Laura Altom - Saving Joe

Gazing at the images of Joe Morgan’s former life, while she couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of his loss, brought her own days of mourning to the surface.

Losing her mother at a time when she’d needed her most.

Losing Kent, even though, truth be told, she’d probably never had him at all.

Gillian took a deep breath and turned back to the door.

“Sir,” she said, delivering a lighter knock. “Please, give me a few minutes. I realize you’ve already been through so much, but—”

Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the heavy door creaked open.

It’d happened so fast, she needed a second to process that she’d been granted access to the cabin’s warmth. As for any human warmth, judging by the scowl Joe Morgan still wore now that he’d wound his way back to his chair, that she might never see.

There did seem to be at least one friendly member of the family. From the reading she’d done on Joe, Gillian knew the Lab belonged to his daughter. So what was he doing here when Meghan was back in Beverly Hills with her maternal grandparents?

The big dog sniffed Gillian’s feet and knees, then nudged its soft, silky head up under her hand.

“What’s your dog’s name?” she asked.

“Bud. Stay away from him.”

Ignoring Joe’s ridiculously harsh request, Gillian knelt before the dog, turning her face when a big, wet doggy-breath-smelling tongue slicked her cheek.

Eyes narrowed, she recalled from time spent absorbing Joe’s file that the dog wasn’t named Bud, but Barney—after the purple dino.

She shot Joe a look, but let the slip go.

“Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said to the adorable lug. Thank heavens at least one male in the house was friendly!

“I thought you had something to tell me,” Joe said, staring into the dancing fire.

“Look.” Gillian slipped off her jacket and slung it over the back of a lumpy beige-plaid couch. “We can either do this the hard way by being nasty to each other, or the easy way by at least trying to be friends.”

Joe laughed—sort of. “Oh, you kill my wife, then wanna be my friend?”

“Whoa,” Gillian said, hackles raised. “We were all sick over the loss of your wife, but for the record, four damn fine marshals lost their lives in that incident, as well.”

The only indication that he’d even heard her was the twitch in his jaw.

Deciding this whole scene needed lightening up, Gillian reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Here,” she said, crossing the twelve or so feet to Joe’s chair. “I heard that when you were in the safe house, you were real fond of these.”

Gillian offered him the candy.

After accepting it, he looked at her.

He ran his thumb over the smooth brown wrapper. Brought the candy to his nose and deeply inhaled. Was the secret to breaking down his walls as simple as chocolate?

He parked her gift on a side table, then pushed to his feet. “I’m outta here,” he said, brushing past her on his way to the door.

Gillian frowned.

Well, shoot. She pocketed the Snickers while launching a new chase. His loss, her gain. No way was she passing on perfectly good chocolate!

WITH BUD BESIDE HIM, Joe jogged the short distance into the forest, then leaned hard against the trunk of a towering pine.

What’s wrong with me?

Trembling, he bowed his head, raked his fingers through his hair.

Why couldn’t his mouth form the words of blame he so badly needed to speak? Why couldn’t he unleash the wrath that’d lived inside him for so long even he wasn’t sure where the past ended and the present began?

Then again, was any of this real, or was it the final stage of him going all the way mad?

He heard the creak of the door, even this far from the cabin.

“Joe?” the woman called, her voice eerie and echoing through the drizzle. “Please come back inside. It’s cold out here.” There was blessed silence, then the crunch of her footfalls. “We don’t have to talk about the case. Hell, we can talk sports if you want. I grew up with three brothers, so I know every sport from football to skiing.”

Joe winced. Why wouldn’t she go away?

It’d been a long time since he’d carried on polite conversation with anyone besides his in-laws and daughter. With anyone else, he kept to the basics. Since his wife’s death, since her killer’s release, since the relentless surprise attacks on his life that had transformed him into the nomad he was today, Joe had become a stranger even to himself. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care—at least he hadn’t before she’d shown up.

Something about knowing this marshal was here made him once again accountable. Honor-bound to conform to society’s graces. To offer drinks and food. Shelter and warmth. And he hated that—feeling like he had to do what was expected instead of what he wanted, which was to fling the woman off of his island as if she were of no more consequence than a piece of driftwood marring his shore.

From between the pine boughs, Joe saw Bud saunter to the woman’s side, nudging his nose up under her hand in an attempt to get himself a pat.

Oh, but she did far more than just pat the dog.

She cupped her hand about the silky portion of his head beside his ear and smoothed her fingers across the same place over and over. That was Joe’s favorite spot to rub the dog. The fur there was perfectly smooth, almost downy in its consistency.

The fur was his.

The dog was his.

The island was his.

“If you’d like,” the marshal said, “I could make us something to eat. I make mean scrambled eggs.”

As if cued, his stomach growled. It’d been hours since his last meal.

“Joe,” she said, “I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean…” She flopped her hands at her sides. “Here you’ve been, thinking this whole ordeal was over, when yet again it rears its ugly head….”

Over.

Yes.

It was all supposed to be over.

Funny, though, how it didn’t feel over when he wanted to hold his daughter so bad he could scream, but didn’t dare go near her more than once every couple of months for fear of her meeting the same fate as her mother.

No matter the personal cost, Meggie had been through enough. It was his duty, as her dad, to protect her—yet he was the source of the potential danger.

“I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” the woman said, “with all the marshals assigned to your case.”

Damn straight.

“But Joe, the fact of the matter is that we need you. I need you. I hate this guy as much as you do. He killed four of my best friends.” She stepped closer, off the trail and into tall, winter-dulled weeds.

A sudden breeze whipped strands of her hair in her face, making her look softer, prettier, than a female marshal should. And he hated her all over again for that—for looking so vibrant and alive when his wife was—

“I saw your propane fridge, so I’m assuming you have the basics?”

Not knowing—not caring—if she could see him or not, he nodded.

“I’m great at garbage can casseroles, too,” she said. “You know, concoctions made out of the stuff in the fridge that should probably just go in the trash, but I’m too cheap to throw out.”

She’d passed the tumble of moss-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. He wanted her to be quiet, but at the same time, found himself straining to catch her next words.

How long had it been since he’d heard anyone’s voice, let alone a woman’s?

“French toast is another of my specialties, but I’m guessing you probably don’t have any syrup.”

Confused not by her question, but his need to answer, he said, “No. No syrup.”