LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

       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

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