The Marshalls Boxed Set (Texas Heroes: The Marshalls Books 1-3)

by Jean Brashear

  Dolly dropped her hand. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you? She’s really gotten to you.”

  “It’s not like that—”

  Her laugh was clear and bitter. “The hell it’s not. You forget—I’ve watched you together. You never looked at me that way.”

  Case shifted uneasily.

  “Oh, hell, what do I care? You’re the best goddamn man I ever knew, and nobody makes love like you. But I’m not a one-man woman, and we both know it. If anybody could have made me one, it was you, you big jerk. She’s damn lucky. I hope she knows it.”

  I doubt it. Case sagged against the bar. Not after what I did.

  Dolly laid a hand on his arm, eyes searching his. “Can I help?”

  He shook his head. “No, but thanks. Seriously. This is something I have to figure out on my own.”

  “I hate to see you so miserable.” She caught a signal from the stage, where the crew was finishing the sound check. “I’ve got to go, but if you decide you’d like a little comfort, I could help you forget for a while. I wouldn’t take seconds from anyone else, but you’re not just anyone.”

  Case felt worse than ever. “You’re a good woman—better than I deserve, probably. But I can’t.”

  She stood on tip-toes to give him a light kiss. “Well, I’ll be here, sugar, if you change your mind.” With a toss of her hair, she walked away, hips swaying in that slow, seductive rhythm that drew every eye in the room.

  Case followed her with his gaze. He was probably a damn fool for turning her down. He had no future with Sammie, he knew that—

  But she was the only woman he wanted.

  Inside Bullhorn’s office, which was decorated in Early Bordello Meets Psychedelic, Case recalled many a night he’d spent in here after closing, shooting the breeze. Bullhorn treated his staff more like family, and tonight was no exception. When Case arrived, the man had been counseling a devastated waitress who’d just found out she was pregnant with her third child after letting her good-for-nothing husband into her bed one last time before she booted him for good.

  This scene was nothing uncommon. At one time or another, everyone who worked for Bullhorn had come to him for help. He’d been married years before, but his wife and baby had died in childbirth, and he’d never stopped mourning the loss. Case supposed Bullhorn had decided it was easier to build a family out of the odds and ends of his employees after that.

  Case had been the exception, and he didn’t like asking for favors now, but he needed this one. As his search for Sammie continued to bear no fruit, his sense of urgency dogged him. She faced mountainous odds, and she was alone. He had to find her before Gascoigne knew she was here, right in his back yard.

  The look Bullhorn turned on him was not encouraging. “These things take time, but I am not discouraged. About you, however, I am concerned. Your ‘tite ange has apparently jeopardized a very cozy arrangement, and she will be dealt with—at whatever price. I ask you again, Case, is she worth it?”

  Case jammed a lid on his temper. “Bullhorn, you’ve been a good friend and I owe you, but I don’t want to hear any more of that crap. I’m not leaving until I find her. Now what about Roland?”

  Bullhorn shook his head and sighed. “There we have news that’s a bit more encouraging. Roland, he has been spotted in town recently. He isn’t staying with his sister or at the hotel he usually frequents when he is in town, but he has been seen. He, too, is in grave danger. This is not his first offense, but he has tended to gravitate toward minor con games in the past, so those in power did not worry about him. Until he got too greedy with his little blackmail scheme, they paid him little mind. But now they, too, search for him. I hope to have more information tomorrow. Come see me at breakfast.”

  “All right.” He had no real choice, but damn, he wanted a piece of Roland. The man had gotten Sammie into this nightmare. How could anyone do that to family?

  But she was his first priority. Every hour that passed increased the danger that Gascoigne would find her first.

  He paced the small office. Bullhorn stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go to my apartment and rest?”

  “No!” Case barked. He exhaled in a gust. “Sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I can’t relax. She’s out there somewhere, all alone and in grave danger, and I can’t rest until I find her.”

  “You’ll be no good to her if you’re too exhausted to think straight.” Bullhorn’s tone was gentle.

  “I know that, but how the hell can I rest now?” He wheeled to leave. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back.”

  “Why don’t you stay and watch Dolly? You love her act.”

  “I’m in no mood to be entertained.” Case stopped at the door and turned. “I’ll be back.”

  In the wee hours of the night Case sat in his pickup outside Sammie’s apartment. He’d decided to stake it out and see if he could tell whether it was being watched. If not, he thought he might see about breaking in himself. Maybe he could find some clue in there that would tell him where else to look for her. It might not be the best plan, but he was running out of options until he turned up more information. Quinn had called him and passed along much the same as he’d learned from Bullhorn: Gascoigne was dangerous and his organization was on high alert. Quinn urged him once again to turn this over to the cops, but Bullhorn had added his own caution to the warning Sammie had relayed to Wiley. Gascoigne had cops in his pocket, and Quinn reluctantly agreed that he had no way to know which ones. Alerting them carried with it too much danger for Sammie and her family.

  “I can come down there, Case. Be another pair of eyes. I’ve done my share of undercover work, which is more than you can say.”

  Case had been floored by the offer. “I can’t ask you to put yourself in harm’s way. You have a family that needs you.”

  “I have family walking around New Orleans, flirting with danger. You should have backup. You have no business playing detective.”

  Case had been simultaneously stunned to hear himself termed family so matter-of-factly while also more than a little ticked off by what he knew was only the truth. “I’ve spent my time on the wrong side of the tracks. I can handle myself.”

  Quinn heaved a sigh. “If I’d ever had any doubts, I’d know you were a Marshall by the thickness of your skull.”

  Case chuckled. “Thank you—seriously. After what my old man did…”

  “You’re not Black Jack. And that’s water under the bridge. Family is important to Josh and me—deal with it.”

  The gruff tone was more heartwarming than sympathy ever could be. Case had gotten off the phone after promising to check in and to let Quinn know if he’d changed his mind about asking for backup.

  Damn. Family. Who knew having nosy relatives could feel so good?

  So here he sat, waiting for dawn’s light. He was considering going to see Sammie’s family, but he certainly couldn’t do that at this time of night. He wasn’t due to see Bullhorn until breakfast—and breakfast around there meant noon. He had time to kill.

  The night was sultry; cicadas hummed all around. He almost wished he smoked; it would give him something to do as he waited, scanning the area. So far he’d seen no sign of surveillance, but he figured he’d better take it slow. It would be better to try his attempt to get into her apartment later. He had no tools, but he had an idea Bullhorn could help him out with that. Bullhorn’s friends were many and varied.

  His eyelids began to droop. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d slept a whole night. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was just for a moment.

  Sammie’s eyes flared with the heat of longing. He could smell her skin, the faint twist of cinnamon curling through him, stirring his blood. Her whiskey hair fell in waves, tantalizing him with its silky touch as she stroked it across his belly. He strained toward her, but she danced just out of his reach. He groaned, and his head fell back as he remembered his promise to remain still, arms at his sides, prohibited by his vow to refrain fro
m seizing her until she gave him rein. She was torturing him with honey-sweet kisses, drawing her beguiling aura around him with velvet tongue, sharp teeth, dancing fingers.

  He knew he could overpower her and take what he craved. There were moments when he was sorely tempted. But he’d promised, the way lovers do. It was her game, one they’d both enjoy, he knew—if he didn’t explode first. He trembled with the force of his need, fingers curled into fists, trying to resist the urge to yank her down upon him, to roll her over and plunge into her, deep and fast. He wanted her…oh, God, how he wanted her…

  He turned his head toward her, perhaps to beg for mercy—and saw the terror in hers as she was grabbed from behind, her throat squeezed by the ham-fisted Frenchy Pelletier. As her mouth opened to scream, Case tried to rise, held down by an invisible force, rendering him helpless to save her—

  Case jerked awake, heart pounding.

  Dreaming. He’d only been dreaming. He looked around.

  Movement off to his left grabbed his attention. He sat up straighter, barely daring to breathe. His window was open in deference to the heat—he couldn’t run the a/c and risk alerting anyone to his presence.

  Just then, the shadow moved again. It was a man of medium height, slipping stealthily between cars, with what looked to be a small toolbox in one hand. As he disappeared around a corner of the building, headed toward the courtyard, Case slipped out of his truck through the open window.

  He stayed low, gliding from shadow to shadow, careful not to brush against anything. As he rounded the corner, he saw the man nearing Sammie’s apartment. His heart skipped a beat. At last. Maybe he’d been given a break.

  He wished he’d gotten a gun from Bullhorn. Who was this guy?

  In moments, he saw the door open and the figure dart inside. No lights came on. No surprise there.

  He saw tiny, sporadic flashes as whoever it was kept the use of a flashlight minimal. He waited and watched. In a few minutes, the figure emerged with a suitcase and some items of clothing thrown over his arm.

  Clothes?

  Yes. Whoever this was had to know Sammie. Friend or foe, he’d lead Case right to her, surely.

  Case raced back to his pickup and once again climbed through the window to keep the dome light off. The guy was getting into a van up the street. Case left his lights off and began to follow, careful to leave space between them. Only when they were off the quiet street and back on a main thoroughfare did he turn on his headlights. He kept pace with the other driver, his heart racing as he focused on not losing his first real hope of finding her.

  They headed toward Old Metairie, and Case cursed as he lost sight of the van. He changed lanes as a truck ahead moved over, and he spotted the van again. After making several turns, the van pulled into the parking lot of an automotive repair shop, and the driver emerged. He headed toward the back of the building and up a staircase, disappearing inside the door at the top of the steps.

  Was she being held there? Had they finally caught her? Why would she be in a commercial district, above a mechanic’s shop? But if she was a prisoner, why would they care if she had fresh clothing?

  Case decided he’d better wait. The sun was coming up, and he’d be too visible. Though he was half-crazy with the need to charge in and look for her, instead he drove past and circled the block, looking for a place to park where he would be inconspicuous. When he found it, he settled in to wait. He still had until noon before he had to meet Bullhorn.

  As morning dawned, he saw the door open at the top of the stairs. His breath left him in a whoosh as he recognized Sammie coming down the stairs, smiling at the man he’d seen last night.

  She didn’t look like his Sammie anymore. Her hair, that beautiful whiskey-brown hair he loved to touch, was caught up in an elegant twist, not a strand out of place. Her suit was creamy white, the double-breasted jacket topped with pearls at her throat. The knee-length straight skirt accentuated her slimness. She carried other clothing over one arm, a filmy garment of some sort, with sandals dangling from her hand.

  This cool elegance was as foreign to the laughing woman in pink Keds as anyone could possibly be.

  When she looked at her companion and kissed his cheek, Case’s blood boiled. When she touched the man’s arm lightly and bestowed a teasing grin, Case wanted to pound the guy’s face into a pulp. He ached to go to her. His heart stirred, just seeing her.

  But what did he really know about her life? Had she made love with him when she was involved with this guy?

  Stop that. You didn’t trust her before and look what happened.

  As the two neared the van, Sammie turned in Case’s direction for a moment. He could see her face clearly; the haunted look she wore was unmistakable. So who was this guy? She was obviously there of her own free will, but if so, why didn’t she look happier?

  As the van pulled out of the parking lot, Case started his pickup. When it refused to catch, he tried again and, like a total rookie, managed to flood the engine.

  He pounded the steering wheel. Hell. He looked down the street. She was gone. He laid his forehead on the steering wheel, trying not to succumb to despair. He raised his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand. He’d wait a while, until he had to meet Bullhorn. Maybe she’d come back.

  He spotted a cafe down the street. He didn’t want to leave, but he needed the men’s room and coffee. He left his pickup and set out on foot, hoping like hell that he wouldn’t miss anything important.

  When he entered the cafe, he felt right at home. The clientele must work in the shops scattered along this street. No one was talking much, just drinking coffee and reading the paper. Instead of taking a booth, he went to the counter and ordered coffee to go, excusing himself to use the restroom while they fixed his cup. When he returned, he joked with the waitress, then asked if she knew any good mechanics. She pointed down the street and told him that the guy’s name was Jerry Benson. A quiet guy who did a good business, he lived over his shop. Case thanked her and left quickly, wary of being gone too long.

  He’d finally found her.

  He’d stick around—this guy was his only connection to her.

  He was not going to lose her again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sammie couldn’t stop jumping at shadows, even though she’d taken every precaution she could think of. Two unique outfits, as different as night and day, even altering her behavior when she’d been with Jerry at each car rental place. At the first, she’d been stern and forbidding, a tough-as-nails career woman. They’d rented a black Lexus, paying for it with cash and using Jerry’s ID.

  At the second, she’d been a kitten, coy and dependent, leaning on Jerry and playing cutesy games. She’d let her hair down and teased it into a wild mane to complete the gypsy image of dangling bracelets and flowing, filmy skirt. They’d used his ID again, something she worried over but had no other option. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about getting fake IDs. Jerry had wanted her to let him take care of the whole thing, but it was bad enough that she’d had to borrow money from him when she had plenty sitting in a bank account she didn’t dare touch.

  They’d taken the additional precaution of using one agency in New Orleans and the second in Metairie. They’d parked the Lexus at a nearby mall. When they’d picked up the second car, a nondescript white Ford sedan, she’d urged Jerry to go back to work.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave her, but she’d finally persuaded him by pointing out the importance of letting nothing appear out of the ordinary at his place. It wasn’t unusual for him to close up for short periods to pick up parts, but he would really raise some eyebrows if he closed for the day in the middle of the week. Only the argument that he’d be protecting her hideaway succeeded in convincing him to go on back.

  What she intended to do now was possibly foolish, but she was in the Taurus with heavily tinted windows, she told herself. If she drove carefully and quickly past, she could try to figure out if her parents’ home was being watched.
She didn’t dwell on how badly she wanted some contact with her old life.

  As she drove down Second Street, snippets of her childhood trailed through her mind. Under the huge old trees, she’d skipped and played with her sisters. She’d played hopscotch and jacks with Mary Louise Bremond, her oldest friend. That young Samantha could never have imagined being afraid to enter this neighborhood, much less haunted by the possibility that she would find herself a danger to her family.

  When she turned onto Prytania, she had to force herself to objectively view her surroundings. Few cars were ever parked out on the street, and she saw none that looked out of place. As she neared her family’s home, her longings intensified. What she wouldn’t give to drive under the porte cochère and run inside to find her father’s strong arms, her mother’s love. Her eyes swam with tears when she spotted a form in the gazebo across the expanse of lawn. Her mother. It had to be her—she’d know that slight form anywhere.

  The sharp edge of guilt, coated with the bitterness of desperation, pierced her soul. She couldn’t endanger her mother—it was madness to be so near. For just a moment, she let herself think of the comfort of laying her head in her mother’s lap as she had done as a child in that very gazebo. The scents of her mother’s beloved garden filled her nostrils, the soft, cool touch of her hands on Sammie’s hair soothed and calmed her. No trouble had ever seemed too unmanageable, no obstacle insurmountable when viewed from the cradle of her mother’s love.

  Sammie wished, in that instant, that she’d never grown up, never realized how fragile her mother was. It was she who was the stronger, she who had to protect her mother now. Sammie made herself drive off, however much she longed to have it all go away.

  As she pulled to a stop at the next corner, she reached across the seat to fumble in her purse for a tissue. Her thoughts raced ahead to her next move, when her eye was caught by a car turning onto Prytania from First Street. She wasn’t sure what had snared her attention—perhaps some animal instinct for danger older than rational thought. She slumped in her seat barely in time to spot a head that looked frighteningly as if it belonged to the man named Frenchy who’d grabbed her at the truck stop.