Marshall's Law

by Denise A. Agnew

  “Nothing.”

  Okay. So he’s got a great bod. Big deal.

  One hundred percent satisfied with that assessment, she sat back in her seat and tried not to wonder when he’d become heroic, intriguing and too mouth-watering for his own good.

  Marshall Street, named after Brennan’s great grandfather, had flooded almost up to the middle of the tires on the SUV. As Marshall eased the vehicle back into the minimal traffic on Main Street, he gave his temporary companion a thorough look-see through stealthy glances.

  Marshall had never met a more irritating woman than Dana Cummings. Well, okay, maybe two other women. But he didn’t have time or inclination to think about them right now.

  Dana Sue Cummings according to her New Mexico driver’s license. Somehow, he knew if he started calling her Dana Sue, she’d hit him with that enormous, black leather fanny pack she’d strapped to her waist.

  On second thought, Dana’s jump-straight-into-the-fire attitude reminded him of Tabitha. Tabitha, the precocious nine-year-old daughter of his friend, Eric Dawes, almost drove Marshall nuts with her antics.

  No, the craziness he felt around Dana came from a different source. He was highly annoyed with himself for feeling so attracted to a woman he’d just met.

  The woman had infuriating written in every inch of her carrot top, shoulder-length hair, wispy bangs and hazel eyes. It didn’t help that she possessed a killer body in a five-foot six-inch frame. He allowed a quick glance at her jean-clad form. Yeah, she might not be model beautiful, but that suited him fine.

  Marshall had had it with bone-thin women with all the personalities of a cucumber. This woman possessed curves in places a woman should have curves. From the first moment he’d been close enough to smell her delicate, fresh perfume, he’d found her irksome. Irksome and driving me straight out of my ever lovin’ mind. A tight sensation centered in his gut.

  Marshall slammed back the attraction. He couldn’t let down either his guard or open his heart. Besides, his heart had disappeared long ago.

  As the Grand Cherokee dipped into a huge puddle of water, his cab companion grabbed at the dashboard like a lifeline. He glanced at her disheveled state and worried look. Worried about what? The storm? Did she believe that he still considered her a breaking and entering suspect? Her license and other identification indicated no known priors or outstanding warrants. She hadn’t tried to escape.

  Yeah, Marshall. She just tried to argue you to death.

  He understood her worry about her aunt, but he had a hunch Lucille was fine, and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why she hadn’t been at the house.

  Marshall thought back to the strange things that had been happening at Lucille’s house and wondered about the woman next to him. Deep inside, he didn’t want to believe this doe-eyed, quick-tongued woman could be part of a plan to drive Lucille insane and away from her house.

  When he’d first seen Dana Cummings trying to get into Lucille’s house, he’d thought she had to be the prettiest burglar he’d ever seen. The tornado took away other thoughts when the siren had blasted a warning. Run now. Wonder later.

  When she’d lain in the tub, and he knew she’d fainted, he’d seen everything about her in a heartbeat. He’d seen a little mole just under her right ear, high on her neck. Her nose had a small scar over the bridge, like a permanent line from glasses. Eyes that snapped with curiosity, fear, and anger in less than a minute had added a weird charm he’d never encountered in a woman. Uh-huh. Now he knew he’d lost it. Maybe he’d lost a brain cell or two when his favorite baseball cap had been sucked away by the wind.

  Now that really pisses me off. Tabitha had given it to him last year for his birthday.

  As he headed for the sheriff’s department, he savored the unscathed area around them. “Doesn’t look like the tornado touched down here.”

  Dana glanced over at him. “Where to next?”

  He shifted his hands on the steering wheel and the SUV rolled to a stop at a traffic signal. “We’re going to the sheriff’s office first. It’s either that or the hospital.”

  Dana straightened like someone had rammed a stick up her spine. “What kind of hospital? Are you having me committed?”

  Marshall fought the urge to laugh. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Dana sighed. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a rotten sense of humor, Marshall?”

  “Probably at least two people. My sister and my brother.” He paused for effect. “Maybe my dad on a bad day when he’s feeling stubborn.”

  She made a soft noise. “Only when he’s feeling stubborn?”

  Marshall knew what she implied and chose to say nothing. He’d found silence drove many people insane. Instead, he grunted. She folded her arms, uttered another elaborate sigh and shook her head.

  The light turned green and he proceeded through the intersection. Marshall drove to Decatur Street, which ran alongside the sheriff’s department. This small avenue hadn’t seen pavement yet. Mud clung to the wheels of the vehicle as he inched down the narrow road.

  After they turned into the parking lot, they exited the vehicle and headed for the double glass doors into the main lobby. Once inside he saw that several ceiling tiles lay in the empty reception area, including a large one that had landed on a small row of chairs against one wall.

  Marshall moved farther into the room, his eyes widening as he surveyed the plaster that littered everything. A couple of deputies worked at cleaning up the mess. They paused long enough to greet Marshall.

  Marshall led her back to his office. After they entered the office, she slumped into a chair in front of his desk. He grabbed a Pittsburgh Steelers cap from a table and plopped it on his head.

  Dana wondered what town in its right mind allowed a police officer to wear a get up like this? Absurd. The whole situation reminded her of a madcap spoof of Mayberry mixed with L.A. Confidential.

  As she looked at him, a strange tugging sensation moved inside her. An awakening. A curiosity. Something animal moved through him, and she sensed it like prey evading predator. His personality had a hold on her thoughts like a tenacious tiger devouring a meal. Tension grew between her shoulder blades, and she shifted in her chair. Her movement didn’t attract his attention.

  Dana watched him shuffle papers and rearrange desk items, a black pencil cup with a pink desk blotter. You have to be kidding. A girly girl blotter. What was that all about?

  Now that she thought about it, who would ask him? He could be wearing clown pants and Groucho Marx glasses, mustache and nose, and no one would squeak in his general direction. A man like this one, with a defiant tilt to the head and scorching eyes, would smash them like a maniacal monster from a B-movie. No, not a B-movie. A harmless looking critter that metamorphosed into a serious, in-your-face beast. They’d be terrified. Ready to pee their pants.

  She, on the other hand, refused to be frightened.

  Right, Dana. Well, at least she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he made her uncomfortable. She inhaled, gathering courage. Without his presence near, she took a cleansing breath. This man had turned to her with gun drawn, a bite-me scowl that would eat through acid. Then he’d saved her life.

  He left the desk to reach for the coffee carafe, not even looking in her direction. He filled a gargantuan cream-colored mug that held about three cups worth of liquid. Seconds later, the double-wide coffee mug came to rest on the desk in front of her, attached to a broad, huge hand with thick fingers. A bruiser’s hand.

  He leaned near. Dana started when his voice, deep and sonorous, said close to her ear, “Black’s all we’ve got.”

  She dared to look up as he retreated. His gaze seared her, tangible and authoritative. Inside her something trembled, and she sucked in a stabilizing breath.

  “I didn’t say I wanted coffee,” she said.

  “You need a good shot of caffeine. You look about ready to collapse.”

  As he returned to the chair behind his desk, she pulle
d herself together. No sense in acting like a dazed cow. She stared at the steaming mug as if he’d offered her poison.

  “Something wrong with the coffee?” he asked.

  Reaching for the mug, she dared to meet his gaze as she took a tentative sip. Big mistake. His gaze skimmed her face, then cruised down to her breasts and back up to her eyes. It was a quick, relentless assessment, but that flaming look packed more repressed tension than a harnessed pit bull. She nearly choked.

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You okay?”

  She took another mouthful of ancient brew. “It’s not only black, it’s thick as sludge.”

  The intensity that always lingered around the edge of him reared to life. “This isn’t the Ritz. We don’t get much call for whole bean, gourmet, triple-French-roast crap.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.”

  She wanted to toss the blistering liquid in his face. Instead, she reined in the outrageous impulse as she stared him down. Marshall’s unwavering gaze made her quiver in places she’d never known existed. Damn him for rejuvenating her libido in a way she’d never experienced before.

  She couldn’t understand it. She’d never been this mesmerized by a man’s eyes. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stared so rudely at someone. Dragging away her gaze, she looked around the small office, taking in everything with a bored air. Despite her expectations, the rest of his office looked ordinary. In fact, it seemed sterile. A few certificates lined the sidewalls, and she didn’t take time to read them. One framed document caught her attention, a diploma from the University of Wyoming.

  Her mouth dropped open. “English lit? A bachelor’s in English lit?” She peeled her gaze away from the certificate long enough to catch his glare. She folded her hands in her lap. “I have a bachelor’s in Business and a master’s in Humanities.”

  “Humanities.”

  Without thinking why, she decided to take offense. “Something wrong with Humanities?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. It was in your tone.”

  “I don’t have anything against Humanities. Does overreaction run in the family too?”

  Dana almost left right then, but the challenge in his voice kept her riveted to the chair. “Aunt Lucille is a painter so she has to have a good imagination.” She sniffed. “Does being a man of the law take any imagination, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Just Marshall.”

  “Not Deputy Marshall? Or maybe Officer Marshall—”

  “I’m the Undersheriff, not a deputy.” He leaned forward in his chair, his attention glued to her.

  She’d seen the sign on his office door, but had chosen to ignore it. An uncomfortable feeling crept over her, as if he could see inside her to the deepest parts of her soul.

  His scrutiny came hot, penetrating like bullets. “Tell me why you’re in Macon.”

  “My mother and I are worried about Aunt Lucille. We wanted to check up on her and make sure she isn’t flying south permanently.”

  Dana hoped he might smile, but his concrete expression remained. “Flying south? As in going nuts?”

  “Exactly. Mom’s a little paranoid, and so is Aunt Lucille.”

  He sat back in his chair, swiveled to the side, and plunked his booted feet onto the desk. “Does it run in the family?”

  Despite the insinuation, she decided not to rise to the occasion with an insult of her own. Besides, I can’t even think of a good insult when I need one. “Yeah, it goes way back. One of my great uncles was a paranoid schizophrenic.”

  How do you like them apples, Marshall?

  He took his feet off the table, and they landed on the floor with a thump. He didn’t say anything.

  A steady throbbing took up residence in her skull, and she longed for aspirin. Sliding down in the padded metal chair, she clasped her hands over her stomach and sprawled with her legs open. Not ladylike, but she didn’t care.

  Marshall sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then rubbed one finger under his nose. When he opened his eyes, he snatched a pencil from his desk and jotted on a stenographer’s pad. Did anyone even use shorthand any more?

  “Crazy thoughts, Dana,” she said out loud before she could stop herself.

  He glanced up, his brows drawing down. “What?”

  Embarrassed, she reached for her coffee and took another sip of the disgusting liquid. “Nothing.”

  He scribbled on the pad again. “She talks to herself.”

  “Don’t worry, Marshall. Last I heard it’s not contagious.”

  The scribbling continued, and he didn’t look up. “But it’s hereditary. Lucille has full blown conversations with herself all the time.”

  “Are you stuck on this genetic craziness thing or what?”

  His pencil stopped its relentless movement. He looked up and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  The weariness in his tone and the genuine regret on his face made her soften. “So you don’t believe her when she says her house is haunted?”

  Running a hand over his beard, he contemplated Dana for a few unnerving moments. “I don’t believe in haunted houses, but I do believe in criminal mischief and harassment.”

  Ready to respond, she opened her mouth. Before she could speak, he asked, “What do you do, Miss Cummings? Or is it Mrs.?”

  She tried not to bristle at his change of direction or his insistence on giving her a title. “Ms.”

  “Ms. Cummings.” His pencil skipped over the steno pad again. “What is your career field?”

  She looked at the fat mug in her hands and gazed into the contents as if fishing for answers. “I’m a writer.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Horror.”

  When he didn’t speak, she looked up and caught his curious expression. She didn’t see a hint of reproach, disbelief or condescension. Often, she expected one or all three when she told people about her career.

  The scratching of the pencil sounded loud in the room. “I see. Anything I’d know?”

  She tried smiling, but the caffeine hadn’t perked her up much. “Shades of Darkness. It’s about a woman who comes back to a town she used to live in and finds out her old home is infested with evil spirits.”

  He shook his head, his face devoid of expression. “Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

  “It was on the New York Times Best Seller list for ten weeks. Hit number eight.”

  Leaning back in his chair again, he scrutinized her.

  She wanted to twitch. The old adage about being a bug under a microscope fit her situation.

  “I never pay much attention to best seller lists,” he said.

  “Good. Neither do I. Except in the sense that it means I did really, really well.”

  A smile teased his lips, then jumped to his eyes for a nanosecond. “Do you think Lucille has been reading too much horror fiction lately?”

  Dana couldn’t be insulted by his insinuation. She had plenty of doubts about the source of Aunt Lucille’s problems. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m asking because I hope you’ve got answers to why these things are happening to her.”

  Brennan Marshall could have pooh-poohed Lucille’s case, but he appeared concerned.

  Dana didn’t want to like him for that, but she couldn’t help it. She placed the cup of sludge on his desk with a thump. “She’s a dear woman, and I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

  “Tell me what you think is happening with your aunt, and I’ll take you out for a fresh cup of coffee later tonight.”

  His soft voice held a hoarseness that reminded her of evenings by a fire. Naked. On a bearskin rug. She shoved away the intimate vision. “Sorry. Can’t. I have a date.”

  “A date? You just got here.” His incredulous tone surprised her.

  “With a friend. Maybe you know her. Kerrie Di Mecio.”

  He sat up straighter. “Stuart Di Mecio’s widow?”

  “She’s the one.”


  She thought of Stuart. Strong, handsome, fearless and invincible. Invincible, that is, until he made a mistake on a hike one day and plunged into a ravine to his death. She shuddered as she remembered receiving the phone call from Kerrie’s mother telling of Stuart’s demise.

  Marshall pitched his writing instrument back in the pencil cup, and the clank startled her. He reached for a pen; his eyes took on a grimness she’d seen when he’d rescued the boy. “I found his body. I’m on the county volunteer search and rescue team.”

  Silence gathered in the room. She didn’t feel like responding, and he apparently didn’t care to elaborate about finding Stuart.

  “What did Lucille tell you about these strange occurrences plaguing her?” he asked, leaning his arms on the desk.

  “She called my mother a few weeks back. Mom said Aunt Lucille had this trembling voice, like she was scared. That’s not normal for Aunt Lucille. She bends under pressure but never gives in. She’s one tough lady. Anyway, Aunt Lucille said that she’d heard noises in the attic and in the basement. Especially the basement.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  Dana wished she hadn’t opened her mouth and mentioned the basement. “Uh…well…” She glanced up and saw he waited, twiddling his thumbs like he had all day. “You’re not going to believe this but—”

  “Trust me, I’ve heard just about everything at least once.”

  “Not this you haven’t.”

  He tossed her a smile. “Humor me.”

  “Okay. You asked for it. You know that big…uh…heart-shaped bed downstairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, she started hearing people having…” She squirmed in her chair and made a face.

  “Go ahead. People what?”

  “People having sex. She heard people having sex on the bed. But when she went downstairs there was no one there.”

  Chapter Four

  Marshall never twitched. Yet Dana saw the suspicious twinkle in his eyes before he managed to smother it. Instead, he did something much more disturbing.

  Rising from his chair, he came around the side of the desk and paced the broad area behind her chair. She craned around to watch him.