The United States Marshals Service

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, I was taken on a 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 wasn’t fictional, but used those guns, put his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.

Things really got interesting when I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program. 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 Mills & Boon American Romance-hero hot!

Laura Altom

Dear Reader,

I grew up reading Mills & Boon romances, and after the birth of my twins, I decided to try writing them. So far—knock on wood—that seems to be working out. But even after immersing myself in all of those happy endings, only now have I truly understood the healing power of these constantly underrated books.

At the time of wrapping up this story, my husband and I have weathered what has been one of our toughest storms in over seventeen years of marriage. Coping with my husband’s grandmother’s advancing dementia, we’ve made the decision to welcome her into our home—only, our current home isn’t big enough, so we’re in the process of moving. With two preteens, our finances have always been tight, but now especially so. I’ve taken on a second job to help make ends meet.

Times have been tough. I used to be fortunate enough to spend my days leisurely writing. I now, like so many of you, hustle off to work. I squeeze in writing between cooking and laundry and chauffeuring kids to their many activities. At first I wasn’t sure how I was going to fit it all in, but gradually everything began to click.

I found myself enjoying my job and my new coworkers. Most of all, I enjoyed my newly concentrated writing time. No longer able to take all day to reach my goals, I had to write faster, leaner, with an intensity I’d never before known. Through that growth, I found myself utterly caught up in Caleb and Allie’s story. Might sound corny, but through their healing, I slowly healed. And instead of being afraid I won’t be able to meet my next writing deadline, I now view that looming date as an exciting mountain to be conquered. Am I still scared? You bet! But knowing I have the healing power of romance to help get me through long days somehow makes it all better.

Long live Mills & Boon Books!

Laura Marie Altom

P.S. You can reach me through my Web site at

www.lauramariealtom.com or write to me at P.O. Box 2074,

Tulsa, OK 74101.

Marrying the Marshal

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For United States Marshal Timothy D. Welch and Deputy U.S. Marshal Rick Holden. Thank you for the incredible tour of Tulsa’s marshal’s office, and for patiently answering my gazillion questions! Any technical errors are all mine!

And for my new friend and the sharpest dressed T.A. at Nimitz Middle School, Ms. Jana King! Thank you for making me feel at home since the first day we met, and for always being generous with your smiles. You are a treasure I hope to forever keep!

Books by Laura Marie Altom

MILLS & BOON AMERICAN ROMANCE

940—BLIND LUCK BRIDE

976—INHERITED: ONE BABY!

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

1086—SAVING JOE*

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Nine years ago…

Caleb Logue hadn’t felt this good since…

Well, since maybe never.

With his girl—soon to be wife—Allie carrying his son or daughter, he felt like he’d won the lottery. Hit the jackpot. His ship had finally come in. Tonight was going to be magic. The ring was in his front pocket. A single, flawless red rose occupied the seat beside him.

In a perfect world, she’d be getting a huge bouquet. A diamond solitaire the size of a Hershey’s Kiss. As it was, her rock was more like a dust speck, but surely this was one case where it wasn’t the size of the stone that counted, but the depth of his love.

That might sound corny, but what the hell? It wasn’t like anyone was around to read his mind.

He loved her.

Loved her so much it sometimes hurt to think what his life might be like without her.

Lucky for him that after tonight, once she said yes to his proposal, they’d be together for a good, long while.

In the driveway of her rented house, he turned off his crotchety Chevy pickup, then popped open the equally cranky door.

Granted, when Allie first told him she was pregnant, he hadn’t taken the news all that well. He didn’t think she fully understood just how much the news had freaked him out, but tonight, he’d make up for his less than enthusiastic first response. Both juniors at the University of Oregon’s law school, they weren’t exactly in the best financial shape to start a family.

He snatched the rose, patted his pocket to make sure her ring was still safe inside, then whistled all the way to Allie’s front door.

He waved at the frat guys next door who’d moved their sofa outside to enjoy the unseasonably warm April weather. Gritty Pearl Jam played on a radio they’d set in the open front window. Their barbecue smelled great. Chicken. Just that morning, at a campus yard sale, he’d picked up a hibachi for Allie. Her rusted-out grill had seen better days.

The frat guys nodded and waved back.

Caleb reached Allie’s front porch. The balmy breeze flapped the screen on the window over the kitchen sink. He’d fix it for her this weekend.

He tried walking in as usual, but the door was locked. He had a key, but it was back in the truck, so he just knocked again.

When a few minutes passed with still no answer, he loped back to the truck for the key. He slipped it into the lock, hoping the worry settling in his gut was unfounded. Allie was always home from class by now. She worked as a waitress down at McGinty’s, but two nights earlier, he’d doubled-checked with her boss that she was off tonight.

“Al?” he called out while pushing open the door. “You all righ—”

He froze.

One foot inside, one out.

The once cheerfully cluttered home, filled with books and newspapers and rumpled old furniture and thriving plants, was empty. The place was no longer a home, but merely a house. Sun that usually slanted through windows, giving the wood floors a honeyed glow, now highlighted dingy walls crying for fresh paint and scuffed floors that could only be helped by hiding them with wall-to-wall carpet.

“Allie?” His pulse began to race.

What was going on?

Where could she be?

He searched everywhere. The bedroom where they made love. The kitchen where they cooked together, laughed together. The bathroom where they’d showered together. All empty.

So what now? Wait? Sit around hoping she’d come back?

At first he’d been scared, confused.

Now, he was pissed.

She hadn’t been robbed. Aliens hadn’t sucked up all of Allie’s stuff. She’d moved it. Deliberately and coldly and calculatingly moved it.

To get away from him?

Obviously. But why? She was carrying his baby. What had he ever done but loved her?

He locked up, headed for his truck.

“If you’re lookin’ for Al,” one of the frat guys shouted, “we helped her load the last of her stuff this morning.”

Hand to his forehead, shading his eyes from the setting sun, Caleb asked, “She say where she was going?”

“Nah.”

Caleb muttered a quick thanks, and headed for his apartment—used more as a storage shed than shelter. Allie’s place had basically been his home, but her mom was old-fashioned, Allie had said. She wouldn’t have understood them living together before marriage.

Caleb mechanically got through the weekend.

Monday morning, he somehow made it to class.

Caleb’s dad was a retired U.S. Marshal. Now, sheriff of their small, coastal Oregon hometown. Vince Logue had made a few inquiries on behalf of his son, but for all practical purposes, Allie had vanished. Caleb finally resorted to calling the mom who hadn’t approved of him. Her words of wisdom were to leave her daughter alone.

Monday afternoon, Caleb snatched the mail from his box.

Nestled amongst bills and credit card applications was a letter.

Dear Caleb—

Sorry for taking off like I did, but I didn’t know what else to do. I lost the baby, but before that, I could already tell I’d lost you. The look in your eyes after I’d told you my news, it told me the last thing you wanted to be was a father. I don’t blame you. My being pregnant was a shock to me, too.

But what also came as a shock was your apparent lack of feeling for me. I always assumed we’d end up together, but guess I was wrong. And that’s okay. I mean, I’m hurt, but I understand, and willingly grant you your freedom. Maybe my losing the baby was somehow a blessing. Maybe if I hadn’t, you might’ve felt forced into “making it right,” like you said you would do. But what you have to understand is that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with a man who makes my life “right,” but magical. I want the fairy tale, Caleb. I want love.

Please don’t try to find me. I think it’s for the best that we both go our separate ways. Good luck in your future. I wish you well in all you do. Allie

Caleb read the letter four times, then wadded it into a ball he deep-sixed into the trash.

He went out for a couple beers.

Came home.

But the apartment had never been his home. He fell onto the sofa and cried. And when he’d finished, he snatched her letter from the trash, smoothed it against his chest and then sat back down on the sofa to wonder where the hell things had gone wrong.

He laughed.

His first mistake? Hooking up with a woman whose heart was made of ice.

Chapter One

“Sorry, sir, but no can do.” Portland-based Deputy U.S. Marshal Caleb Logue handed the fax with his next assignment back to his boss. Granted, Franks knew his job and was the presidentially appointed U.S. Marshal for all of Oregon, but surely even he’d understand that this—

“’Scuse me?” Franks’s wooly-worm eyebrows raised and his thick neck turned red. Even at fifty, the guy still bench-pressed two-eighty.

“Sir…” Caleb gulped, but held his ground. “I know this judge. We went out for a while in college. I really think it’d be best if someone else was assigned to—”

“Ordinarily,” his boss said, “I’d agree. But with Mason and Wolcheck in Texas, Villetti in Michigan, and Smith in New Orleans, I got no one else to give this to. As is, you’re going to have to pull in a whole new team from other offices. Feel free to appoint someone else as our lady judge’s primary sidekick, but make no mistake, you will be a key player. Capiche?”

Elbows on his cluttered desk, Caleb cradled his forehead in his hands.

No way this was happening.

No freakin’ way.

“Glad you’re on board, Logue. Get together a twelve-man team—I want six on her and four on her son at all times, two off—then haul ass down to Calumet City. This has to be in place by the end of the day. And I’m talking end of the business day—not midnight.”

“Yes, sir.”

ALLIE HAYWORTH looked up from her organized desk, wishing her life could be as tidy. “Watcha’ doin?” she asked her eight-year-old son, Cal.

“Playin’ Legos.”

“I can see that,” she said, rising to cross to the far side of her office where he sat on the floor. By U.S. District Court Judge standards, the space wasn’t all that attractive. The burgundy leather sofa had a tear she’d duct-taped, then covered with a throw pillow. The white drapes, carpet and ceiling had a faint yellow hue and smoky smell from the judge who’d served before her—an avid cigar smoker. In a dream world where she had plenty of free time, she’d love to paint the space some vibrant, exciting color. Cobalt-blue or jungle-green. Still, floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves added warmth to the overall feel, as did the fresh flowers she collected from her cutting garden at least once a week in the spring through early fall.

Her current bouquet had seen better days. The snapdragons looked tired. For this year, the growing season had ended. Would she be around for next year?

Squelching the macabre line of thought, she forced a smile, saying to her son, “Guess I should’ve asked what you’re making.”

“What do you think?”

“I dunno.” Glad she’d worn slacks, she plunked down beside him. “A boat? Upside-down skyscraper?”

“Mo-om.”

“What?” she asked, ruffling his short dark hair.

“Don’t you know anything?” With dusky-green eyes that reminded her of dried sage, he gave her the look. The one that said despite the fact she was one of the state’s youngest federal judges—not to mention, a female—that he was and would always be wa-aa-aay smarter than her!

“Yep,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You must be right. Guess I don’t know anything. So? Help me out. What are you building?”

“It’s a gun.” He picked up the monolithic mix of colorful blocks only to pop to his feet, then run to the window and start shooting. “Pow, pow!”

Allie cringed. “Caleb, get away from the windows.”

“How come? The cops are right outside. No one can get us up here.”

If only that were true.

Allie scrambled to her feet and drew him back, safely out of view, before closing the drapes on the low-hanging clouds and persistent rain. “I, um, appreciate you looking out for us, but why don’t you leave the shooting to police.”

“What’re they gonna do? They’ve been protecting us a whole two days and still haven’t caught the bad guys.”

“I know, baby, but they will. Real soon.”

“This is boring,” Cal said, slamming his gun hard into the plastic Lego tub. His creation shattered. “I wanna go to school. Henry’s bringing his dad for show and tell. He makes donuts for his job and we were gonna get free ones and everything.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, drawing him into a hug. “But remember how we talked about this? And decided it would be safer if you just hung out with me?”

“Yeah, but—”

A knock sounded at the door.

Allie jumped, then felt silly when her elderly secretary poked her head in. Guess being used for target practice set a girl on edge.

“Allie, hon, there’s a gentleman here to see you from Portland. He’s with the U.S. Marshals. Shall I send him in?”

“Of course,” Allie said, releasing her son to smooth her hair and straighten her aqua silk blouse. At first she’d been opposed to having the big dogs called in, especially on the off chance her and Cal’s father’s paths should cross. But after this morning’s latest attempt on her life, she was relieved help had arrived.

Usually, federal courthouses had marshals’ offices right inside. Hers was no different, except the marshals were actually local policemen who’d been deputized into service. Not that they didn’t do a fine job—after all, she was still alive. But seeing how their usually peaceful district had never had something this serious happen, they were rusty on evasive maneuvers.

Apparently the members of the white supremacist organization intent on taking her life were not.

“Baby,” she said to her son. “Could you please make me an airplane while I talk to this man? A great, big one with maybe a swimming pool in first class, and—”

“Allie.”

She looked to the door and her pulse went haywire.

Caleb?

Of all the luck….

It’d been nine years since she’d last seen him. For nine years she’d told herself she hated him. Never wanted to see him again. She’d told herself every morning and night that what she’d done, what she’d kept from him, had been for good reason.

She made the mistake of meeting his direct stare. The exact shade of dried sage….

Her gig was up.

Caleb locked eyes with his son. Took a half step back, as if the air had been kicked from his lungs. But then his initial composure returned. Sort of. If you didn’t count the tightening of his jaw or the way his eyes narrowed with instantaneous rage. He’d just found out the baby she’d told him she’d lost was alive and well and making an airplane out of Legos.

“This is—no.” The man Allie had loved with a sometimes frightening intensity gave her a hard look, then shook his head. “We’re not going to do this now. Not here. In front of…” Those gorgeous, all-too-familiar eyes of his welled with tears. “How could you, Allie?” He pressed the heel of his right hand against one eye, then the other, and cleared his throat. “Your honor, my name is Caleb Logue. I’ll be heading your security team.”

“Oh, Caleb,” she said, fighting past her own wall of tears. “I didn’t mean for this to—”

“As soon as you and your boy are ready to head home, I’ll accompany you.”

“Please, let me…explain.” Too late. He was already out the door.

“Who was that?” her son asked.

Your father.

CALEB COULDN’T BREATHE.

“Dang, Logue,” his old pal from the Seattle office, Owen Richards, said. “You look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—only whiter.”

“Thanks.” Caleb brushed past him toward the group of guys still out in the hall, who were feeling up a snack machine.

“Damned thing stole my quarter,” his younger brother, Adam, complained.

“Stow it,” Caleb said. “Everyone ready to rock?”

“Not without my quarter.” Adam gave the machine another thump, then switched tactics by sticking his hand up the lady’s metal skirt. “What bug crawled up your behind?”

What bug? Caleb snorted.

The one that came with finding out the woman he’d thought he loved was a lying, conniving wench who’s still as freakin’ gorgeous as ever and had bore him a damned good-looking son she didn’t even have the decency to tell him existed!

“THANKS FOR THE GRUB,” Adam said.

“You’re welcome.” Allie stood at her black granite kitchen counter, wiping grease splatters from the burgers she’d fried for dinner.

Burgers, boxed macaroni and cheese, and frozen peas.

Her mother would report her to some government agency for cooking such a lackluster meal. But then her mother had been a stay-at-home mom. She also had never received death threats. She had, however, had a policeman husband killed in the line of duty. Meaning that though she wished Allie had told Caleb about his son, she’d always been sympathetic to her daughter’s rationale for keeping Cal’s paternity a closely guarded secret.

Allie’s dad had been shot when she was just twelve. For years, she’d bitterly wished she’d never even known him, rather than to have loved him so fiercely only to lose him in such a useless, tragic way. Wanting to protect her son from suffering the same kind of loss, she’d done Cal a favor by never letting him get attached to his adrenaline-junkie father.

Adam asked, “Got any idea what Caleb’s so PO’d about?”

“None at all.” Allie scrubbed harder, thankful for the fact that while she’d always liked Adam, he’d never been that big on personal observations.

“Got any ice cream?”

“Cookie dough and cotton candy.”

He winced. “Guess those’ll do.”

She shot him a look. “You always this professional?”

“Give me a break. It’s not like I don’t know you. And anyway, Caleb’s loaded for bear. Trust me, ain’t no one gettin’ through him.”

“So he’s out there, then?” she asked, grabbing a bowl and the ice-cream spade on her way to the freezer.

“Yup. Right outside. Along with four other marshals.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice?” He laughed. “Between them, they’ve got the firepower of a small country. Ain’t nothin’ nice about ’em.”

“Sorry,” she said, licking a sweet smudge of ice cream from her pinkie. “Didn’t mean to insult your arms supply.”

“S’okay.”

She handed him the bowl and a spoon. “So, is um, Caleb going to be inside at all?”

“Outlook doubtful—mmm, this is better than I’d expected. Thanks.”

“Sure. So, is there any time I might talk with him?”

“I guess.”

Was Adam really this dense? Couldn’t he see how much she needed to speak with his brother? While she didn’t for a minute believe she’d done the wrong thing in shielding her son from the certain disaster that was part of Caleb’s job description, she’d always felt wretched about her decision.

If only she could explain. To Caleb. To herself.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips, taking a deep breath. Time for a more direct approach. “Might it be possible for you to ask Caleb to come inside right now?”

“I’m eating my ice cream.”

Apparently, yes, Adam was that dense.

“MY BROTHER SAID you wanted to see me.” Caleb found Allie curled in an overstuffed lounge chair, reading court documents by the light of an artsy-fartsy lamp. In a swanky marble, brass and glass fireplace, a gas flame scorched politically correct concrete logs. Call him environmentally challenged, but he’d always been partial to wood. But then wood was a good, honest material. The woman seated before him could be called lots of things. Honest wasn’t one of them.

“Oh,” she said, her voice as flat as her eyes. “Hi.”

Not in the mood for forced pleasantries, he asked, “Our son in bed?”

She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“You off duty?” she politely asked.

“Cut the chitchat, Al. You not only lied about losing my son, you didn’t even have the decency to lie to my face. You took the coward’s way out by doing it in a Dear John.”

“Caleb, if you’d just let me explain.”

“Explain?” He laughed. “Oh, I’ve spent the past nine years of my life mourning the loss of your—our—child and you’re going to explain?” He thumped the red fireplace wall in anger.

“I’m sorry,” Allie said. Tears were pouring down her face. “You were so focused. All you ever talked about was getting your silver star. It was an obsession. As if, along with your fascination for those awful spaghetti westerns, you were going to become part of some modern-day posse. I knew if I told you I wanted to keep the baby, you’d do the honorable thing and marry me. You’d probably even have given up your dreams. Taken some boring desk job. You’d have been miserable.”

“Don’t give me that. Seriously, Allie, you’re a highly intelligent woman. Surely you can come up with a better excuse for a keeping a father from his son. A son from his father. You think every marshal spends every day shootin’ up the hills? You think my own father ordered me and my two brothers and sister from the back of the Sears catalogue?”

“I—I said I was sorry.” Allie rose, went to him, tried to give him a hug, but he backed away. Just out of reach.

“Yeah,” he said, jaw hard, eyes harder. “I’ll just bet.”

Allie winced from the obvious disgust behind his words, winced harder at the slam of the door as he left the room.

Sure, he’d had a right to know about his son, but she had rights, too. Intrinsic rights to security and well-being and happiness and love. How convenient Caleb had managed to block out how many of her hopes and dreams he’d squashed. Did he even remember what’d really happened nine years ago on the night she’d told him she was pregnant?

She did. Remembered it like it was yesterday….

THE NIGHT HAD BEEN rainy, yet hot, making the air heavy.

“Damn, this is quite a spread,” he’d said.

“Thanks.” She’d been warmed by Caleb having noticed she’d gone to extra trouble. Wildflowers picked in the empty lot behind her rented house graced an antique Ball canning jar he’d bought for her at a flea market. He was always doing that. Finding her little odds and ends to fill her home—their home. They’d met their junior year in college. And now, their third year of law school, she’d supposed it was time for what she was about to tell him.

True, there could have been a better time for this to happen—say, after graduation when they’d both found great jobs. But you couldn’t always plan a pregnancy, and there wasn’t much they could do about it, other than fast forward the marriage plans they’d each hinted at.

“What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, stepping up behind her at the stove, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the sensitive spot on the nape of her neck.

“Patience, counselor.”

He’d laughed. “Right. Trial lawyer I will never be. You know why I’m going after the fancy degree.”

Her heart had plummeted. So much for her wish for a lovely surprise from him. Something like a spontaneous proposal, then a heartfelt vow to not go into the marshals’ service.

“You just watch.” With his chest puffed out the way it always was when he talked about his career plans, he’d said, “Once I get this law degree behind me, then combine it with a stellar field service record, no mere Deputy Marshal status for me, darlin’. I’ll be the youngest presidentially appointed U.S. Marshal ever in the state. You can be the youngest U.S. District Court Judge.”

“Great.”

“Doesn’t sound good to you?” He’d swept aside her long hair, kissing a partial ring around her throat.

“Caleb, hon, I was going to wait until after dinner to tell you, but—”

Hands still around her waist, he’d turned her to face him. “Wait a minute. I know this pouty look. You bomb Valerio’s midterm?”

“No,” she’d said, suddenly overcome with emotion. Tears had started and wouldn’t stop.

“Damn, sweetie. What’s wrong?” He’d held her close, protecting her from the world. Trouble was, the thing hurting her worst was him.

“I—I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted. Hoping, praying, he’d propose on the spot.

Instead, he’d gripped her tighter, like she’d fallen overboard and he was dragging her back to an already sinking ship. “This shouldn’t be scary,” he’d said. “But it is. I mean, I want to be a dad. A lot. But right now?” He’d shaken his head. “We’ve both got full plates.”

“Sure.” Nodding against his chest, she’d felt his frantic heartbeat.

“We’ll make it right though, okay?” He’d tucked his fingers under her chin, raising it so that her gaze met his. “We’ll make it right.”

HE’D SAID Make it right all those years ago.

What had his words meant? That hadn’t been the way the night was supposed to have gone. Caleb was supposed to have proposed. Tell her he loved her and their baby more than life. And he could have told her, that minute, because he loved her, he’d give up his dangerous career in favor of something nice and safe. Maybe tax law. He, better than anyone, from their many late night talks, knew what had happened to her father. And how fearful she was of tragedy striking another man she loved. Because Caleb knew, he should understand her actions, but didn’t. In the end, the only thing he’d given up was her—them.

So she’d formed a plan.

One that had allowed her to keep her precious child, and Caleb to keep his apparently equally precious unfettered bachelor life and crazy-dangerous career.

Chapter Two

“Hey, it’s cool that we have kinda the same name. Can I see your badge?” Caleb’s son asked bright and early Monday morning.

“Sure.” Caleb slipped it off his utility belt for the little boy to inspect. He was a good-looking kid. Seemed smart. Inquisitive. Interesting that he was an early riser. So was his dad.

Outside, behind the closed kitchen shades, rain drummed on the patio and deck.

“Thanks,” the boy said, returning Caleb’s silver star. “Want cereal? We got Cheerios and Life.”

“That’s okay, buddy. I’m on the job. But I appreciate the offer.” After a few seconds of watching his son noisily get a bowl and spoon, he asked, “Ever eat oatmeal?”

“Yeah. I like it, but Mom doesn’t make it that often.”

“When I was your age,” Caleb said, “my mom made it for me nearly every day—especially when it was cold. It was my favorite. Ask your mom to make it for you. She knows my recipe.”

“Okay,” Cal said, fetching a bright yellow cereal box from the pantry.

Was it presumptuous to think Allie avoided Caleb’s favorite breakfast food—one that she’d always enjoyed, too—because eating it conjured memories of happy mornings with him?

“Mom cried last night,” the boy said matter-of-factly while taking milk from the fridge.

“Oh?” Though a part of Caleb was perversely glad she’d cried, most of him just felt sad. Not only for the years he’d missed with his son, but also with each other. They’d had a good thing going until she’d thrown it away.

“I went and asked her what’s wrong, but she said nothin’. I think she’s scared about the bad guys. Anyway, she let me sleep with her. I like her bed. It’s bigger than mine and real squishy.”

“Squishy?”

“Yeah, you know.” Dowsing his cereal, Cal managed to spill a good cup of milk on the counter. When it dribbled over the edge, Caleb jumped in to help, grabbing a dish towel from the sink. “Squishy. Like bunches of pillows and stuff. Thanks for helpin’ clean. Mom likes a clean house.”

“I know,” Caleb said.

“How?”

“Um—” Geez, where did he start?

“Caleb’s an old friend,” Allie said, standing in the kitchen’s shadowy doorway, long blond hair a mess, eyes red and swollen. She wore a utilitarian white terry cloth robe. A yellow duck was the only decoration. He sat over her right breast. Directly over the tender patch of skin Caleb used to—no. He wasn’t going there. So he dropped his gaze to her bare feet and red-tipped toes. How many times had he painted them for her?

“Where’d you meet him?” his son asked.

“School,” Allie said.

“Elementary?” Cal asked.

“College.”

“Oh.” Cal’s interest returned to cereal. Mouth full, he asked, “Hey, can we go toy shopping today? Oh—and then let’s go see that new movie, Power Force. Sam says it’s awesome!”

“Sorry, but—” Caleb and Allie both spoke at the same time.

“Go ahead,” Allie said.

“You’re his mother.” Caleb loaded his voice with messages only she’d hear. I’m just his father. Don’t mind me.

“Sorry, baby.” She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “But until this trial’s over, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, and out of public places.”

“But can I at least go to school?”

“No,” Caleb said.

Having expected him to argue with her, Allie had been on the verge of aiming a “stop interfering” stare at Caleb. Knowing they were on the same team—at least as far as keeping Cal safe—cocooned her in a surprising calm.

“Aw, man,” Cal whined.

“I’ll make you a promise, though,” Caleb said to the boy, putting Allie back on full alert.

“What?” her son asked, expression once again bright.

“As soon as this trial is over, and we know that you and your mom are safe, not only can you go back to school, but me and a team of other marshals will go with you for a while, just in case.”

“Really?!” Cal asked. “And will they have guns and everything?”

“Absolutely.”

“Awesome!” The boy leapt from his tall counter stool. “I can’t wait to tell Sam and Reider!” He raced up the back staircase, presumably to his room.

“Thank you,” Allie said.

“For what?” Caleb asked.

“Getting his mind off the depressing present and onto better times to come.”

“Will times be better, Allie? Now that your secret’s out, you can’t expect me to just fade into the background.”

After scooping ground coffee into an automatic drip filter, she shot him a look. “You know what I mean. Cal returning to school. To his normal way of life. It’ll be better. I wasn’t referring to us—you.” Allie silently stared at the dripping coffee, trying to let the rich aroma and happy gurgle calm her jangled nerves. Trying, but failing. “Obviously, I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen between us, Caleb. Do you?”

For the longest time, her gaze locked with his. Neither speaking, breathing. And then, just when she’d thought he might be on the verge of saying something—anything—he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

THAT AFTERNOON, the tension in Allie’s courtroom was unbearable.

As was the heat.

The accused, Francis William Ashford, sat grinning at her, as if he’d never been charged with blowing up a post office and killing the three clerks and five customers inside—one an infant. In her two years on the bench, Allie had presided over many cases, but this one topped them all.

The gallery was filled with what had begun to feel like every reporter in the state, along with every citizen. Many used the folded take-out menu from the Chinese restaurant down the street for a fan.

Caleb, along with the rest of his six-man crew, stood vigilant watch over the crowded courtroom, occasionally speaking into microphones hidden in their suit coat sleeves.

Her current task was hard enough. And Caleb’s surprise appearance had made her time off the bench insanely complicated. Still, what she was going through was nothing compared to the pain of the grieving victims’ families here in the courtroom.

The prosecution asked the latest witness, a wiry, elderly black man who’d lived across the street from the post office for the past forty-two years, “Sir, could you please tell the court what you observed the morning of the bombing.”

The witness cleared his throat. “I was watching my shows. Price is Right and the like, when I went to the front window to draw the curtain. That time of morning, sun shines right through. Produces a glare.”

“Yes, sir, and did you see something suspicious?” asked the chief prosecuting attorney.

“Objection!” the defense attorney shouted. “Leading the witness.”

“Overruled.” To the clearly shaken witness, Allie said, “Please, Mr. Foster, continue.”

“All right, well, Bob Barker had just started the second Showcase Showdown. I was pulling the curtain closed, when I saw this primer-gray truck pull up to the post office. Ford. Powerful dirty. Mud splatters all over. Had those big, oversized tires. A confederate flag hanging in the back window.”

“Did the flag shock you?”

“Objection! Leading.”

Allie, in no mood for attorney jockeying, shot Mack Bennett, lead attorney for the defense, her most stern look. “One more outburst, Mr. Bennett, and you will be fined. Mr. Foster, please, go on.”

“All right, well, that boy—”

“Excuse me,” the prosecution said, “but which boy? Is he here? In the courtroom today?”

“Yessir.”

“Would you be so kind as to point him out?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’ll shoot me.”

The courtroom erupted in low rumbles.

“Order!” Allie slammed her gavel.

“Mr. Foster,” the prosecution said once the crowd quieted. “Rest assured, in the county jail, the defendant has no access to firearms.”

“Not him I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“His friends. Everyone in town knows Francis has lots of friends living on that compound of his, and every danged one of them have lots of guns.”

The accused jumped to his feet. “That’s a bald-faced lie. I ain’t never—”

“Order!” Allie said when the gallery exploded again. “Mr. Bennett, control your client or I’ll have him removed!”

“Shut up, you commie bitch!” From out of the gallery someone flung an object. A balloon?

By the time she’d registered what’d happened, the courtroom had erupted in screams. Caleb and another marshal ushered Allie out of a scene that could only be described as chaos.

In her chambers, trembling, she put her hands to her face. Something wet and warm coated her cheeks. She pulled her hands down to find her palms stained with…blood?

“Hurry,” Caleb said, tugging Allie’s ashen-faced secretary and clerks into her office, then dead-bolting the door. He shut the drapes, then barked directions into the radio in his sleeve. “Everyone okay?” he finally asked the women assembled.

Allie nodded while her secretary fussed over wiping the blood with a tissue.

“Excellent,” Caleb said. “Looks like everyone in the courtroom’s all right, too. They’ve all been cleared. Francis is headed to his cell, and I’ve got a cleaning crew on the way.”

“Cal?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Just called his detail. All’s clear. Per his teacher’s instructions, they’re at the kitchen table practicing multiplication by making macaroni necklaces.” Caleb shot her a grin. A wonderfully sweet, strong grin so out of place in their current situation, it made her burst into a relieved nervous laugh.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—wow. That was—”

She was still-rambling when Caleb pulled her into his arms. Impossibly strong, capable arms. How long had it been since she’d been held? Since she’d had someone to lean on? Yet as good as leaning on Caleb felt, she couldn’t open herself to the hurt of falling for him again. It would be all too easy, losing herself in the good. Forgetting the bad.

“S-sorry,” she said. Releasing him. Backing away. Trying hard to look anywhere but at his face. Only that tactic landed her gaze squarely on his chest. On the rumpled white shirt he’d worn under his suit, now covered in blood. If she’d needed a sign to warn her to steer clear of the man she’d once loved, this was it in blazing neon.

Sure, this time the blood was part of a sick prank.

But what if next time, it was for real? What if her worst fears about Caleb being shot came true?

Somehow she managed to say, “I—I should clean up.”

Movements stiff and robotic, Allie locked herself in her small, private bathroom. Washed her hands and face, then sat on the closed toilet and prayed blood-balloons were the worst of Francis’s friends’ arsenal.

“GOOD,” CALEB SAID late that afternoon from the courthouse parking lot, hand lightly shaking as he held his cell up to his right ear. “I caught you.”

“Caleb?” his sister, Gillian, asked. “What’s up? I thought you were on assignment?”

“I am.”

“You got a cold?” she asked. “You sound weepy.”

“Weepy?” He hadn’t cried in like…a day? Just the previous afternoon, upon his first sight of his son, hadn’t he spouted like a sprinkler? “I’m, ah, outside. It’s damned cold.”

“Cut the whole defensive tough-guy routine,” Gillian said, “and just tell me what’s wrong. I thought over the past year or so we’ve gotten further than this. You know, like we could talk.”

“We can,” he said. “Which is why I called. Gil, you sitting?”

“No. But I can be. Just let me put the baby down for her nap. I’ll be right back.”

“’Kay.”

In rapidly fading daylight, drumming his fingers on the hood of his SUV, he grinned at the sound of his six-year-old stepniece’s cartoons blaring over the phone.

A few years back, his sister married a great guy, Joe. The marriage turned out to be healing not just for Joe, but also for Gillian, who’d carried a chip on her shoulder the whole of her adult life.

Caleb’s sister had never bothered to say anything to either her three brothers or their dad. He guessed she’d always felt as if they didn’t believe she could accomplish anything other than being a classic girly girl, and the men in her family went out of their way to shelter her. Or were condescending because she wasn’t their equal.

What they all knew was that hell no, she wasn’t their equal. She was better than any of them! Tougher, smarter, with a forked tongue a guy didn’t stand a chance of winning an argument against!

Good thing for them, since finally figuring out all of that for herself, she’d mellowed. Taken time from her crazed agenda of proving herself better than the guys to instead learn to appreciate her own unique feminine strengths and weaknesses.

“Hi, Uncle Caleb,” six-year-old Meggie said into the phone.

“Hey, potato bug.”

“I’m not a bug,” the girl said with giggle.

“Then what are those things sticking out of your head? I thought those were your antennae?”

“Those are my ears!” she shrieked.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Caleb said, “maybe instead of a bug, you’re just a Mr. Potato Head?”

“I’m a girl! I’d be a Missus Potato Head!”

“You sure? Let me ask your momma. You might be an imposter, and I’ll have to call the police.”

She giggled again. “You are the police!”

“Gimme that phone,” Gillian said in the background. “You big sneak.”

Giggling shrieks said his favorite little potato bug was getting tickled.

“All right,” Gillian said. “I’m back. The baby’s hopefully asleep, and your niece is getting popcorn crumbs all over my new sofa.”

“What was that?” Caleb asked. “My tomboy sister’s feeling protective toward a sofa?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. It’s a really comfy sofa. Perfect for making out on.”

“Ack.” He clutched his chest. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“Hear it? Just wait till Thanksgiving when you’ll get to see it. Think you’ll be done in time? We’re doing turkey and a ham. Dad and Beau are coming. Joe’s former in-laws, too. I’m assuming you’ll be holding Adam hostage?”

Caleb sighed. Rubbed his forehead.

“Out with it, sweetie. Here I am going on about the holidays when something’s obviously bugging you.”

“All right, here goes. Remember Allie?”

“The girl who broke your heart?”

“Aw, geez, it wasn’t all that bad.”

“The hell it wasn’t. Adam said you didn’t get out of bed for two weeks. He also said she was pregnant, then told you in a letter she’d lost the baby after leaving town.”

“Adam’s got a big mouth,” Caleb said. “Anyway, the short of it is, she didn’t really lose the baby.”

“What?!”

“Gilly, I’ve got a son. He’s so damned handsome it hurts to look at him. He’s got my eyes.”

“God, I’d like to hug you right now. Congratulations, honey. I can’t wait to tell Dad—and Joe. I’ve got to see if he can wrangle time away from the office, then we’ll be right over.”

“Not a good plan.”

She laughed. “Just try keeping me away. I love staying home with Chrissy, but truthfully, I could use a little action.”

“Yeah, well, there’s too much action here. And Allie and my son are at the heart of it.”

“MOM,” CAL SAID at the dinner table that night, “I wish you’d let me go back to school. Sam called and said Kelly got her noodle necklace stuck up her nose. And then Miz Talbert came over to try yanking it out, and then the whole thing broke, and noodles were like, wham—” he swung his left arm for emphasis, in the process dumping his chocolate milk “—everywhere. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said, sopping the mess without skipping a beat.

“Need help, ma’am?” The newest marshal assigned to protect them stepped in from the living room. She didn’t know him, but he seemed nice enough. Cal seemed fascinated by his size and smooth-shaven head.

“No, but thanks,” she said.

“Sure.” All eight feet of him ducked back into the living room.

“You mad?” Cal asked, munching on a carrot stick.

“Not even a little bit.” She tossed the milk-soaked rag in the sink, then joined him at the table.

“How come you’re not sayin’ anything?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“Then how come you’re not eating? I thought Great-Grandma Beatrice’s meat loaf’s your favorite.”

“It is. Guess I’m not all that hungry, either.”

“I am.” He helped himself to thirds on meat loaf and mashed potatoes, carefully steering clear of the steamed broccoli along the way.

“That’s good,” she said, not in the mood to lecture Cal about vegetables.

“Man,” he said, mouth half-full of potatoes. “This was the crappiest day ever. At least Sam told everyone I have bodyguards. Wish that Caleb guy could’ve stayed here with me, but he said he had to hang out with you. Bet he was bored.”

If only!

“Yeah,” Allie said, sipping iced tea. “It was a pretty dull day.” Nothing but a few blood-balloons whizzing through her court.

“Sorry. Wanna stay home with me in the morning? After I do my work, we can go see Power Force.” The dear look on his face was so sincere, so hopeful, she couldn’t help but smile. Then she happened to flash back to that afternoon, and how Caleb had worn the same concerned expression.

A pang ripped through her at the notion that no matter how hard she’d tried convincing herself that in her mind Cal’s father was dead, he wasn’t. He was alive and well and quite possibly lurking just outside the house.

“Oh, baby,” she said, grabbing her son’s small, sticky hand. “I would love to stay home with you, and then go to a movie, but I can’t—we can’t.”

“How come you look like you’re gonna cry again? You never have before.”

“I know. There’s just a lot going on that—”

“You’ll understand when you get older.” Caleb strolled into the kitchen. His choppy, dark hair was wet, as were the shoulders of his denim shirt. For the most part, his faded jeans were dry, kind of like her mouth once she’d finished eyeing the ridiculously gorgeous combo of his body and face. In his left hand dangled a plastic bag.

“It still rainin’ outside?” Cal asked.

His father nodded. His father.

“Sure is,” Caleb said. “Want to go outside and play?”

“Yeah!” Cal leaped from his seat. “Can I take my plastic boats?”

“Whoa,” Caleb said, rubbing the boy’s head. “Slow down, mister. That was a joke. It’s a nasty night.”

“It’s nice in here,” Cal said. “We’ve got meat loaf. Want some?”

“That depends. Is it Grandma Beatrice’s recipe?”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “How’d you know?”

Eyeing Allie, he shrugged. “Lucky guess.”

“Man,” Cal said, back in his seat. “You’re good. What’s in the bag?”

“This,” he said, pulling out a Hershey bar the size of Cal’s head.

“Cool!” Cal said. “Thanks! Can I eat it now? What else is in there?”

“You can eat part of it now,” Caleb said. “And only if it’s okay with your mom. As for what else is in there, that’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Cal made a face.

Caleb returned the look.

“Can I eat it?” Cal asked Allie.

“Sure,” she said. “After dinner. You the new shift?” Allie asked Caleb.

“Nah. I went ahead and sent Bear out to the front porch, but I’m officially off for the night.”

Cal asked, “Then how come you aren’t at the new movie, Power Force? That’s where I’d be goin’ if I didn’t have to work.”

Caleb laughed, and the rich normalcy of his voice washed through Allie. “You work a lot?” he asked his boy.

“Yeah. Mom makes me take out the trash. I have to make my bed, too. And sometimes when I forget to take the trash, she yells at me and I get talked to about ’sponsibilities.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“It’s hard. You ever take out the trash? And sometimes, if it’s raining, I even have to take out Miss Margaret’s trash.”

“Who’s that?” Caleb asked Allie.

“Next-door neighbor, and a good friend. Before all this mess with Francis, we used to hang out a lot at each other’s houses. I told her she’s still welcome to come over, but she says you all intimidate her.”

“Hmm…” The man Allie used to love rubbed his chin. A fine shadow of stubble had grown over the afternoon. Back in college, he’d sometimes shaved twice a day. And sometimes, when he’d chosen not to shave and they’d been messing around, he’d rubbed his rough cheeks on her neck or belly…. And she’d liked that feel. She’d wanted—

“You know,” he said to Cal. “I think maybe once or twice your mean old mom nagged me about taking out the trash. But then I wised up and took it out before she even had to ask.”

He shot a wink Allie’s direction, and her heart flip-flopped.

Cal wrinkled his nose. “That still sounds like too much work.” To his mom he asked, “Can I go watch TV and practice my knitting?”

“After you clear the table and put back the fridge stuff.”

“Aw, man.”

“Come on,” Caleb said, reaching across the table for the ketchup and butter, flooding Allie with his all-male scent. “I’ll help.”

In a few short minutes, the job was done, leaving Cal scampering off to the den for TV, leaving Allie alone with his no-longer-smiling dad.

“He’s good kid,” Caleb said, joining her at the table.

“Thanks. I think so.”

“But no way did I hear right in that he actually wants to practice knitting?”

“What’s wrong with knitting? It’s good for hand-eye coordination. Plus, if he ever gets a job in Alaska, he’ll be able to keep himself warm.”

Shaking his head, Caleb’s only response was a grunt.

After a few seconds spent folding a leftover paper napkin into a ship, he asked, “Cal get good grades?”

“As and Bs.”

“Any discipline problems?”

“Other than sass now and then, nothing serious.”

“What’d you tell him about me?”

The hardball question came from left field. It took a second to regain her composure. “I—I told him you died.”

Caleb cursed under his breath. Shook his head.

“Well?” she asked. “What was I supposed to say?”

He half smiled. “For being such a brilliant woman, you don’t have a clue.”

Chapter Three

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Allie asked.

“Think about it. If you couldn’t stomach being around me, how hard would it have been to at least share custody of our son? What did I ever do to make you pull something this cold? Christ. You know how much I wanted to be a dad one day….”

“One day,” she said. “Not your junior year of law school. Not with marshal training after that. Not with endless hours of chasing bad guys and playing shootout till all hours of the night.”

“So basically, you’re saying you told Cal I died as a favor? So I wouldn’t be bothered?”

“Right.”

“And you actually believe that?” He pushed his chair back, putting her further on edge by standing directly behind her, rubbing her shoulders. Powerfully kneading, the way he’d always done after she’d had a hard day. “See, I’m thinking the whole thing goes deeper. Back to a little girl who lost her cop father at an impressionable age.”

Despite his all-too-pleasurable strokes, Allie froze.

“Know what else I think?” he asked.

“Wh-what?”

“You didn’t do this out of some saintly desire to shelter your son—our son—from pain. You were protecting yourself. That little girl inside was afraid that just like your old man, I’d get shot in the line of duty.”

Brushing Caleb’s hands from her shoulders, she said, “I should do the dishes.”

“Leave ’em.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked when he wouldn’t let her up.

“Simple. When this trial mess is over, I want joint custody of my son.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” she said, angry enough now that she easily broke his grip to stand. “No matter what you think, Cal is mine. And I’m not good at sharing.”

“You used to be,” Caleb said, devastating her with a wink and a smile of pure acid.

“Stop. This is serious.”

“Damned straight. Which is why, soon as I get back to Portland, I’ll be meeting with my lawyer.”

“Don’t,” she implored. “The whole legal route, it’ll only upset him.”

“Then what, your honor, in all your infinite wisdom, do you suggest?”

“You never used to be mean like this.” She headed for the sink.

“You never used to keep secrets. Remember how we’d lounge in bed, talking all night about every little thing? How we’d drag ourselves to class in the morning too tired to read, let alone walk, the two miles ’cross campus. But by the time we wound up back at your place, we’d be recharged, ready to share our days.”

“We were kids.”

“Oh, and so now that you’re all grown up, that makes it okay for you to hide the fact that I’m a dad?”

“No, I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m—geez, would you please just go. It’s been a really crappy day, and I need time to think. Breathe.”

“Sorry.” He stood behind her, not touching her, but close enough that she felt his heat. “I don’t mean to come on so strong, but you have to know, I’m not walking away from this. Cal is going to be told, Allie. Soon. I’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

“Okay,” she said. “You’ve made your point.”

“And?”

“What?” She spun around, only to wish she hadn’t, because facing him straight-on was infinitely harder. “What else do you want from me? To run right in there, and shout, surprise, Cal! Your dad’s not dead. He’s standing right here, wanting to take you away from me.”

“That’s not what I want, it’s what—”

“Mom? I thought I heard yelling.” Their son stood at the kitchen door.

“No yelling,” Allie said, bustling to wipe down the counters. “Just screeching. I saw a spider. You know how I hate spiders.”

“Yeah,” Cal said to Caleb. “She does hate spiders.”

“I know,” Caleb said while Allie gripped the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turned white. Why now? Why on top of everything else had Caleb had to reenter her life? Weren’t a few death threats enough to deal with for one week?

“Mom, can I have some ice cream?”

“Sure, baby.” She forced a smile. “What flavor?”

“I would want cookie dough, but that guy Adam ate it all.”

“My brother, Adam?” Caleb laughed.

“He gonna buy us more?” Cal asked as Allie filled his bowl.

“Yeah,” Caleb said, “I’ll make sure he brings you at least three tubs.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Once Cal was safely out of earshot back in front of the TV, Caleb said, “I’ll tell my brother to stay out of your fridge.”

“I don’t care,” Allie said. “Adam always did eat his own weight worth of food at least four or five times a day. Remember the time we slow-baked that huge ham to take to your dad’s for Thanksgiving, then came home from class to find Adam had eaten half, thinking it was lunch?”

Caleb smiled at the memory, as did she. And it was nice, at least for the moment, to share one of the more pleasant parts of their past rather than their rocky future.

“We had some good times,” Allie said. “Let’s not ruin those.”

“Who said I was trying to?”

“No one. I just—let me figure out a win-win solution for all three of us, okay?”

Brushing past her to help himself to ice cream, he said, “Great. That’s all I ask.” Gesturing to the sweet treat, he asked, “Want some?”

“Thanks.” She gave him her first real smile of the day. “That’d be good.”

“After that, how ’bout we watch TV with our boy?”

“You like SpongeBob?”

“I love SpongeBob—but I’m not knitting.”

BARELY ONE commercial break into the show, Allie was out, curled into a ball at the far end of the sofa from where Caleb sat. He swallowed hard, remembering how she used to fall asleep using his shoulder or lap for a pillow.

Slipping a blanket from the sofa’s back, he tossed it over her.

“Yo, Cal,” he said to his son. “What’s your bedtime?”

“Aw, man. It’s eight-thirty, but can’t I stay up just a little longer? I won’t tell Mom.”

“Sorry, pal. It’s nearly nine and you’ve got school work in the morning.”

“Five more minutes? I’ll do an extra good job of brushing my teeth.”

“Admirable negotiation skills, but no can do.” Caleb stood, held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

“Do I get a story?”

“Still going to do an extra good job on those teeth?”

Ten minutes worth of tooth brushing and scrambling into pajamas later, Cal was all set for bed.

Caleb, chest tight, drew back his son’s blue-and-red airplane sheets and comforter. Cal smelled like toothpaste and soap and kid sweat. Probably, he was supposed to have a bath, but seeing how he was still a virtual stranger to the boy, Caleb didn’t figure one night without a bath would hurt.

He was still furious with Allie for keeping these simple pleasures from him all these years, yet he was also so damned grateful she hadn’t lost their child. That she’d loved him to a degree she’d wanted to have his child.

She just hadn’t loved him enough to raise his child with him.

Weary of the past, Caleb asked, “Which book do you want to hear?”

“Dr. Seuss! Happy Birthday To You’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too.” Caleb took it from a nearby bookshelf, then flicked on the airplane lamp on Cal’s bedside table. “Like planes, huh?”

“Yeah. I like ’em a whole lot. I wanna be an astronaut, but Mom says I have to learn to fly planes before the space shuttle. Look up.”

Caleb did, and grinned. Spread across Cal’s ceiling was the Milky Way, along with a few extra planets and space ships NASA scientists probably hadn’t yet discovered. “That’s neat. Your mom hire someone to paint it?”

He shook his head. “She did it. She’s a good drawer, huh?”

“She sure is. I never knew that about her.”

“Did you ever meet my dad?”

Caleb coughed. “Let’s, ah, get started on this book.”

“Yeah, but did you?”

“Um…” Good grief, how was he supposed to handle this? “You know what, I did meet him, and he was a really great guy. You’d have liked him a lot.”

“What’d he look like?” Cal popped upright in his bed. “We don’t even have pictures.”

“It’s getting late. Shouldn’t we get started on this book?”

“Yeah, but what’d he look like?”

“Ah, come to think of it, a lot like me.” Caleb gently eased his son back to his pillow, then opened the book. “I wish we could do what they do in Katroo…”

“Hey, Caleb?” the boy interrupted not half a page into the story.

“Yeah?”

“Think we could play soccer tomorrow? In gym last week, I was picked last for teams. Billy Stubbs said ’cause I’m a wuss and can’t kick or be goalie.”

Billy Stubbs is going down.

“Sure, bud.” It might take some furniture rearranging, but— “We’ll play whatever you want. Get you so much practice Billy’ll beg to be on your team.”

Popping back up in his bed, Cal tossed his arms around Caleb’s neck, giving him a fierce hug and sloppy kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

“Sure, kid.” Fighting to speak past a throat tight with tears, Caleb said, “You’re pretty cool, too.”

ALLIE YAWNED, slowly waking to find herself alone in the quiet living room. Last she remembered, Sponge-Bob had been terrorizing Squidward. Where was everyone?

From upstairs came the muted sound of male laughter.

Big boy and little boy.

She groaned, pushing herself to her feet.

Upstairs, she paused a short way from Cal’s open bedroom door, listening to Caleb’s rich voice as a familiar Dr. Seuss story unfolded. It was long. Much too long for this late at night. Cal knew that. Obviously, Caleb didn’t. Still, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt just this once for her son to stay up late.

A burning ache took residence where her heart used to live. What was she going to do? Judging by Cal’s occasional giggle, he was enraptured by the guest in their home. To find out Caleb was his father—what would that do to him? Would her son be ecstatic? Or bitter over what she’d done?

Why was a selfish part of her wanting Cal not to fall in love with his father? Why was she so afraid of losing not just her son, but Caleb all over again? Lying to him had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done, yet she’d had to protect her son.

You didn’t do this out of some saintly desire to shelter your son—our son—from pain. You were protecting yourself.

Sliding her fingers into the hair at her temples, Allie groaned.

Damn him.

Damn Caleb for his uncanny knack of always knowing just what she was thinking. But that didn’t change anything.

Okay, so yes, maybe all those years ago she’d been more terrified of forging a life with Caleb and then losing him, than she’d been afraid for her unborn child. But now, seeing how attached Cal had become to his father in under twenty-four hours, how could she not be afraid of the wreckage that could quite possibly become of Cal’s heart?

Look at their current situation. Dangerous as hell. Caleb could be shot and hurt—God forbid, killed—at any moment. Every day he actually looked forward to putting himself in danger. It didn’t make sense.

And speaking of danger, the man was as charming as ever. She’d once fallen for him. Hard. Not that she fostered any current feelings for him. Just that—

“Oh, hey,” Caleb said, startling her as he stepped outside Cal’s room. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“No.”

“Cal asleep?”

Nodding, he chuckled. “Took him long enough. For a minute there, I thought I might have to slip him a mickey.” He winked. “You, on the other hand, had no trouble falling asleep. Seeing you curled up on the sofa…It brought back memories.”

“Good, I hope.”

“Most.”

Turning her back on him, heading to her room, she said, “Guess we should call it a day.” She flicked on the overhead light—a modern chandelier.

“Nice,” he said, hot on her trail, shrinking the once generously sized room. “You always did have a flair for decorating.”

“Thanks.” The money she’d spent had been her reward for having to sleep in there alone. The ultramodern acrylic canopy bed with its sheer white curtains was a floating cloud, complete with downy white sheets, comforter and pillows. She’d done the floor in dramatic black granite. Half the walls were white, the others bamboo-green. Aside from a few original botanical watercolors, all oversized and abstract, the room had few adornments.

Clutter made her crazy.

Not because it bothered her, but because Caleb had been renowned for his clutter, and she didn’t want to be reminded of him. One look into her son’s sage green eyes was painful enough.

“It is a little cold in here, though.” He shot her a sexy-slow grin. “Needs paperbacks and newspapers. Definitely a few good flea market finds.”

Arms crossed, she asked, “Am I in so much danger I need a marshal in my bedroom?”

He reddened, tipped an imaginary hat. “Sorry, ma’am. I forgot my manners.”

“It’s okay this once,” she said, trying not to smile at his antics, but having a tough time. He’d always been a big fan of the old west, right down to adopting a truly awful fake cowboy accent. Guess he hadn’t lost his touch. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“Will do,” he said with another gorgeous grin. “Seriously, you all right? You know, about this afternoon?”

She shrugged. Slipping off black leather heels, she headed for her walk-in closet, switching on the light.

From the bedroom came the swish of blinds being drawn on the wall of windows overlooking the backyard and Cascades range beyond. “You gotta be more careful,” he said. “Until this whole mess is over, I recommend keeping all the curtains and blinds closed.”

“Thanks.” She emerged from the closet wearing white flannel pj’s and her favorite white robe.

“Sure.”

He reached out to her.

She flinched from his anticipated touch.

“Geez, Allie, all I was trying to do was get that chunk of hair from your collar. You know how you were always getting it stuck.”

“Please, don’t,” she said, biting her lower lip.

“What?”

“Try ingratiating yourself by dredging up old memories. Yes, Caleb, we share a past, but that doesn’t mean we share a future.”

He snorted. “Ah, hate to interrupt your pretty speech, but there’s a boy in there with my DNA who sorta says different. Our futures are intimately entwined.”

“You’re not playing fair.” She gripped the clear acrylic bedpost, squeezing till the square edge dug into her palm. “No one’s denying Cal’s your son. All I asked for was time to digest all this. You showing up here out of the blue.”

“Oh—like nine years hasn’t already been long enough for you to devise a way to tell a son obviously needing a dad that he just so happens to have one?”

“What are you intimating? That I’m a bad mom?”

“Not at all. Just that you’re not a dad. Did you know your expert knitter’s being made fun of at school because he’s lousy at sports? When’s the last time you had him out playing catch or at a batting cage?”

“Stop,” she said. “You’re coming across like a sexist pig. Besides knitting, Cal takes art lessons. He’s a highly skilled artist for his age. His teacher’s quite impressed.”

“Great.” Caleb laughed. “Tell that to Billy Stubbs. He’ll beat our poor kid to a pulp.” Shaking his head, Caleb left the room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Allie whisper-shouted, chasing him down the hall and stairs. “And who’s Billy Stubbs?”

“Ask your son.”

WELL, OBVIOUSLY, Allie wasn’t going to wake Cal to ask, so she’d planned on asking first thing in the morning. But a storm and power outage during the night had messed up her alarm and she’d overslept, leaving her with barely enough time to ask Cal what he wanted for breakfast, let alone who this Billy Stubbs was!

And could someone please tell her, with six grown, highly capable men outside, all knowing the court schedule, how not a one of them had delivered a wake-up call?

As if being late wasn’t bad enough, first thing she encountered on the kitchen counter was the plastic bag Caleb had brought in last night.

A note on it said: Allie’s relaxation supplies.

Curiosity piqued, she looked inside only to swallow hard. How in the world had Caleb remembered?

Her favorite way to wind down after a really tough day was with a guilty pleasure she hadn’t indulged in since…

Well, since leaving him.

With reverence, she removed the jumbo bag of mixed-flavor Jolly Rancher candies and a movie-star gossip magazine. She sniffed the bag. Her favorite green apple flavor shone through.

Running her hand over the magazine’s glossy cover, she drooled over Catherine Zeta-Jones’s latest premiere gown—stunning. She snuck a quick peek inside….

Aw, Gwyneth’s baby, Apple, is adorable.

Mmm…could Jude Law be any hotter?

Could Caleb be any sweeter?

Cal bounded down the stairs. “Mom? What’re you doin’? It’s time for us to go.” He’d been so bored at the house by himself the day before, that today she’d decided to take him with her to the office. At least there, with her mostly female staff fussing over him, he wouldn’t lack for attention.

“I know,” she said, tucking the magazine and candy in her satchel. Just having the contraband goodies tucked beside her felt akin to taking part of Caleb to work with her—the best part. His fun side!

She was feeling good about her day ahead—how could you not feel good when gazing at Jude? Then, on the trip out of her garage past the front yard and onto the street, her day wasn’t just ruined, but pulverized.

Gaping at the house, she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

How could someone have done that?

“Mom, what—”

“Look away,” she said, covering Cal’s eyes, glad for once to be in the back of the government-owned SUV. Why hadn’t she left Cal inside, where he’d be oblivious to the malicious vandalism that’d gone on right under their noses?

On the flip side, what if he’d still be in danger inside their house, across the front porch of which someone had scrawled in blood red, Die Commie Bitch!

On the front steps lay the bloodied carcass of what, she didn’t want to know.

“I—I thought there was round-the-clock protection?” she said to the driver. “How did those guys get so close?”

The man sighed. Rubbed his forehead. “There was a diversion, ma’am. They were in and out in a matter of seconds. Trust me, this will never happen again.”

Allie hugged Cal close, the marshal’s words offering no comfort.

Chapter Four

Upon arriving at Allie’s house, fury didn’t begin to describe Caleb’s cold rage. “Someone mind telling me what the hell happened here last night? ’Cause unless I’m mistaken, not a damned one of you was doing your job.”

Adam said, “Peterson, Juarez and Franko got sick. Food poisoning. We’re guessing from that crappy convenience store on fifty-first. Old hot dogs and chili.” He shuddered. “Lethal combo. Anyway, we had to call in local guys till help gets here from New Jersey.”

“New freakin’ Jersey?” Caleb said, eyebrows raised. “You trying to tell me the closest marshal we could get was all the way from out east?”

“Sorry, man.”

“Sorry? That’s not gonna cut it. Adam, bro, I trusted you.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Allie is more than just a case to me. I mean, I’d protect any ordinary assignment with my life, but for her—”for my son, I’d give my soul.

“I get it,” Adam said. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.”

JUST WHEN ALLIE thought her current case couldn’t get worse, it did. Mr. Foster, the sweet old man who lived across from the post office, was dead. The initial coroner’s report said heart attack. But there were a lot of unnatural ways a so-called natural death could be caused.

“Ordinarily,” she said from her bench, the courtroom again bursting with reporters and victims’ families, “I’d want to recess in light of last night’s events. But in this case, I think it’d be best for all concerned if we forge ahead.”

The defense attorney launched into a showboat cross-examination leading to a series of sustained objections, during which, Francis’s expression grew steadily darker.

“Damn commie bitch,” the defendant eventually mumbled.

“Mr. Ashford,” she said, slamming her gavel against the bench. “Congratulations. You’ve just earned a oneway ticket back to your cell. Bailiff.”

From the gallery came a smattering of applause.

“Order,” Allie said with another slam of her gavel while the defendant was escorted out of the room. When the gallery finally settled, she turned to the defense, starting to feel like the proverbial broken record. “One more stunt like that, Mr. Bennett, and you’ll be fined.”

The defense attorney sputtered, “But all I was doing was pointing out to the jury that my client loves to receive mail, so therefore, he couldn’t have even conceived of performing a stunt so heinous, as to destroy that sainted facility from whence his beloved mail flows.”

“Mr. Bennett, congratulations. You’ve just donated five hundred dollars to the victims’ memorial fund.”

The gallery erupted in still more applause—with the frequency of fines and/or courtroom removals a now regular occurrence.

By the time she’d called it quits for the afternoon session, Allie was beyond tired. With any luck, they’d be adjourned for good within a week—two at the latest.

“MOM, YOU SHOULDA’ SEEN Caleb at your office today! While you were in court, he was crazy. We turned your desk around backwards and made it into a soccer goal. He got more goals than anyone ever in the whole world!”

“That’s awesome, baby.” Allie gave the Italian sausage and onions she was frying for spaghetti a stir.

“And then at lunch he taught me how to make a cookie Frisbee.”

“And that’s a good thing?” She opened a can of stewed tomatoes.

“Yeah. It was awesome. All my friends are gonna love him. ’Specially Billy.”

“Who is this Billy?” Allie asked. After shaking salt on the meat, she grabbed some canned mushrooms. She’d have rather used fresh, but in light of all the recent excitement, she hadn’t exactly had time for shopping. “I’ve never heard you talk about him.”

“I dunno.” From his seat at the table where he was writing his weekly spelling words, Cal shrugged. “He’s just a kid in my class.”

“He’s been bugging you?”

“No.”

Great. Now what? Violate the confidence Cal had placed in Caleb by telling her son his private conversation had been shared?

“Dinner almost ready?” Cal asked. “I’m starved.”

“Almost. Just have to drain the meat and—”

“Caleb!” Cal tossed down his pencil, leaped from his chair and ran across the room, tossing his arms around his father’s waist. “I had fun with you today! Wanna stay for dinner? What’s in the bag?”

“Slow down, man,” Caleb said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “First off, there’s a little something I picked up for you and your mom.”

“Mom?” Cal asked. “Can I open it?”

“Sure.” What was up with the curious flutter taking over her belly?

Cal ripped into the bag to pull out another memory. “Cool!” he said. “What is it?”

“A Chia Pet,” Allie said, gently taking the box containing the terra-cotta Chia Man that would hopefully soon sprout green hair. Years earlier, Caleb bought her a Mr. Chia, turtle and rabbit. All lived on the kitchen windowsill of her rented house. Allie and Caleb took turns watering them. When she’d left, she’d debated whether or not to even take them. They’d been in a sense like kids. In the end, knowing Caleb’s tendency to sometimes forget to water, she’d stowed them on the backseat floorboard of her Honda, where they’d gotten irrevocably mangled during a sudden stop at the intersection of Blueberry and Pine.

“Does it talk or anything?” Cal asked, suspiciously eyeing the ceramic head.

“It’s a plant,” she told him. “But we have to grow it ourselves.”

“Oh.” Cal didn’t look impressed. “Thanks,” he said.

Allie was already taking the head and seed packet from the box. “Thank you,” she said to Caleb. “I love these things.”

“I know.” He stepped up behind her, creating an instant physical hum. “Whatever happened to ours?”

Nibbling her lower lip, fighting the oddest sensation that nothing between them had changed, she said, “They kind of met with an unfortunate end.”

“Sounds familiar,” Caleb said with a solid nod.

The flutter in her stomach died.

“Well? Can you stay for dinner?” Cal asked his father.

“Shouldn’t you ask your mom first?” Caleb looked Allie’s way, stealing her breath with not only his rugged good looks, but also his resemblance to her son. Correction—their son. Guess she might as well get used to the fact that now that Caleb knew about his child, he wasn’t about to vanish from their lives, even after his team’s protective services were no longer needed.

“Nah,” Cal said. “She won’t care. Right, Mom?” Her darling son flashed his most irresistible smile. Crap. The little booger knew full well she couldn’t be firm when he pulled that stunt!

Even worse, Caleb flashed the same smile.

Double trouble!

“Well, Mom?” Cal asked. “Can he stay?”

“Sure. Why don’t you clear your books from the table, then set three places.”

“Wanna help, Caleb? We could race.”

“Sounds good,” Caleb said. “You start.”

“’Kay.”

While his son tore around clearing and setting, Caleb headed for the boy’s clearly put out mother. “If it’s a problem for you—you know, me staying for dinner—I can go.”

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