outfit.
Money she didn’t know where she’d find. Money had always been scarce; Phillip’s parents were still alive, adored Peter and would help if they could, but they barely got by on a minimal fixed income as it was. Rachel had used what little money she’d had in her bank account for Jax’s appeal. Her friend Julia had insisted on taking on Jax’s second appeal pro bono, but even with Julia offering her services for free, money was tight. And Josiah had no one in his life besides her and Peter—she’d need to pay for a funeral. It was the least she could do to pay homage to a man who’d been a loyal employee for years. A man who’d tried to steer her son right when Peter acted out. A man who hadn’t deserved to die.
A man who, according to a U.S. marshal, could have been murdered.
Broken and choked sobs wrenched their way out from her body, the harsh sounds clashing with the soft raindrop lullaby of the shower spray. Her legs turned to jelly and she dropped to the tiled floor of the shower with a crash.
Strength seemed to have left her, so she sat, knees tucked in tight under her chin and arms wrapped around her shins, and sobbed. She closed her eyes, only to see Josiah’s vacant stare as he lay in the green reeds, his blue-checkered shirt covered in wet mud. “No, no, no,” she choked out, repeating the word until it became a mantra. Something that took her away from this place. Something that let her drift away from conscious thought, into the ether of nothingness where she could feel no stress, no pain. No fear.
“Rachel.”
Dimly, through the fog of pain and anguish, she became aware of someone calling her name.
“Rachel.”
There it was again. Her name. Spoken in a soft, male voice. A voice full of compassion and sorrow. A voice close by.
She forced her eyes open to see the shadow of a tall form standing outside the steamed-up glass shower walls.
U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. In her private bathroom. Invading her space. How dare the man? “Get out,” she managed to say. Instinctively, she cringed, then realized she was curled into herself, all the important stuff covered up, even if he could see anything more than her shadow through the foggy glass.
“I heard a thump and you crying out. Are you all right?”
“My son just saw his first dead body, and you told me my ranch hand and friend has possibly been murdered. No, I’m not okay.”
Silence followed her statement. Finally Dylan spoke again. “I meant, are you okay physically? I want to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m fine,” she sniffed.
“Yeah, right, and I’m Santa Claus,” he muttered. A deep exhale of breath followed his words, and then he said, “I guess you sound okay. When you’re done crying—I mean, when you’re done taking a shower—I’ll be in your kitchen. We need to talk,” he said, his voice grim. “You need to know why I’m here. And why I think Josiah may have been murdered.”
With dread, Rachel listened as he walked out of the bathroom.
Her mother had always told her to be careful what she wished for. Learning the truth about why U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney was here was what she’d wanted.
But now she wasn’t so sure. Now she’d give almost anything to believe he really had been bird-watching...and she desperately wished he’d turn around and leave—not just her house, but her ranch— just as abruptly as he’d appeared.
Rachel stared at the man who’d claimed to want to help her only to then deliver the killing blow that might finally defeat her. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you. Jax would never have escaped prison.”
Rachel’s heartbeat thudded so heavily her chest ached. She glared at Dylan, who sat across her kitchen table, flicking a thumbnail against the rough-hewn wood. Her father had made the table when she and Jax were young. Jax had insisted on using the hand planer and ended up slicing off the tip of his finger, right on the spot Dylan was toying with.
Innocent, sweet Jax, who’d followed their father around as though their dad was his own personal hero. Rachel knew that sweet boy was still inside her brother even though he’d refused to show him in the past year. Even though he’d confessed to police that he’d knowingly transported drugs across state lines, a crime that had landed him a prison sentence.
According to police, Jax had been contacted by someone who’d heard he was looking to make a quick buck. All Jax had to do was drive a package from Texas to east L.A., give the package to the man at the drop site, receive a package in return and drive back to Texas. All for two thousand bucks and the cost of gas. He’d been told the package contained vital documents needed for signatures to sell some high-level computer tech company to a big conglomeration. But he’d known better than that. He’d known the package contained drugs.
When he’d arrived at the drop site, men with guns came storming into the warehouse. Jax had managed to escape and had hopped a freighter back to Texas.
Rachel hadn’t known any of this was happening. Jax had told her he was going out of town to look for work. She’d been so proud of him she’d been willing to let him go off for a few days, even though the ranch desperately needed his help.
Then DEA agents and the local sheriff, Howard Ryan, had arrived at the ranch a few days after Jax had taken off, scaring the hell out of her and Peter with their guns and yelling and stomping about. The sheriff had found Jax near the barn and handed him off to the DEA. With her crying and begging them for information, the agents had handcuffed her brother and hauled him away, leaving her with unanswered questions. Jax had refused to look at her. He’d refused to say one word to her. After he’d confessed, he’d refused to say another word to the police.
The last time she’d seen her brother was the day of his sentencing, before they took him away. The two times she’d tried to visit him in prison, he refused to see her.
She didn’t know why—whether he was ashamed of what had happened to him or whether he blamed her for his troubles. One thing was for sure in her mind—Jax’s confession had to have been coerced.
No matter how bad things looked, she had faith in her brother. He was a good man. And he had to know Rachel was doing everything in her power to get him out of prison—legally. He’d never put everything she’d done for him on the line by escaping his prison sentence.
Numbly, she stared at the bottle of whiskey and two tumblers Dylan had placed on the table. He’d obviously thought she’d need something to soften the news he was about to give her. The mistaken news, she told herself again. He was wrong about Jax. He had to be.
“There must have been a mix-up in the head count or something,” she insisted. “The wrong name answered during roll call. Jax didn’t run off.”
“Rachel,” Dylan said, setting an elbow on the table and leaning closer to her. “Your brother’s a fugitive. Has been for a few days now even though we’ve managed to keep his name out of the press. The U.S. marshals—including my team back in California—got the notification he was being transported from High Desert State Prison to San Quentin for overcrowding when he escaped custody. I’m the one who ended up stuck out here on top of Ginger
