Relentless Protector

by Colleen Thompson

  “No disrespect, sir, but you’re no longer my C.O.,” Cole growled as he pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the modest but well-kept older two-story where Lisa lived. His heart pounded as he stared at her front doorstep. This time, no matter what, he would not be turned away.

  “I’m your friend still, whether or not you know it,” Woodsen told him. “The FBI and the sheriff’s department will do everything they can to find this missing kid. They don’t need some ex-commando working off a nonexistent debt by mucking around in their business, and Lisa Meador certainly doesn’t need you unburdening your soul while she’s worried half to death about her—”

  “I have to go, sir,” Cole lied, pressing a random phone key. “That’s my lawyer calling, and he charges by the millisecond.”

  “Probably calling to remind you that your U.S. Marshal’s career will be over before it starts if you don’t stay the hell out of—”

  Cole disconnected, then blew out a deep breath. It was true that his attorney, too, had advised him to walk away from this mess. But neither he nor Drew had to live with the memory of the suicide bomber’s final, desperate look, or the concussion that followed as the Afghan shoppers and a single American serviceman were torn to pieces in the blast that followed the detonation.

  And neither of them had witnessed the look on Lisa’s face when a pair of kidnappers made off with her only child. Neither of them had tasted the sweetness of her kiss or held her in his arms the way he had.

  “Hell with it,” Cole told himself as he climbed out of the sedan he was driving while his truck was in the shop. Sure, it might be smarter to let the authorities worry about finding her son, and let the lawyer he had hired focus on clearing his own name as soon as possible. But just as dangerous military missions quickly forged bonds between soldiers, the hours he had shared with her had left him feeling a connection he could not ignore.

  A connection that would be broken, irredeemably betrayed, the moment she found out that he had watched her husband’s death without doing a thing to try to stop it.

  Still, he couldn’t stop himself from knocking at her door, where the only response was Rowdy’s barking. He pounded again, hard enough that the autumn wreath that hung there jumped with the impact. At its center was a peephole, where the older man who had turned him away earlier—Lisa’s father, he assumed—could look out. The man was probably standing there now, cursing his unwelcome return.

  Inside, a chain rattled and the dead bolt disengaged. As the door opened, Cole steeled himself to argue his way past Lisa’s gatekeeper.

  But this morning it wasn’t the gruff-looking man who had identified himself as a retired cop in an attempt to buy himself authority. Instead, Lisa herself answered, the hands that cradled Rowdy trembling as she studied him with reddened eyes.

  “Lisa...” During more than a decade of military service, Cole had witnessed so much human suffering that he’d hardened himself against it, forming a tough shell so he could function. But just as it had three days before, Lisa’s pain sliced through his warrior’s defenses, cutting straight to the beating heart beneath.

  “Come on in—and hurry,” she said, staring past his shoulder. “There are reporters right behind you. Vultures.”

  As she ducked out of sight, Cole turned to look, wondering where on earth the press had hidden their vehicles. Aggravated that he hadn’t spotted them, he glared at an attractive redhead named Penny Carlson whom he recognized from one of the Austin network affiliates.

  In an instant the shrewd hunger in her eyes changed to a look of made-for-TV sympathy as her cameraman moved into position to capture the exchange. Great, Cole thought. Just what he needed: video evidence that he’d allowed his need to check on Lisa to overwhelm his better judgment, along with his C.O.’s and attorney’s sensible advice.

  “I’m so sorry for Mrs. Meador’s tragic situation,” the reporter told him gravely. “Please convey our sympathies, and tell her that if she’d like to try to get a message to the kidnappers, I would be happy to set up another on-

  camera plea for his return.”

  “Would you like to be arrested for trespassing?” He let the business card she tried to hand him flutter to a doormat that read Welcome, Friends! “Because I’m pretty sure you’ve been told to stay off the property. And I’m absolutely positive the sheriff’s department would be glad for an excuse to toss you in the county lockup after your last report.”

  He was guessing on both counts, partly because of this particular reporter’s on-air speculation regarding the Tuller County deputy who’d been airlifted to an Austin trauma center. Cole had known from the first moment he’d glimpsed the terrified female deputy who’d flagged them down that her partner’s injuries were serious, most likely life-threatening. He wondered who had leaked it to the reporter that the pair had once been man and wife. And why the hell this woman had decided their personal history was anybody’s business but their own.

  “Please,” said the reporter, “I only want to help bring Tyler home.”

  Her expression was so sincere that Cole might have believed it—if she hadn’t first glanced into the camera before delivering her plea. Shaking his head in disgust, he picked up her card and tore it into pieces. “If you’re so concerned, then get out there and find him, instead of exploiting people’s tragedies for ratings.”

  As the torn bits fluttered toward the front step, he ducked inside the house, hoping like hell that Penny’s vanity would prevent her from using that unflattering bit of footage.

  Lisa locked the door behind him, her smile barely touching the pain in her damp eyes.

  “Thank you for that,” she said, tugging at the edges of a gray sweater she had thrown on over a black V-neck tee and faded jeans that hugged her curves in ways he had no business noticing. “I’ve been wanting to tell those people off for days. Actually, I’ve been wanting to hurl pots of boiling oil from the upstairs windows, but my father wouldn’t let me.”

  He smiled at her gallows humor, understanding all too well that it might be the only thing holding her together. But she was already turning from him, her hand shaking as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “You must think I’m horrible, joking when my son’s out there somewhere, scared and—”

  Before Cole could stop to think, he was gathering her in his arms as she disintegrated into weeping. Feeling more useless than ever, he rubbed her back and tried to think of what to say to make things better. But he was no better at soothing her tears than he had been at getting back her child.

  With the thought, the recriminations that had been keeping him up at night came crashing in on him. He swallowed past a painful lump, thinking of how no real Ranger would have allowed the darkness and a single AK-47 to stop him from taking out one woman. How not one of the men he had commanded would have allowed her or her accomplice to escape alive, much less take the child with them and go on to attack two deputies in their patrol car.

  But then, if he’d been a decent Ranger in the first place, she wouldn’t be facing this crisis without Tyler’s father.

  A creak from the staircase warned him of another presence a moment before a familiar scowl appeared. “Damn it, boy. How many times do I need to tell you? Lisa doesn’t need any more gawkers coming in here to upset her.”

  Pulling free of his embrace, Lisa shook her head, her face flushing. “No, Dad. This is Cole, the Ranger who risked his life trying to get Tyler back.”

  “Ex-Ranger,” Cole corrected, touched that, for all she’d been through, she would care enough to come to his defense.

  Her father ran a hand over his gray brush cut and speared Cole with a look of pure contempt. “Bang-up job you did there, boy, shooting my daughter and letting the kidnappers go free.”

  “It might not’ve been my finest moment, but let’s get one thing straight between us,” Cole said, in no mood for the man’s attitude. “You can call me Cole or Sawyer, but I don’t answer to ‘boy.’”

  The ex-cop gaped in surprise,
then nodded.

  “Come on, Dad,” Lisa said. “Cole was hurt helping me.” She gestured to the small bandage covering the blistered skin on his forearm.

  “It’s no big deal,” he told her.

  Her father’s hard stare never budged. “You say you’re an ex-Ranger. So, what do you do now, bo—Sawyer?”

  “Keep myself in shape and stay busy doing volunteer work until the next class of U.S. Marshals starts in two months. I’ve been accepted. Or at least I was accepted before your daughter walked into that bank. Still waiting to see if I’ll be cleared to attend.”

  “Oh, Cole...” Lisa gave her father another look until he offered Cole his hand.

  “Sid Hartfield,” he said by way of introduction.

  Shaking hands, Cole said, “Pleased to meet you, sir. With those reporters swarming, I’m sure Lisa’s glad for your help.”

  “He ran off Penny Carlson,” Lisa told her father in an apparent attempt to ease the tension.

  “She came back again? Brave girl. As well as a damned nuisance.”

  “You know, Dad, since Cole’s here, maybe now would be a good time for you to go pick up those groceries.”

  “I was just putting away all those cakes and casseroles the neighbor ladies dropped off. Still don’t understand why they thought they had to bring enough to feed an army.”

  “That’s just their way of showing that they care. Let me take care of the food while you go.”

  “If you’re really that desperate to get rid of me...” her father grumbled, then abruptly brightened. “There’s always the chance that I could back over a couple of reporters on my way out.” Swinging a look toward Cole, he added, “You can stay with her for a half hour, can’t you?”

  Cole nodded. “Take as long as you need.”

  Hartfield bobbed his head, then grabbed a light jacket and an old-fashioned beige porkpie hat off a coatrack by the door. After kissing Lisa’s cheek, he told her, “If this one gives you any trouble or decides he’s got better things to do, you call me, and I’ll be back here before you can spit.”

  “Don’t forget more tissues. And we’re low on dog food, too,” Lisa told him, ticking off the items on her fingers.

  She waited until he left to speak again. “Finally. I’m really sorry about my dad. He means well, and I love him to pieces, but there are times...”

  “Under the circumstances,” Cole said diplomatically, “it’s no wonder he’s being so protective.”

  “Embarrassing is what he’s being.” She shook her head. “And he wonders why I refused to move back home after Devin...”

  “At least you know you have a father who loves you.” It was more than he could say for his. Oh, the old man had been proud—at least according to Cole’s mother—when his only son had made it through the grueling Ranger training and started accumulating medals and promotions. It simply wasn’t his father’s way, his mom said, excusing her husband as she did so often, to “make a big fuss over these things.” Which was pretty ironic, considering the size of the fuss he’d made when Cole had left the military.

  “He’s only trying to protect you,” he told Lisa.

  “He’s just afraid I’m going to take off looking for Tyler the second his back is turned,” she said.

  “Are you?”

  When she didn’t answer, he wondered if she knew something the investigators didn’t. From what little he had heard on the news, he’d gotten the impression they had completely lost track of the kidnappers. And Texas was one hell of a huge haystack to search, especially if Evie and her partner had managed to switch vehicles again. Not to mention the possibility that they’d left the state, or even crossed the border into Mexico. “Do you have any idea where they might be? Have you remembered something? Has someone contacted you, Lisa?”

  She shook her head. “No one has, not yet, but I know it could still happen, no matter what the sheriff thinks. But there is one thing that I’m sure of. My son is still alive and waiting for me, and I will bring him home.”

  He wanted to ask how she knew, but her expression answered for her. Though he suspected it was no more than a psychological defense against unbearable pain, he didn’t have it in him to question her faith in mother’s intuition. Besides, he would rather face this

  determination—or a nest of enemy snipers—than deal with another round of tears.

  He followed her into the kitchen, done in blue-and-white tile. Bowls, plastic-wrapped plates and bakery boxes, many with open cards beside them, covered almost every inch of counter space. There were several flower arrangements, but his eyes were drawn to a crystal vase in the center of the table, filled with sunny yellow irises.

  “Thank you for those,” she said, nodding toward them. “That was really thoughtful. And I especially appreciate that you picked something that didn’t make me think of funerals.”

  “The woman at the flower shop told me these stand for hope,” he said, feeling a rush of embarrassment at the amount of thought he’d put into what should have been a simple gesture.

  “Coffee?” Lisa asked, indicating a nearly full pot. “Dad just made it. And there’s a plate of cinnamon rolls in here somewhere, if you’d like something—”

  “I didn’t come to eat your food and drink your coffee.”

  “Then why are you here?” She shrugged. “Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you one bit for wanting to put all this behind you and forget it.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the cut-and-run type, and I sure wasn’t gonna be put off by your dad’s attempts to get rid of me. I needed to see how you are, and I have a right to know what’s happening with the investigation. No one will tell me a damned thing.”

  Including whether he would officially be cleared of any wrongdoing, a factor that was crucial if he were to have any hope of becoming a U.S. Marshal. But as much as he tried to convince himself that a rational self-interest was his main reason for returning, he knew damned well that the secret that he carried was just as big a factor.

  She turned from the refrigerator, where she’d just found room for a covered casserole dish. “Wait a minute. You came earlier?”

  He nodded. “I tried to explain to your dad that I wasn’t a reporter in disguise or some true-crime freak out for juicy details, but—”

  “Sorry about that. But as far as the investigation goes...” She peeked inside one of the boxes, then closed it after pulling out another envelope. “I doubt I know any more than you do. The sheriff and the FBI have been a lot better at asking questions than sharing information.

  “For all I know,” she added as she opened the envelope, “they still consider me a suspect, too.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said, before reminding himself that initially he had thought the same thing.

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, as Rowdy balanced on his hind legs, begging for a handout. “Maybe we can vouch for each other. But then they’d probably decide we’re in cahoots or something. No one’s come right out and said so, but I’ve been asked a dozen times for my ‘version of events.’”

  “They’ve been asking me a lot of questions, too. My lawyer’s advised me to steer clear of further involvement just in case they decide to come after me for drawing my gun and—”

  Lisa tossed the dog the corner of a sugar cookie. “Then maybe you shouldn’t come back. Seriously, I don’t want you getting into trouble, not after you risked your life to try to help me. Which reminds me, are you really all right?”

  “I am,” he said, glad that the bruised hip and burned arm were both healing so well. “How’s your arm?”

  “Believe me, a few stitches and a mild concussion are the least of my worries.” Her dismissive expression turned to a frown. “Listen, Cole, I’ve told the investigators you were innocent. I swore I talked you into helping me chase down the kidnappers.”

  Her concern touched him, considering everything she’d been through. True, she had pulled a gun on him—twice—but only under ex
treme duress. The real Lisa Meador seemed as thoughtful as she was beautiful, even in her current state.

  “I’ll get it sorted out, but right now,” he said honestly, “I’m a lot more worried about you and your family.”

  Earlier, he’d tried to convince himself that once he’d checked on her and learned what he could, he would walk away as he’d been advised. But meeting her in her moment of crisis, seeing her passion and her courage, had reawakened something in him, even if it was only the dim hope of redemption.

  Her hand trembling, she tucked a loose lock of wavy brown hair behind her ear and pulled a flowered “Thinking of You” card from its envelope, then scanned the message inside. Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I do have a little good news,” he added, eager to pull her from the brink. “I understand the teller from the bank had a healthy baby.”

  “A b-baby boy.” She flipped the card closed abruptly. “I—I was so glad to hear it.”

  Despite her claim, her face went chalk-white, and Cole cursed himself for bringing up a child—any child—while hers was missing and in danger. How was it he always managed to say the wrong thing?

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s me, and I really am h-happy for that woman, especially after I scared her the w-way I did.” She gave her eyes an angry swipe. “Oh, damn it. Could you please grab me a couple of tissues? I think there are still a few in the powder room by the back door.”

  She pointed him in the right direction, and he hurried to retrieve the box, happy to be given something to do.

  “Here you go,” he said, as he returned to find her looking more stricken than ever as she wiped what looked like white icing from her shaking fingers with a paper towel.

  “Thanks. You can set them down anywhere.” She closed the cake box and turned her back to him quickly. “I’m okay for now.”