Laura Altom - Saving Joe

“That’s okay,” she said. “Just so happens, I brought my own. We had no idea how you were set for supplies, and since I eat like a lumberjack, I brought plenty of everything.”

“Where is it? Your stuff?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

“Down at the dock. I figured my being here would be enough of a jolt to your system without you catching sight of all of my junk, too.”

He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your radio is?” he asked. “At the dock?”

“I already told you, I don’t—”

“And I already told you—you’re lying.”

She flinched before forcing a smile. “Now, Joe, is that any way to treat a guest who just offered to share her syrup?”

“You’re not a guest,” he said, tired of her trying to woo him into conversation.

It’d almost worked, too.

Almost.

“Come on,” he said, leaving his shelter to meet her halfway through the field. “We’ll radio whoever sent you, and tell them you’re ready to go home.”

Bud bounded toward him.

She squared her shoulders and, as she had down at the beach, stubbornly raised her chin. “You just don’t get it, do you? For the next two weeks, this is my home.”

In waning daylight and sheets of rain, Gillian pitched her government-issue tent smack-dab in front of Joe’s cabin.

She’d hoped he’d take pity on her and let her camp on his couch, but seeing how he hadn’t helped her lug so much as one measly can of beans up that rotten hill of his, she didn’t figure he’d cave on letting her back inside. At least his patch of grass was more bearable than those creepy woods.

She felt him watching her through the window, and sure enough, when she spun around to send him a jaunty wave and bright smile, acting as if she was having the most fabulous time of her life, he ducked behind the drapes.

Hard to believe she’d actually begged her boss, William Benton, for this assignment, which he’d begrudgingly, ironically, given her mostly because she was a she.

William and the other guys around the L.A. office figured because of her gender, Joe Morgan would cut her some slack. Right.

And just think, after having all this fun with tent stakes, she’d get to dig herself a latrine. Oh boy.

She fished a scrunchy from her backpack, securing her dripping hair in a messy ponytail, then got back to work raising her shelter.

She’d always wanted to go camping as a kid, but her brothers had never let her. Part of Kent’s charm had been that he loved all things outdoors, meaning she’d gotten to camp and hike to her heart’s content. What her brothers and father didn’t know was that while she was on those camping trips, she’d also learned to love rock climbing and white-water kayaking!

Two adrenaline rushes she’d never gotten while working the mind-numbing desk job of organizing the statewide California Court Security Officer Program, which she knew was important, but hardly the stuff of cutting-edge thrills. This assignment might be annoying, but it sure beat the heck out of sitting behind her desk.

Tent assembled, Gillian glanced back over her shoulder to see Joe darting behind bedraggled beige drapes yet again.

Bud licked the window.

Gillian smiled.

The cabin door opened and out bounded the dog, licking and wriggling his way into the tent, then promptly collapsing on the sleeping bag she’d just grabbed off the porch to toss inside.

“Why are you doing this?” Joe shouted over the rain.

“What?”

“Oh, come on. Pitching a tent in this weather? Are you trying to make some kind of point?”

“Only that I’m not leaving until it’s time to escort you to the trial.”

“What if I told you I’d make my own arrangements to get to the trial if only you’d leave?”

“Sorry,” she said with another bright smile. “But like I told you, I don’t have a radio we could use to tell anyone about a change in plans.”

“You and I both know that’s a crock,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Look,” she said, “this bickering is accomplishing nothing more than wasting what little remains of my daylight. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to set up a security perimeter, then grab a bite to eat.”

Lips pressed tight, Joe stared at her, shook his head, then closed the cabin door.

Gillian turned to the dog. “I take it you’re staying for dinner?”

Bud-Barney thumped his tail against the tent wall.

JOE YANKED THE LIVING ROOM curtains shut with such force, the old rod holding them shuddered.

She wanted to play games? Fine. He’d let her.

She had a radio stashed somewhere, and they both knew it. If she wanted to spend the next two weeks playing Girl Scout in the rain, who was he to stop her?

Who was he? he thought, storming across the room.

The owner of this freakin’ island, that’s who.

By God, he had a right to his privacy.

He looked up from his rage to catch a glint of light from the kitchen reflecting off the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel.

Sighing, hastily turning away, Joe swallowed bile-tainted shame.

He had a right to privacy just like Willow had a right to justice. Like Meggie had a right to live a normal life, as opposed to being surrounded by bodyguards 24-7.

What if this time, that murdering low life stayed behind bars? Didn’t Joe owe it to the memory of his wife and the future of their daughter to at least cooperate with the woman trying to right the wrong of Willow’s death?

He leaned both elbows against the wood plank mantel, landing his gaze on the photo not five inches from his face.

Willow with Meggie.

Sunset on Greystone Beach.

His little girl had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms after the three of them had been on a long walk. At the time Joe snapped the picture, he’d found the sight of mother and child enchanting. He still did.

Gazing at the image of them, he found it didn’t seem real that Willow was gone. The very idea was a bad dream. As if the reason he hadn’t seen her in so long was that he’d been away on extended business.

Business. Had it been a drug lord who’d killed his wife, or in essence was it Joe’s own fault? If he hadn’t been working that Sunday morning…

Bile again rose in his throat.

How many times was he going to ask himself the same unanswerable questions?

The past was gone, but the future…

He dreamed of one day having this nightmare behind him. Of bringing Meggie here to see the island. The sea cave with its hundreds of starfish lining the rocks at low tide. The pine forest with its tumbling boulders and moss and ferns. She’d love it here—his girl.

But what about the new girl in his life? Was she loving it here? Roughing it in the rain?

Joe groaned. If only he knew what to do.

Oh sure, the proper thing would be to invite the woman inside, share a meal, then listen while she briefed him on the upcoming trial. But the truth of the matter was that the past few years had turned him into a head case.

He didn’t used to be like this.

Indecisive.

Standoffish.

Downright rude.

He used to be normal—at least by society’s definition. He’d been a successful entrepreneur, having made a fortune for himself and his investors in the import game. He’d owned a fancy house, a Jag, a Mercedes and a Hummer, even a vacation home in Cabo. So why, when he’d so diligently followed the rules of success, had tragedy stolen everything he’d loved?

As afternoon faded to night, the question refused to leave his head.

Joe tried passing time without thinking of either the past or his future. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he’d ever done before the nosy female marshal arrived. He’d walked the island of course, but now, to get out of the cabin, he’d have to stroll past her tent.