Colton Baby Conspiracy (The Coltons 0f Mustang Valley Book 1)

by Marie Ferrarella

For one long, horrible moment that seemed all but suspended in time, she couldn’t tell. Both men looked ashen.

  And both men, she realized one awful, awful moment later, had blood on them.

  Finally, Bowie staggered up to his feet. With a sob, Marlowe threw her arms around him.

  “Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?” she cried, running her hands all over his upper torso, searching for the bullet wound. “Tell me he didn’t shoot you,” she begged Bowie.

  But he didn’t have to.

  At that moment, the man shrieked, and then his body crumpled, falling to the floor. That told Marlowe all she needed to know: he had been the one to catch the bullet, not Bowie.

  “I’m all right,” Bowie told her, pulling himself together. “What about you?” he asked, quickly scrutinizing every inch of her. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?” he cried, searching for some telltale sign of an unseen wound.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, leaning her head against Bowie. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  Chapter 21

  Once Bowie placed the call to the police station, Chief Barco and one of his people, officer James Donovan, arrived at Colton Oil headquarters within minutes of the call.

  When the two men walked into Marlowe’s outer office, Wallace was just trying to get to his feet. But Bowie placed his hand on the man’s wide shoulder, making the bodyguard stay where he was.

  “Don’t get up,” Bowie ordered him.

  Any half-hearted protest Wallace was about to express died on his lips without a sound in deference to Bowie’s authority.

  “Everybody all right here?” the chief asked, concerned. His kind green eyes swept over the three people he knew in the room.

  Bowie spoke up. “I am, but Bigelow here needs an ambulance to take him to the hospital.” He turned toward Marlowe. “And it might be a good idea to have Ms. Colton checked out, as well.”

  Marlowe immediately vetoed the suggestion. “No, I’m fine, really,” she assured the chief, who looked as if he was ready to whisk her off to the hospital himself. “Or I will be as soon as you get that man out of my office and into a jail cell.” Her eyes were filled with loathing as she thought of all the harm her stalker could have done if he had fired his weapon.

  Barco turned his attention to the bleeding, semi-conscious man on the floor. “I take it this is the man who took a shot at you in your condo,” the chief said. “Cuff him, Donovan,” he ordered.

  The officer eagerly produced a set of handcuffs and quickly complied.

  “If you check the bullets that were gathered up in front of the hotel when someone took a few shots at me, as well as the bullet that killed my personal bodyguard,” Bowie told the chief, “I think you’ll find that they all match this man’s gun.” Hysterical, the stalker had confessed to Marlowe and Bowie after he’d been shot. He nodded at the stalker as Donovan was dragging the man up to his feet. Marlowe had told him all about the man stalking her and it was all he could do to keep from strangling the man with his bare hands.

  The chief’s eyes narrowed as he glared at the prisoner. “Get this scum out of Ms. Colton’s office, Donovan.”

  The officer nodded. “With pleasure, Chief,” he told his boss.

  Fully conscious now and in pain, the stalker began to yell. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he shouted at Marlowe.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that, you bastard,” Bowie said with loathing.

  “But we were meant to be together. We were!” the stalker insisted, a frantic look entering his eyes. “Tell them, Marlowe. Tell them we belong together and that they’re standing in the way of true love!” He was practically shrieking now.

  Seeing the maniacal look on the stalker’s face was when it suddenly hit her. She knew who her stalker was. “Edward Jones,” she cried, moving forward past Bowie. “You work in the mail room!” Marlowe recalled how uncomfortable the man’s intent stare made her feel whenever she had occasion to be anywhere near the mail room.

  She could feel her flesh creep now.

  Jones took her recognition to be an omen. “See?” he cried, trying to yank away from the officer who was leading him away. “She remembers me. She knows we’re supposed to be together! Get these cuffs off me, you stupid ape!” he ordered hysterically.

  “Yeah, right. In your dreams,” Donovan said. “Keep walking.”

  Jones was still shouting as Donovan led him outside to where the police car idled, waiting.

  Meanwhile, the chief had glimpsed Marlowe’s face as her stalker was being led out.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Colton,” Barco reassured her. “I am personally going to lock that scum up and throw away the key.” The chief looked from Marlowe to Bowie. “He won’t be bothering either one of you anymore,” he promised. “And whenever you’re feeling up to it, come by the station and I’ll take down your statements.” He tucked away his cell phone. “Right now my advice to you is to go home and put all of this behind you.”

  “That’s good advice,” Marlowe agreed. “But I’m not about to do that until I see Wallace get the care he needs.”

  “It’s just a scratch, ma’am,” Wallace told her. He obviously didn’t want to be a burden to her.

  But Marlowe frowned as she looked at the man’s bloody forehead. “You could have bled to death from that scratch if I hadn’t found you when I did,” she informed him.

  “But, ma’am—” Wallace began to protest.

  Bowie stepped in, interrupting the bodyguard. “Just say yes, Bigelow. Trust me, I’m telling you this for your own good. It’s a lot easier than trying to win an argument—any argument—with her.”

  Marlowe pinned Bowie with an almost lethal look. “And when did you ever win an argument with me?” she asked.

  Bowie laughed under his breath. “The key word here, Ms. Colton,” he said, addressing her formally, “was trying.” Hearing a siren in the distance gradually growing louder, Bowie looked at the man he had hired to keep Marlowe safe. “Sounds like your ride’s here, Bigelow.”

  Minutes later, two attendants came in pushing a gurney between them.

  “No need to ask who the patient is,” the taller of the two attendants said. “Don’t worry,” he said to Wallace, “they’ll have that stitched up and you’ll be good as new in no time.”

  “Make sure that he is,” Marlowe told the attendant.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the other attendant replied.

  Wallace looked at Marlowe after the attendants had helped him get onto the gurney. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he apologized.

  “For what?” she asked.

  Wallace appeared genuinely distraught. “For not being able to protect you.”

  Although his hand was far larger than hers, she picked it up and squeezed it. “He got the drop on you. It could have happened to anyone,” she insisted. “And it all turned out well in the end, which is all that really matters, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so, ma’am,” Wallace responded.

  “You do what the doctor tells you, big guy,” Bowie instructed. “I’ll be there to check in on you in the morning. Meanwhile, I’m just glad you’re all right,” he added with sincerity.

  The chief had been standing by quietly while all this was taking place. Once the ambulance attendants had left with Wallace for the hospital, Barco turned toward the two people who were still in the room.

  “Well, if there’s nothing further, I’ll be going, too. I’ve got to book that SOB,” he told them. Then he confided, “I’m going to be looking forward to having the judge throw the book at him for all the emotional grief he caused, not to mention that he killed your security guard.”

  Bowie nodded. “I think that makes three of us,” he told the chief.

  Bowie waited until the chief had finally left to join Donovan before he slipped his arm around Marlowe’s shoulders.

  “
It looks like it’s finally over,” he told her. And then he looked at her, surprised. “Marlowe, honey, are you shaking?” She knew he was aware how much she didn’t like having attention drawn to any display of weakness, but her reaction had apparently caught him off guard. “What’s the matter?” he asked Marlowe. “We got the bastard. He can’t hurt you—or anyone else—anymore.”

  Because she had always come on like gangbusters, he evidently had no idea how to handle this new, vulnerable side of Marlowe.

  “I don’t know,” she cried, upset and self-conscious over her behavior. “I guess it’s just a reaction to everything.”

  She had managed to hold it together while it was happening, but now that it was over, now that she thought of how close she had come to being kidnapped or even killed, how close Bowie and Wallace had both come to the same fate because of her, Marlowe just couldn’t get herself to stop shaking. Her baby’s life had been in danger, too—and she had nearly lost Bowie forever.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, turning away and waving her hand at the whole thing. “This isn’t me.”

  Bowie put his arms around her, drawing her close as he held her. “Well, until the real you turns up, I’ll just hold on to the fake you if you don’t mind. Just until she stops shaking.”

  Marlowe made a disparaging, self-conscious noise. “That may take a while,” she confided. She was still avoiding looking into his eyes.

  Bowie spun her back around gently and, placing his index finger beneath her chin, forced her to look at him.

  “That’s okay,” he assured Marlowe, stroking her hair. “I don’t have any place to be—except the ER while the doctor checks you and the baby out.”

  “I already told you, I’m fine,” she insisted.

  “I’d like a professional opinion confirming that,” he told her.

  “But—”

  “Shh,” he told her as he ushered her toward the door. “Humor me. That baby is half mine.”

  * * *

  Because he felt that Marlowe could benefit from being in familiar surroundings, when they finally left the ER, Bowie took her to her condo in the city rather than to his own place.

  Though she tried to disguise it, she still seemed rather shaky to him. He spent the night doing his best to comfort Marlowe and reassure her that at least this threat was over, even though the larger, more involved mystery involving Ace was still ongoing.

  They talked about a variety of things until, exhausted, she finally fell asleep.

  * * *

  When Marlowe opened her eyes the next morning, the first thing she saw was Bowie’s face. He was lying in bed beside her, awake and watching her sleep. She had the impression that he had been like that throughout the whole night.

  “Were you able to get any sleep at all?” she asked Bowie, feeling both guilty and yet touched at the same time.

  Bowie shrugged off her concern. “I dozed off and on,” he told her.

  “Mostly off,” she guessed.

  He smiled at her. “I never needed much sleep, not even as a kid.” Peering more closely at her face, he asked, “How do you feel?”

  That caused her to stop and think. The first thing Marlowe became aware of was her arm. She realized that it ached and felt as if it were on fire. That was thanks to her stalker, who had twisted her arm behind her back as he tried to drag her into the stairwell.

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she said honestly.

  Bowie sat up instantly. That was when she’d realized that he was still dressed, as was she. Nothing had happened between them. Bowie had been serious about guarding her, she thought.

  The man had been a total gentleman.

  Bowie looked guilty about being remiss. “I knew I should have made you stay at the hospital just in case,” he told her, berating himself for failing to do that. “Let’s go—I’ll take you back now.”

  Marlowe grabbed hold of his arm, making him stay where he was. “Take it easy,” she told him. “My shoulder hurts because that crazy man yanked it. He didn’t break it. Besides, we already went to the hospital to make sure the baby was all right. Everything is fine.” She took a breath, centering herself as she tried to think. “If you want to take me some place, take me to the police station so I can give my statement and hopefully get that sick SOB locked up until the turn of the next century.”

  Bowie laughed shortly. “Amen to that. But first,” he qualified, “since you seem to be able to keep food down now, you need to have something to eat.”

  Marlowe rolled her eyes. “You’re being a mother hen again,” she complained, trying to redirect his attention. She didn’t want to eat; she wanted to go down to the station and give her statement now that she was no longer shaking.

  “Mother hen?” Bowie repeated, pretending to be insulted. “I’m just making sure you keep your strength up, that’s all,” he insisted. “Now get ready, and I’ll see about making you some breakfast.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. Something wasn’t jibing. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”

  Bowie frowned. “Beating two eggs with a fork and then pouring the results on a hot frying pan isn’t cooking,” he told her. “It’s called survival.”

  Marlowe laughed to herself as she shook her head. “You have a very unique way of looking at things, Robertson.”

  In response, Bowie just grinned at her. It was a grin that was really beginning to get to her, Marlowe thought. Rather than becoming immune to it, she found that each time she saw the corners of his mouth curving, the defensive walls that she had spent so many years building up to protect herself from feeling anything just became thinner and weaker.

  At this point, they had turned into tissue paper and were close to shredding away.

  If she wasn’t careful...

  Marlowe shut the thought away before it solidified and became reality.

  * * *

  “So?” Bowie asked.

  Having changed her clothes, Marlowe had returned less than twenty minutes later, ready to go out and face the day. Bowie had placed a plate in front of her, making her sample his efforts.

  Marlowe didn’t answer him at first, thinking it prudent to take a second forkful before she said anything. As the second mouthful made its way down her throat and into her stomach, she found her opinion didn’t change. She had to give Bowie his due.

  “It’s good,” she pronounced. “Surprisingly good.” Marlowe looked up at him as he watched her. “Are you sure you don’t cook?”

  “On the rare occasions when I don’t send out for food or stop off at a local restaurant—wherever I happen to be—I dabble with whatever I have on hand.” When she looked at him uncertainly, he explained, “I don’t like being helpless in any given situation.”

  “So you learned how to cook,” she concluded. In her opinion, that put him in a class by himself.

  “I learned how to wing it,” Bowie corrected. “I’ve seen enough people frying an egg to know what to do with said egg on my own.”

  Nodding, Marlowe took in another couple of forkfuls. “Well, whatever you did with it,” she told him, “this is very good.”

  She hadn’t said it, but he sensed that she was about to say “but.” He decided to coax it along. “So, what’s wrong?”

  “Oddly enough, nothing,” she answered. But it was obvious, even to her, that her response wasn’t 100 percent the truth.

  “But?” he asked, waiting for the rest of her statement.

  Looking uncertain, Marlowe laid down her napkin. “I’m still waiting for my stomach to reject the breakfast you made. No offense,” she qualified. “It’s not a reflection on you. It’s just that since this little guy moved in,” she said, placing her hand over her abdomen, “a living hell has been going on inside my stomach.”

  “Maybe you’re over the worst of it,” Bowie theorized.

 
; She closed her eyes, afraid to allow herself to even begin to entertain that idea because of the disappointment attached to it if she turned out to be wrong.

  “Oh, if only that were true,” Marlowe responded wistfully.

  Bowie seemed determined to have her think positively. “Maybe it will be,” he told Marlowe. “Tell me when you’re ready to go,” he said.

  Within five minutes, finished with the meal Bowie had made for her, Marlowe retired her fork and pushed away her empty plate.

  A small smile quirked her lips. “I’m ready,” she declared.

  “And you’re sure you want to go in to the police station to give your statement?” Bowie asked.

  Marlowe nodded. “To the police station and then to work. You can just drop me off at Colton Oil,” she added. “I think it might be better if I face my family alone and tell them what happened.” Knowing how her father thought, she didn’t want any possible fallout to hit Bowie.

  He could guess what was on her mind. “I’m not afraid of your family, Marlowe,” Bowie said.

  “I didn’t say you were, but I think it just might be better giving them the details on my own. Having you there would only be a distraction.”

  Wanting to lighten the moment, he asked, unable to keep the smile from his lips, “You mean for you, or your father?”

  “For now,” Marlowe answered, “let’s just say both. But you know what will be nice?”

  He was game. “I’ll bite—what?”

  “Going into work and not having to look over my shoulder every few minutes.” It had taken her the entire length of the night, but she had finally managed to allow Bowie to convince her that her stalker no longer posed a threat to either one of them, that he wouldn’t suddenly reappear in her life.

  Chapter 22

  The moment that Marlowe walked off the elevator and approached her office, members of her family began to appear, converging and surrounding her. They all but swallowed her up as they fired their questions and concerns at her.