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.
After Dylan Rooney left, Rachel threw herself a very brief pity party and then went looking for her son. Just in case he’d snuck back inside without her knowing it, she combed the inside of the house first. When that proved fruitless, she headed outside and to his favorite tree. Down at the creek, even with dusk not yet set and cool light still diffusing the air, Rachel could tell the cottonwood’s branches hung empty. No Peter.
She called Peter’s name, but only the trickle of the creek and the rise and swell of the cricket and frog chorus rose around her. A nearby bullfrog stopped its low bellow, but no boy’s voice responded. She doubted Peter was in the barn—the grass hay gave him allergies—but she’d try there.
She’d crumbled when she saw Josiah’s dead body. Peter had to be freaking out. He liked to be alone when he got upset, but still, this was going on too long.
Fifteen minutes later, with all the light from the fading dusk gone, she headed back to the house. Peter hadn’t been in the barn, either. Nor in the toolshed, or in the woodshed or in any of the corrals.
Upstairs, she paused in front of his closed bedroom door. She’d deliberately left it open before she headed outside to look for him. Relief swamped through her even as she braced herself and knocked on the door. “Peter?” No answer. She knocked again. “Peter, honey, I know you’re upset, but we need to talk. Peter?” When there was still no answer, she opened the door.
She let out a cry of dismay upon seeing it was still empty. Immediately she saw the piece of paper propped on Peter’s pillow. There, in Peter’s dismal scrawl, was a note addressed to her.
Mom. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was shooting the BB gun. I think I killed Josiah. I don’t deserve to live here and decided to be a railroad bum. I have a hat and extra socks and I took five dollars from the cookie jar. I’ll pay you back some day. Your son, Peter Kincaid.
An