Читать книгу Texas Stakeout - Virna DePaul - Страница 12

Chapter 3

“I don’t understand,” Rachel said even as she pulled away from him. Fear had made her large eyes grow rounder, and Dylan barely suppressed a curse. Scaring her was the last thing he wanted, but he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that her brother had killed this man. For all he knew, Kincaid was still on the property somewhere, a threat to them all.

And yet for all Rachel knew, Dylan was the threat. He needed to extinguish the fear in Rachel’s eyes. Sometimes only the truth could do that.

“I told you my name is Dylan Rooney, ma’am. What I didn’t tell you is I’m a U.S. Marshal and I’m here on important business.”

Rachel backed farther away from him, her bare feet sinking even deeper in the mud that his boots protected him from. She winced, and once again he held out a hand to provide stability. This time she ignored it, staring at him warily.

“Business that has something to do with what’s happened to Josiah?”

“Could be. I’m not certain.”

“But you think he’s been murdered.”

“That remains to be seen,” Dylan said. She shifted, then winced again, reminding Dylan she’d run out of the house barefoot. She had to be in pain. “Here, let’s get you back up on the horse while we wait for help. No sense in you continuing to beat up your feet if you don’t have to.”

He moved toward her, but she held out her hand. “Stop. You think I’m going to just take your word you’re a cop? That you have any legitimate business being here?”

“I can show you my credentials. Will that help?”

She frowned, then nodded. Slowly, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He held it out and she took it. As soon as she flipped it open, she saw his badge and official ID. Her shoulders seemed to relax somewhat and she held the wallet back out to him. When he’d pocketed it, she turned and started walking toward Ginger, limping the whole time.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let me help you, ma’am. Please.”

She looked up at him, silent and looking a little lost, obviously numb from the shock of finding her ranch hand dead. She didn’t protest when he scooped her up in his arms and walked her the few yards back to Ginger, who was calmly grazing on green grass. Tall as Rachel was, she didn’t weigh much, but she did remain stiff in his arms while he raised her up onto Ginger’s back. Apparently dead bodies had no spook value the way tumbleweeds, bees and the occasional butterfly did, because the horse stood still.

When he settled Rachel onto Ginger’s back, she slumped in the saddle, as if all the strength had seeped out of her bones. “You were spying on us. Josiah? Or me?” she asked, her voice hollow, as if she’d forced the words out using what little energy she had left.

That was an answer he didn’t want to give just yet. Not until after Josiah was dealt with and he knew he’d have some uninterrupted alone time to explain everything to Rachel.

The sounds of sirens in the distance gave him an out. “Will Peter be able to lead the EMTs here?” he asked.

Rachel nodded, then sat up straight, agitation showing in her blanched face. “But I don’t want him to see—”

“I won’t let him near the spring. I’ll make sure he stays back, okay?”

A faint smile of gratitude curved the corners of her lips upward. Dylan realized that was the first time he’d seen even the hint of a smile on the woman’s face.

Rachel Kincaid was beautiful, but when she smiled it made him long for the rest of the world to disappear so he could spend hours simply staring at her.

“Thanks for that,” she murmured. “He’s just a kid. Seeing death at a young age can be so harmful. So destructive.”

Yeah, he knew.

In less than a minute, they heard the voices of the EMTs and he left Rachel to clamber up the gulley, intent on holding Peter back from going to his mom. From seeing Josiah’s body again.

But Peter wasn’t with the EMTs, who said they’d instructed the kid to go back to the house after he’d brought them close enough so they could find their own way to the spring. Silently, Dylan cursed. Now that he’d confirmed Josiah was dead, he was regretting letting the boy go off on his own. He wanted him near. To ensure his safety, yes, but also to settle Rachel’s worry about him.

Dylan showed the EMTs his badge. They confirmed Josiah Pemberly was deceased and made the appropriate calls to the police. Within a few minutes, a deputy from the sheriff’s department showed up. Dylan and the other man, whom Dylan had met days earlier, exchanged tense looks.

Deputy Mark Todd was one of the three sheriff’s deputies Dylan and his team had contacted when they first arrived in town. He knew who Dylan was and why he was here. Thank God he also knew better than to say anything in front of Rachel.

By the time a half hour had crept up and passed them, the deputy had agreed to make sure the body made its way to the medical examiner. He’d also agreed to call in another deputy so they could do a thorough search of the property together.

Dylan walked Ginger back to the house, an emotionally drained Rachel still perched on her back. He’d get her into the shower, bandage up her feet if need be and check in on the kid. Then he planned to see if Rachel had any whiskey in the house, pour her two fingers and tell her why he was in Texas, scoping out her house with high-powered binoculars on the back of a borrowed horse.

The odd thing was, part of him didn’t want to tell her. Instead, he wanted her to smile again. And he wanted to do whatever it took to keep that smile going, not extinguish it.

* * *

Rachel wasn’t sure what to make of Dylan Rooney. Correction: U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney. By the way the sheriff’s deputies had deferred to his authority, he appeared to be law enforcement, just as his credentials indicated, but was there truly any reason for him to think Josiah’s death had been the result of foul play? Some reason to think that she needed his help?

Maybe he was simply being paranoid because of the work he did. At least that was what she told herself as the marshal led Ginger, with Rachel in the saddle, back to the ranch. When they got there, he gently lifted her off the horse and put her on the front porch, then told her he’d take off Ginger’s tack and set the mare up in one of the empty corrals.

Rachel immediately went in search of her son. She found Peter sitting on the floor in a corner of his room, his arms wrapped around his knees. “I was right. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Oh, baby,” she whispered, knowing there was no easy way to break the news. Peter had loved Josiah. She fell to her knees beside her son and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Peter, but yes, Josiah’s dead.”

“I knew it,” he choked out. Shooting to his feet, he pushed her arm aside and bolted away.

“Peter,” she called, jumping to her feet to follow him. But her feet hurt and she was blinded by tears and her son was so much faster than she was. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, he’d barreled down them and had slammed out the back door. She had covered her eyes with one hand, choking back sobs, when the front door opened and Dylan Rooney stuck his head in.

“You want me to bring him back?”

She shook her head. Peter often hid out in the huge cottonwood by the creek—he’d always liked to process difficulties alone, and she’d always respected his needs even before she came to understand that because of his ADHD, giving him extra space was important. Now, however, she wanted him by her side. Safe. She’d shower, get some clothes and shoes on, deal with Dylan, then find Peter and keep him with her so they could grieve Josiah’s passing together. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “I—I just need to clean up and then we can talk. You can wait in the living room.”

Before he could reply, she headed into the master bedroom and quickly shut the door behind her. Then she rushed to the bathroom and shut that door behind her, as well. Only then did she lean back against the door and allow herself to break down, trying her best to stifle the sounds of her sorrow. She cried for Josiah, taken too soon. For Peter, who’d seen the stare of death. And she cried for her parents and for Jax. Jax, too, had seen empty, lifeless eyes when he returned home from school and found their parents. She hadn’t been able to protect him from that pain any more than she’d been able to protect her son.

Some mother she was turning out to be.

For the second time in as many hours, she stepped inside the shower and let the cool water wash her clean. Her feet were a mess, cut by the sharp stones she’d run across on her way to comfort her crying son, then sliced again by the knife-sharp reeds at the spring. Jackson Pollock-ish designs were painted in gray clay from her feet to her calves.

Numbly, Rachel stared at the water sluicing down the drain and, even though part of her hated herself for it, her thoughts drifted to the practicalities of Josiah’s death. After her husband Phillip’s death so long ago, the only way she’d been able to afford a ranch hand was that Josiah had been happy to do extra chores for a place to sleep and three meals a day. He’d been with her for years, and was the only alpaca shearer her flock tolerated. Between her and Josiah, they’d been able to shear the entire flock in a couple of days. With spring upon them and shearing season right around the corner, she’d have to find some way to come up with the money to hire a professional 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.