Читать книгу Texas Stakeout - Virna DePaul - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Rachel stared at the man who’d claimed to want to help her only to then deliver the killing blow that might finally defeat her. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe you. Jax would never have escaped prison.”

Rachel’s heartbeat thudded so heavily her chest ached. She glared at Dylan, who sat across her kitchen table, flicking a thumbnail against the rough-hewn wood. Her father had made the table when she and Jax were young. Jax had insisted on using the hand planer and ended up slicing off the tip of his finger, right on the spot Dylan was toying with.

Innocent, sweet Jax, who’d followed their father around as though their dad was his own personal hero. Rachel knew that sweet boy was still inside her brother even though he’d refused to show him in the past year. Even though he’d confessed to police that he’d knowingly transported drugs across state lines, a crime that had landed him a prison sentence.

According to police, Jax had been contacted by someone who’d heard he was looking to make a quick buck. All Jax had to do was drive a package from Texas to east L.A., give the package to the man at the drop site, receive a package in return and drive back to Texas. All for two thousand bucks and the cost of gas. He’d been told the package contained vital documents needed for signatures to sell some high-level computer tech company to a big conglomeration. But he’d known better than that. He’d known the package contained drugs.

When he’d arrived at the drop site, men with guns came storming into the warehouse. Jax had managed to escape and had hopped a freighter back to Texas.

Rachel hadn’t known any of this was happening. Jax had told her he was going out of town to look for work. She’d been so proud of him she’d been willing to let him go off for a few days, even though the ranch desperately needed his help.

Then DEA agents and the local sheriff, Howard Ryan, had arrived at the ranch a few days after Jax had taken off, scaring the hell out of her and Peter with their guns and yelling and stomping about. The sheriff had found Jax near the barn and handed him off to the DEA. With her crying and begging them for information, the agents had handcuffed her brother and hauled him away, leaving her with unanswered questions. Jax had refused to look at her. He’d refused to say one word to her. After he’d confessed, he’d refused to say another word to the police.

The last time she’d seen her brother was the day of his sentencing, before they took him away. The two times she’d tried to visit him in prison, he refused to see her.

She didn’t know why—whether he was ashamed of what had happened to him or whether he blamed her for his troubles. One thing was for sure in her mind—Jax’s confession had to have been coerced.

No matter how bad things looked, she had faith in her brother. He was a good man. And he had to know Rachel was doing everything in her power to get him out of prison—legally. He’d never put everything she’d done for him on the line by escaping his prison sentence.

Numbly, she stared at the bottle of whiskey and two tumblers Dylan had placed on the table. He’d obviously thought she’d need something to soften the news he was about to give her. The mistaken news, she told herself again. He was wrong about Jax. He had to be.

“There must have been a mix-up in the head count or something,” she insisted. “The wrong name answered during roll call. Jax didn’t run off.”

“Rachel,” Dylan said, setting an elbow on the table and leaning closer to her. “Your brother’s a fugitive. Has been for a few days now even though we’ve managed to keep his name out of the press. The U.S. marshals—including my team back in California—got the notification he was being transported from High Desert State Prison to San Quentin for overcrowding when he escaped custody. I’m the one who ended up stuck out here on top of Ginger with binoculars glued to my face and no bathroom for miles, on the off chance Jackson turned up.”

“And what were you planning on doing if he did?” she asked, anger revving her words to a fast tempo.

“The same thing I’m still planning to do. Watch and wait until capturing him doesn’t present a danger to you or your son, then nab him and bring him back into custody.”

“What do you mean wait until capturing him doesn’t present a danger to me or Peter? Were you planning to come in with guns blazin’? Have the big shoot-out at the O.K. Corral on my property?”

Instead of answering, Dylan stared at her, holding her gaze with his. She’d noticed before how startlingly blue his eyes were, but the expression he held now, one mixed with pity, compassion and a hint of fury, made the blue seem all that brighter. He shifted, and his plaid snap-front strained against the breadth of his shoulders. Under different circumstances, she’d label him a hunk. If she’d met him at the grocery store or the post office, she’d probably check for a wedding ring. And if she was being completely honest, she’d admit she’d already done the labeling and checking several times.

She mentally chided herself when her gaze once again dipped to his left hand. His ringless left hand. Damn it! This was not some friendly guy seated next to her at a Back to School Night. This man was the enemy.

She pushed her glass forward and waited as Dylan unstoppered the alcohol and poured her a drink, then used a finger to push it back across the wooden table to her. Despite wanting to down the entire glass in one gulp, she forced herself to sip elegantly, letting the firewater drift down the back of her throat, wishing she could be sharing the drink with Josiah. Tears filled her eyes and she tipped her head upward. She cried easily, always had, but she didn’t want He-Man to see her tears. Not after he’d watched her sob, naked, on the floor of her shower. Granted, the glass of the shower surround had been so fogged Dylan hadn’t actually seen her naked. But still...

Dylan cleared his throat. “I don’t understand why you think it’s so unbelievable your brother would run from the law. He’s a convict.”

“A convict who was falsely accused. A convict whose case is under appeal. A convict who will win that appeal and be fully acquitted.”

Dylan shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing hers. “You can’t possibly be that naive, Rachel.”

“And you can’t possibly claim to know me. Just because you did the whole gallant-knight thing today, riding in on a charger, coming to the rescue, doesn’t make you the good guy. It doesn’t make you right.”

The corner of his mouth tipped upward in a crooked smile. “So I was a gallant knight, then?”

Funny how that curl relieved some of the tension of the day. The man probably made women melt and teenage girls swoon. But Rachel was far from a teenager, and she wasn’t in a melting or swooning mood. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to rip Dylan’s head off for being against her brother or spend the night crying into her pillow over Josiah’s death.

She let out a deep sigh, allowing the alcohol to blur her emotions, smooth the jagged edges. But then a thought suddenly occurred to her, and the jagged emotions were back with a vengeance.

“Josiah,” she breathed. “You implied he might have been murdered. You can’t possibly think...”

But he did. She could see it in his eyes.

“Josiah fell,” she said baldly.

“Maybe,” Dylan said. “Maybe not.”

She stood abruptly. “I think you’ve said all you needed to say. My brother’s escaped, and he might be on his way here. The U.S. marshals have my place staked out. Now I need to find my son and go about our evening chores. Tomorrow’s a big day—I have a funeral to start planning, and I need to figure out how to hire a ranch hand I can’t afford. So I think it’s time I thank you for your help with our crisis today.” She gestured to the front door.

The man remained seated.

“Seriously, did you not get what I said? I’d like you to leave now.”

He nodded. “I heard you. And yes, I understood the subtext without the need for added direction. But I’m not leaving. Not until you understand what kind of threat your brother truly represents. Not until you understand that you and your son may be in mortal danger from Jackson Kincaid.”

* * *

Dylan figured no one wanted to hear someone they loved could hurt them, but he’d seen too many instances of domestic violence not to know that sometimes the ones you loved the deepest were the ones who could cause the most harm. He also figured Rachel Kincaid had heard and experienced all she should have to in one day. Unfortunately he couldn’t give her the reprieve he wanted to.

He had a duty to the citizens of the United States to keep them safe.

Justice. Integrity. Service.

The motto of the U.S. marshals wasn’t simply words on letterhead. Those words meant something to him. If he did his job, fugitives were brought to justice. He did his job with integrity, respecting the rights of all concerned, be it family, victim or the fugitive himself. And he did it all for personal satisfaction, yes, but mostly to be of service—to his country and to its inhabitants.

Right now being of service meant convincing Rachel Kincaid her brother could harm her.

He wished he didn’t have to. The woman had gotten under his skin in just a few hours. If he were a lesser man, he’d say his connection to her was simply physical. The woman was a looker, no doubt. And although those glass walls in her shower had been steamed up pretty well, he’d seen the swell of her breasts, the roundness of her naked hip, when he went to check on her.

But he knew there was more to his feelings for Rachel than physical attraction. He admired her. She certainly put up with a lot from her son. Before that... According to the files he’d read, she’d taken over running the ranch when her parents died, and had raised her younger brother, Jackson. He’d been ten and she’d just turned eighteen. She’d quit college and moved back to the ranch. Six months later she’d married a local boy—Phillip Wright—who’d killed himself a few years later in a drunk driving incident, leaving Rachel a widow with a three-year-old son to raise even as her teenage brother got himself into more and more trouble. She’d been struggling to do the right thing for all of them ever since.

“I know you raised him, Rachel. That you were little more than a child yourself when your parents died. You had your hands full with him, didn’t you?” he asked.

She shot him a hard look. “Jax was like any other teenager. He got screwed by life and screwed things up in response.”

“Detention throughout high school. He didn’t even graduate—had to take his GED. Then two DUIs and a few minor drug busts followed. All that I could see blaming on losing his parents so young. Typical messed-up kid stuff.”

“So?” Rachel snapped at him.

He paused before going on. “Then a B-and-E that he got a light sentence on because he was a juvie. Then another B-and-E. Again, maybe you could blame the loss of your parents on him acting out. Being stupid. But then there was the bust for possession of marijuana for sale. His first potential felony. He got off on that one on a technicality. Still sounding like a screwed-up kid to you?”

Rachel sagged back down in her chair and let her hands fall into her lap. She stared at the floor. He followed her gaze to the cracked checkerboard floor tile that had her transfixed. At least she was listening. Not running. Not fighting.

He sucked in a deep breath. Time to wake up Rachel Kincaid. “But what convinces me he isn’t some stupid screwed-up kid anymore was the drug deal gone south. Your brother took a job delivering heroin to a drug dealer in Los Angeles. When the DEA showed up to raid the place— Well, you know what happened.” He let his words hang in the air.

“Jax never had a chance to fix the tile,” Rachel said, dully, still staring at the floor. “That week Peter had the flu. We needed money desperately—I couldn’t even afford to take Peter to the doctor. I was exhausted, trying to tend to Peter and the livestock. Jax was trying to help. He was making me a sandwich when he dropped the mayo jar and shattered that tile there.” She nodded to the broken tile. “Three days later he was arrested. Poor Jax. He hadn’t even turned twenty before he was taken from me and now he’s barely twenty-one. He’s spent the past year in prison. He’s been without his friends. His family...”

“Rachel,” he said softly, “Jax isn’t a victim. He admitted he knew what he was doing. He confessed. His first appeal was rejected for that very reason.”

She raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes nearly as dull as Josiah’s earlier in the day. “He was harassed into giving that confession. Scared.”

They stared at each other until Dylan sighed. The day had settled into evening. His teammate Eric Haynes had the night shift and would probably already be in position to spy on the ranch. No sense in staying any later. He didn’t want to ride Ginger back to Aaron’s ranch in the dark.

Besides, if Rachel was naive enough to believe her brother wasn’t the drug-dealing scumbag he knew the kid to be, he knew nothing he could say right now would change her mind. Hell, his own mother had been handed irrefutable proof that his brother was bad to the core, time and time again, and she’d never accepted it, even up to the day she died.

“I can see you’ve got your mind made up about Jax. But sooner or later, Rachel, you’re going to have to face the truth.” Dylan stood and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice catching in her throat.

Hand on the door handle, he stopped. “The Sleep-E-Z Motorcoach Lodge.”

“So the U.S. Marshals will be leaving me alone now?”

“Nope. The sheriff’s deputies swept your property—it’s clear. They’re gone, but my teammate Eric is already in place. He’ll keep watch until I show back up in the morning.”

“Jax is a good kid,” she stated. “He’s innocent. And if he did escape, and I’m not saying he did, he must have had a good reason, if only that he was scared.”

At that, he turned and caught her gaze with his. “A good reason? He—” He bit off his words. He was pretty certain that Rachel would collapse under the weight of any more bad news. He’d be back to tell her the rest of the story. Until then, maybe some rest would enable her to see reason come morning. So Dylan contented himself with saying, “Good night, Ms. Kincaid.” He stepped outside into the humid Texas evening air, frustration crawling around inside his skin. As he slammed the door behind him, he heard a crash and the breaking of glass.

Then he heard her crying.

Again.

He stood there a long time before he found the will to walk away.