Laura Altom - Saving Joe

Curiosity got the better of Joe and he looked up to see Gillian and Bud engrossed in a game of fetch. Though the injured dog hobbled, he yelped out a succession of high-pitched, happy barks. The kind Joe hadn’t heard him make since he’d been with Joe’s daughter, Meggie, whiling away summer afternoons playing tug-of-war on the grassy lawn by the pool.

Gillian’s full lips and bright eyes united in one big smile. Her still-wet hair curled about her face. Where it fell to her shoulders, her navy blue T-shirt with the yellow U.S. Marshal logo was damp.

“Good boy…yes, you are a good boy.” Bud had brought the stick back and was now reaping his reward—a thorough rubdown and petting.

A flash of jealousy shocked Joe’s system.

He wanted Gillian’s attention. He wanted to be the good boy.

Dear Reader,

Joe and Gillian’s story evolved from a magical trip my husband and I took to the West Coast. Earlier that year, I’d gone through some tough personal stuff—long story. My husband had discount flight privileges through the company he worked for, so when vacation time rolled around, he suggested leaving our twins with his family, then heading to Oregon. (After visiting the state’s coast years earlier on business, he’d always wanted to go back.)

Anyway, we had no reservations except for our rental car and arrived in Portland in the middle of the night. The next morning we woke to fog so thick it was hard to see your hand in front of your face, let alone drive. Still, we slowly wound our way through thick forests to the Pacific. As in a dream, the fog lifted, and there it was, sparkling and gorgeous.

The tide was low and we walked across a beach strewn with beautiful black stones—many perfectly round like marbles. Next we came to tidal pools. Like the ones on Joe’s island, each pool housed an amazing array of life—starfish and anemones and so many fish I couldn’t begin to name them.

Farther down the road were giant sea caves, and then quaint little restaurants where we’d split a bowl of chowder. Like Joe, I found the Oregon coast to be an incredible place of healing. From forests thick with ferns and trees taller than many of the buildings we had back home in Oklahoma, to miles of deserted beaches, nature put on such a dazzling show I didn’t have time to think of anything but how lucky I was to be alive.

Wish you a lifetime of healing journeys,

Laura Marie Altom

You can reach me through my Web site at www.lauramariealtom.com or write to me at P.O. Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101.

Saving Joe

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Aunt Katie and Uncle Paul. Happy sixtieth anniversary! The two of you are a real-life Happily Ever After. Thanks so much for being an inspiration not only to me, but to romantics everywhere! I love you!

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

940—BLIND LUCK BRIDE

976—INHERITED: ONE BABY!

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

Formed in 1789 by President George Washington, the United States Marshals Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency—and in my mind, one of the most mysterious. They used to carry out death sentences, catch counterfeiters—even take the national census. According to their Web site, “At virtually every significant point over the years where Constitutional principles or the force of law have been challenged, the marshals were there—and they prevailed.” Now the agency primarily focuses on fugitive investigation, prisoner/alien transportation, prisoner management, court security and witness security.

No big mystery there, you say? When I started this series, I didn’t think so, either. Intending to nail the details, I marched down to my local marshals’ office for an afternoon that will stay with me forever.

After learning the agency’s history and being briefed on day-to-day operations, it was time to tour. I saw an impressive courtroom and a prisoner holding cell—not a good place to be! Then we went to the garage to see vehicles and bulletproof vests and guns! Sure, I’m an author, but I’m primarily a mom and wife. I bake cookies and find hubby’s always-lost belt. Remind my daughter’s cheerleading squad which bow to wear. Nothing made the U.S. Marshals Service spring to life for me more than seeing those weapons—and I’m talking serious weapons! And then I glanced at my tour guide and realized that this guy isn’t fictional, but uses these guns, puts his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.

When I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program, things really got interesting. Deputy Marshal Rick ever so politely sidestepped my every question. I found out nothing! Not where the base of operations is located, not which marshals are assigned to the program, where/who those marshals report to on a daily basis, what size crews are used, how their shifts are rotated—nothing! After a while, it got to be a game. One it was obvious I’d lose!

Honestly, all this mystery probably makes for better fiction. I don’t want to know what really happens. It’s probably not half as romantic as the images of these great protectors I’ve conjured in my mind. Oh—and another bonus to my tour…Deputy Marshal Rick was Harlequin American Romance–hero hot!

Laura Altom

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

“Mr. Morgan?” Gillian Logue called above the driving rain.

The man she sought stood there at the grumbling surf’s edge, staring at an angry North Pacific. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the wind, he almost didn’t look real—more like some mythical sea king surveying all that was rightfully his.

Gillian shivered, hunching deeper into her pathetic excuse for a jacket.

Even in the rain, the place reeked of fish and seaweed and all things not on her L.A. beat. They were achingly familiar smells she could try all she liked to pretend didn’t dredge up the past, but there was no denying it—it was hard to come home to Oregon. Not that this island was home, but the boulder-strewn coastal landscape sure was.

The crashing waves.

The tangy scent of pines flavored with a rich stew of all things living and dead in the sea.

The times she’d played along the shore as a child.

The times she’d cried along the shore as a woman.

Shoot, who was she to judge Joe Morgan?

Yeah, she’d lost a love, and yeah, it’d hurt, but it wasn’t like she’d been married to Kent, or they’d had kids. She couldn’t even fathom the complexities of Joe Morgan’s pain.

Shouldn’t want to.

She wasn’t on this godforsaken rock to make a new friend. She was here for one simple reason—to do her job.

“Mr. Morgan?” she called again.

He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, not bothering to shield them from the rain. “Yeah,” he finally shouted. “That’s me. Mind telling me who you are? What you want?”

The wind slapped strands of her honey-blond hair in Gillian’s face. She took a second to brush them away before stepping close enough to hold out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Gillian Logue.”