Virna DePaul - Texas Stakeout

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.

Chapter 6

“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 man. The man who’d come riding to her son’s rescue. The man who’d stood by her when she dealt with the death of her ranch hand and friend. The man who smelled of mint and melon.

The man who thought her brother was a scumbag drug dealer who’d kill an old man and endanger his family.

His very presence was a threat to her and those she loved.

She turned and shifted away from him, making him frown. The rough wood of the porch railing dug into her back. “Tell me,” she said quietly. “Please.”

His jaw clenched before he abruptly nodded. “I’m sorry, Rachel, but there’s not much a lawyer can do for Jax now. I’m afraid it’s bad. Jax didn’t just run off, though believe me, that would be no small matter to deal with. During the escape, two U.S. marshals who’d been transferring him to another prison were shot.”

“Oh, God...are they...” She couldn’t bear to say the word.

“One’s dead. The other’s been in a coma and is in critical care.”

She dropped her gaze to the faded wooden planks of the porch floor. The bones in her legs threatened to break into a thousand pieces and the shaking started. Surely he wasn’t telling her that Jax—

He slid a finger under her chin and tipped her head up.

“Rachel, I need you to look at me. I need you to understand.”

Unwilling, she met his deep, dark gaze.

Dylan continued, saying, “The reason we have such an intense operation targeting your brother is that he’s dangerous. He’s a killer. And we need your help to trap him.”

* * *

Rachel jerked her head away from Dylan’s touch and barreled into the kitchen, the loud crack of the screen door swinging shut behind her sounding like thunder. Dylan’s entry through the door was notable but much softer.

“Rachel—”

She shook her head as she paced alongside the kitchen table, the floor cold against her bare feet. The sensation was in complete opposition to the heat running through her veins: the heat of anger, of fear and of...denial?

She’d raised Jax since he was ten. Held him in her arms when he’d woken up with nightmares about their parents’ dead and empty eyes. Admonished him and yet felt a sense of pride when he stayed up all night with his favorite alpaca when she was about to give birth. Got annoyed with him over the countless frogs and baby birds he brought into the house to rescue.

And she’d been there when the troubles in school had started. Then the troubles with the law. It hadn’t mattered.

Jax saved baby jackrabbits from coyotes. He didn’t kill people. No way would she ever believe otherwise.