McCoy walked into the station house alone
He’d follow up with Heather Marshall personally tomorrow. Right now, however, she had him stymied. The superwoman wasn’t pressing charges. Of course, he’d be pressing charges on behalf of the citizens of Houston. And she’d known that. Those perps wouldn’t get away with violence.
She’d wanted to keep a low profile. No newspaper articles, nothing that would connect her to the safe haven or expose its location—her clients at the shelter needed to feel secure. He understood her point, but she could have been killed.
The thought made him sick. God knew she wasn’t easy to deal with. Some might say pigheaded, and Officer Dave McCoy would be one of them. But she was alive. Passionate about everything. If he lived her way, he’d be exhausted. And out of a job.
Dear Reader,
When I was in my teens and twenties, I wanted to save the world. I still do.
This is exactly Heather Marshall’s goal in my new story, A Man of Honor, when she rides in her van at night seeking out and helping runaway teenagers. In her jeans and sneakers, she looks like a kid herself. But she isn’t the naive girl she used to be. Heather grew up with two alcoholic parents and, with a degree in social work and a black belt in kickboxing, she knows what she’s doing on the streets.
Dave McCoy doesn’t think so. He’s the cop on the beat who’s saved her hide more than once. Why can’t she understand that a big city like Houston isn’t as safe as that small west Texas town she’s from?
I hope you enjoy watching these two strong people find their way to love and happiness.
Thanks so much for choosing to read A Man of Honor. I’m delighted that the editors at Harlequin Superromance believed in this story and in me. Happy reading!
Linda Barrett
P.S. I’d love to hear from you! Please e-mail me at [email protected] or write P.O. Box 1934, Houston, TX 77284-1934. Visit me on the Web at www.linda-barrett.com.
A MAN OF HONOR
Linda Barrett
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Linda has been writing for pleasure all her adult life, but aimed for a professional career when she moved to Houston ten years ago. There she joined a local chapter of Romance Writers of America and attended so many workshops and seminars, she says, “I could have had a master’s degree by now.” Five years later, in 2001, Harlequin Superromance published her debut novel, Love, Money and Amanda Shaw. When not writing, the wife and mother of three grown sons (“all hero material like their dad”) helps develop programs for a social service agency that works with the homeless.
Books by Linda Barrett
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
971—LOVE, MONEY AND AMANDA SHAW
1001—TRUE-BLUE TEXAN
1073—THE APPLE ORCHARD
1115—THE INN AT OAK CREEK*
1192—THE HOUSE ON THE BEACH*
1218—NO ORDINARY SUMMER*
1256—RELUCTANT HOUSEMATES*
1289—THE DAUGHTER HE NEVER KNEW*
To my son David,
who knows how to laugh,
who sees the best in everyone
and who survived being the middle child.
I love you.
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
PROLOGUE
Dry Creek, West Texas
HEATHER MARSHALL slammed the door of the house she called the pit and ran down the country road, wanting to follow it forever. Tears flowed down her face. With a hard stroke, she wiped them away, then pressed her right side where her father’s fist had connected. She knew the impact would cause a colorful bruise that would last for days.
She paused a half mile away at the cutoff leading to town and limped toward the familiar limestone rock where she’d wait for her sister. The limestone formed a natural bench, and Heather sat down heavily. She wrapped her arms around herself. January evenings were cold in West Texas, and she’d had no time to grab her jacket.
Oh, God! What could she do? Her parents. A couple of alcoholics. And if alcoholism was a disease, as folks said, George and Jolene sure didn’t care about curing it. Neither did the others who partied with them.
As she waited, the occasional car passed by. Drivers waved and Heather waved back as if nothing was wrong. Pretending. Just as they did. Everyone in town knew the Marshalls, but neighbors mostly minded their own business. Mostly. Except not a month ago when her dad lost his job. Then, everyone knew everything because George Marshall had been a deputy sheriff for the town of Dry Creek.
Heather spotted the big headlights of the local bus, stood up and ran toward it. A minute later, Kathy got off.
“What happened this time?” she asked, wrapping her sweater around Heather’s shoulders.
“He’s drunk,” replied Heather, her voice trembling. “Very, very drunk. He broke a lamp, and he’s…swinging…hitting everything and… He’s a monster and there’s nowhere to hide.”
“Shh.” Kathy put her arm around her sister. “He’s worse since he was dumped from the force.”
“At least they took his gun away.”
“If only Mama had the guts to throw him out,” said Kathy. “She’s what’s called an ‘enabler.’ I’ve been studying, doing some research.”
Heather nodded, but the news didn’t make her feel any better. Kathy liked studying so much—was so good at it—she’d won a college scholarship for next year. In Houston.
“Kath,” she whispered, “what am I going to do when you’re gone?”
“Oh, sweetie,” Kathy replied, holding her close. “Leaving you behind is killing me. But…I’ve got to get out of this place.”
Heather leaned against her big sister. “Then take me with you. Twelve is old enough.”
Kathy didn’t reply at first. Then a tear landed on Heather’s cheek. A second one followed. And then another. Finally, Kathy choked out a response. “I can’t, Heather. I just can’t.”
CHAPTER ONE
Fifteen years later
HEATHER DROVE SLOWLY along the service road of the busy Katy Freeway. Her unmarked van was filled with supplies—food, water, toiletries, blankets—she’d packed before starting her rounds that evening. A full mobile pantry testified to the money-stretching skill she’d honed since childhood. And now she was using it to help other kids. Kids in trouble. Runaways.
Her gaze shifted from the traffic ahead of her to the parking lots alongside the Houston interstate. She’d developed keen night vision to spot her delicate quarry.
A group of youngsters stood waiting for her to pull into the driveway of a tired-looking strip mall, one of her usual stops. She recognized two girls— Brenda and Alicia—and wanted to cheer. Return visits meant trust…at least some trust. Without it, she’d fail, despite her best intentions.
She turned into the mall and pulled forward, parking parallel to the road, careful not to block the driveway. She shut off the motor and groaned when it groaned. That would take more money to fix, but she’d worry about it later. She grabbed a box of PBJ sandwiches and chips, pushed the door open and stepped out.
“Hey, y’all. I’m so-o-o glad to see ya. Who’s hungry?” She reached into her carton, distributed the items, studying the youngsters as casually as possible.
Youngsters? A few of the new boys se
emed older. Or maybe it was the expression on their faces that made her think so. She turned to Brenda. “Going to introduce me to your friends? Or…aren’t y’all together?”
Alicia spoke up. “Oh, yeah, we are. These guys got a place to live. So we don’t have to eat up your sandwiches anymore. We just wanted to say bye to you and thanks.”
“Baby G, you talk too much,” snapped one of the new members of the group.
“Sorry,” Alicia whispered, looking at the ground.
The dynamics had changed in the past few days and not for the better. “What’s going on?” she asked Brenda, the more confident of the two girls.
Brenda shrugged. “We got a place of our own now. And jobs. Easy jobs. That’s all.” She looked away. “Ask them.”
Heather turned to the three newcomers.
“Like the girls said, they’re with us now, and we’ll take care of them.” One male stepped forward. The leader, in posture and gesture. Letting her know what’s what. Possibly he thought she’d go looking for the kids if they didn’t show up. Maybe get the cops involved. “We’re just letting them say goodbye to the nice lady. Because we’re nice boys. Right?”
His two cohorts chuckled, but Heather focused on the speaker. In his twenties, Latin, husky build, a couple of inches taller than her. “And you are…?”
He grinned, full of confidence and machismo, before his expression turned hungry, like a rattlesnake tasting the air. His dark eyes traveled slowly down her body and back up. His easy grin became a sickle-shaped smile, sharp and predatory. He stared at her without blinking.
She met his gaze head-on, but goose bumps burst out all over her skin. She could probably handle one of them. But three? She rocked on the balls of her feet, ready to run.
The man cocked his head before replying. “Just call me el Jefe—the boss.” He nodded at the girls Heather had been helping. “Go. Jet outta here.”
The kids obeyed instantly.
Heather heard cars passing along the service road, and one actually entered the lot. But the driver kept going, intent on finding a parking space closer to the set-back stores. Probably never noticed her. And neither would anyone else.
Heather stepped backward—closer to her van. “I’ve got more stops to make,” she said. “People will be looking for me. If you’re hungry, grab a sandwich. Take the whole box.” She tossed it to the leader, who let the food hit the ground. She inched backward again, glad she’d left the door open.
“No, chica. No van,” he said, swaggering toward her until he was only a few feet away. He pointed at one of his friends, and nodded toward the vehicle. “Take a look.”
Look for what? Blankets? Heather watched in disbelief, her anger rising, as the man got in her van. She’d worked hard on this mobile outreach project. “What do you think I’ve got in there?” she demanded. “Drugs?”
The “boss” and his cohort outside the van loomed closer, and she groaned silently. When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? And why hadn’t she been able to find a partner tonight? She heard the third man rummaging in her vehicle. Heard him behind her when he called out.
“Mira, amigos. Look what she keeps for playtime. All different colors, too.”
The box of condoms. For the kids who asked her. So children wouldn’t have children.
El jefe’s eyes lit up. “A consolation prize,” he said, “from the beautiful lady.”
Bile rose to her throat, but she forced it down.
He reached toward his waist, snapped his wrist, and metal gleamed in the light of the streetlamp. He held a knife with a long ugly blade.
“Into the van, Ms. Heather. And no noise.”
They could drive away with her. They might kill her. But to go quietly?
“No-o-o!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, running at the man, counting on surprise to give her an advantage. She kicked him flat-footed in his solar plexus, and he stumbled, giving her space to spin around and kick him a second time. Directly in the groin. He doubled over, howling, and dropped the knife.
She targeted the other two men, each with similar weapons in their hands. By the feral light in their eyes, she could tell they wanted her blood.
She was screwed.
OFFICER DAVE MCCOY approached quietly. The players were so intent on their drama, they hadn’t noticed him yet. He hadn’t been flying lights or sirens, merely cruising the freeway as part of his patrol. But he’d recognized Heather Marshall’s van, held together with spit, as he’d mentioned to her on numerous occasions.
When he spotted it, he’d slowed to make sure she hadn’t broken down. He hadn’t planned on stopping. He knew she wanted him to stay away from “her” kids. Except when he cut his wheel to enter the lot, he’d heard her scream. He’d braked hard and quickly made his way around the back of her van in time to see her connect with some guy’s family jewels and a weapon fall to the ground. The other two thugs pulled their knives and he ran forward, gun in hand. “Drop them.” He hoped his voice was as menacing as his weapon.
As one, they turned toward him. Then Heather raced to kick the knife away from the guy on the ground.
Dave kept his eyes on the men, but spoke to the woman. “Get behind me…go to my car and call for backup. Code 8. When you tell them I can’t get to the radio, they’ll be here in seconds.”
He sensed her disappearing behind the van. “I said drop those knives. Now!” he barked.
One hit the floor.
He waited a heartbeat and aimed his weapon at the suspect still holding his knife. “Resisting arrest. I’ll start with your knee….”
The knife dropped. “Smart boy. Both of you—put your hands on your heads.” Now his voice was quiet, full of authority. “You’re going to stand there nice and easy…because I just had target practice today…and I’m damn near perfect….” And just as he’d predicted, it didn’t take two minutes until he heard the sweet blare of sirens closing in.
The perps heard it, too. “Smart boy” turned and sprinted toward the row of stores at the back of the lot. And out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw a blond whirlwind fly after the guy. “No!” she screamed at him.
“Let him go!” Dave yelled. The woman was putting herself in more danger, and he could do nothing at the moment.
But then his buddies arrived—Powers, Jazzman, Yorkie and two others. “Cuff these two,” Dave ordered as he sprinted after Heather. “Bring ’em in. Weapons are on the ground, but search them again. And Miranda them. One of you follow me.”
Heather was gaining on the guy. The few shoppers on foot quickly got out of the way. Between Heather giving chase, and the people watching him, the suspect seemed to get confused. Dave veered left to cut him off, his timing perfect. The perp almost ran into his arms. Dave turned him and cuffed his hands behind his back.
And there stood Heather Marshall. Unstoppable. Her blond hair in disarray, sexy enough to raise any man’s blood pressure. She came straight at the cuffed man, her hands fisted.
“Where are my kids?” she screamed.
“She’s crazy, man. Loco,” mumbled the perp.
“Answer her.”
“We didn’t do nothin’ to those kids.” The man indicated with his head. “See? Mira.” He stared over Heather’s shoulder.
“Are those yours?” asked Dave.
Heather turned. Her smile answered him.
“Jazzman,” called Dave, “take this suspect into custody.” He watched his buddy haul the guy off, heard him begin, “You have the right to remain silent….” That was enough for Dave.
He turned back to Heather, who hadn’t moved, simply staring at the teens. “Ms. Marshall?”
She looked up at him, her face pale in the dim light, her lips trembling. So unlike her usual self. “McCoy,” she said in a small voice, “I—I don’t feel well….” He caught her before she hit the ground.
HEATHER HEARD high-pitched voices and a single low one. She opened her eyes to see McCoy kneeling next to her, his intense gaze tinged wi
th concern. She felt his fingers on her wrist.
“Come on, Heather, breathe. Inhale. Exhale. That’s it. No more sleeping.”
The ground felt hard under her body. She slowly turned her head and realized she was still in the parking lot. Alicia and Brenda stood nearby. She began to push herself to a sitting position, and felt a strong arm around her, assisting her.
“This is ridiculous,” she murmured, now upright. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“You’ve probably never taken on three hoods in your life, either,” replied McCoy, “and all at the same time. I guarantee your adrenaline shot through the clouds and then crashed. An occupational hazard for cops.” He paused, fingers still on her wrist. “Your pulse is normal now, but we’ve called an ambulance. The medics should be right here.”
“No way,” she protested weakly. She got to her feet, then wished she hadn’t. Nausea made her sway.
“Would you take it easy for a change?” McCoy’s impatience sounded too familiar to Heather, but his firm hand steadied her.
Why did it have to be McCoy who showed up? She didn’t like the man—which was fair because he sure didn’t like her, either. She had to tolerate him, though, because he was the cop on the beat where she and Kathy had lived and worked for the past four years. He’d proven helpful when they’d needed him at Welcome Home, the women’s shelter they ran. But his quiet ability to make people do what he wanted them to—so different from her father’s loud abuse—scared her. McCoy was a controlling cop. In the end, he and George were the same.
“What were you thinking, Heather? How could you go out without a partner? Again. How many times have I…?” He shook his head, frustration clearly written on his face.
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