin. “Peter, do as he says. Lock all the doors and wait for the ambulance, okay? I’m going to check on Josiah.”
“I can do that—” Dylan began, but Peter was already running into the house.
“Not without me,” she said. She watched the house until Peter had slammed the door behind him, then strode toward Ginger. She put a bare foot into the stirrup and easily swung herself up onto Dylan’s horse, then kicked her feet out of the stirrups. “You coming?” she asked. “Because I’m not leaving you here alone with my kid.”
Dylan struggled with indecision. He wanted to insist he check on the ranch hand by himself, but this was her private property and what reason could he possibly give for thinking there might be something or someone dangerous out there? Not the truth, certainly. Not yet. Not when the most likely explanation was that her ranch hand had had some kind of accident.
When Rachel raised her eyebrows impatiently and leaned forward, he slid his booted foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up behind her. Ginger danced for a few seconds, then settled as he used his knees to nudge her forward. He wrapped an arm around Rachel’s waist and pulled her in tight to his chest. She was stiff but didn’t resist. The quarter horse, her hooves steady despite the added weight, settled into an easy lope.
“So, are you a friend of Aaron’s?” Rachel asked over her shoulder. “Did he send you out to spy on us? Did he tell you about the crazy widow and her bratty kid?” Bitterness edged her words, which came out jumpy and breathless as Ginger continued to cover the uneven terrain.
Not exactly, Dylan thought. The Department of Corrections had told him about her brother and his brazen escape, and research had informed his team about Rachel, the sister whom Jackson Kincaid thought of as his mother, and Rachel’s son. Of course, Dylan didn’t tell Rachel that. Lying to her wasn’t his first choice, but he also didn’t want her clamming up and getting irrational when there was a potential crisis to deal with.
“He just loaned me a horse. We’re not friends. Does Josiah have a history of any sort of heart condition? Stroke?”
“No health issues. He’s older, but healthy. He’s repaired the fence line time after time. I don’t know what could have harmed him.”
Dylan immediately thought of her brother again. “Maybe your son is wrong about him being dead.” In his arms her body loosened fractionally, and she twisted her torso to face forward again. Whether she completely believed him or not didn’t matter—she trusted him enough to help her ranch hand.
“I’m not holding out hope. Peter’s been raised on a ranch. We raise alpacas for wool, so we don’t do a lot of butchering, but he’s seen dead animals. He knows what lifeless eyes look like.”
So did Dylan. Personally and professionally.
Professionally? The duty of a marshal was to bring in fugitives whether they claimed to be innocent or not. It wasn’t his job to investigate their crimes, nor to believe them or not believe them—that was for the cops, the courts and the jury system to decide. Fugitives didn’t see it that way. They wanted their freedom. Sometimes they fought to keep it
Sometimes they died.
Personally...
He fought to erase the dead eyes staring dully at him in his mind’s eye, but he couldn’t.
Dead eyes all looked the same: unblinking and missing life’s sheen. But the first set of dead eyes he’d ever seen—his mother’s—haunted him every day of his life, reminding him of what could happen to a person who refused to accept the bad in others before it was too late.
“So your son’s name is Peter. And you are?”
“Rachel. We’re almost there,” she said. “Down the gulley to the right. Then the spring’s a few hundred yards south.”
He knew how to get to the spring already but kept silent, and instead neck-reined Ginger in the direction Rachel had given. The horse headed downhill and Rachel leaned back to compensate for her weight on the horse’s shoulders. Her still-wet hair brushed his face and he breathed in the scent. Soft and floral, with a hint of freshness. Ginger stumbled and Dylan tightened his grip on Rachel, appreciating the soft weight of her breasts on his forearm. Get a grip, he mentally chided himself. Yeah, Rachel was one hot woman, but she was also the sister of
