Passion to Protect

by Colleen Thompson

  Em imitated the bright dinging of a slot machine paying out. “You just won the grand prize! Breakfast out at Toni’s. I seem to remember you’re a sucker for the apple-walnut waffles with whipped cream.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t. My stomach’s all in knots.”

  “Your stomach is rebelling because it’s forgotten what food feels like. Haven’t you noticed how loose your clothes are getting? You’re making me look like a damned parade float standing next to you, and you know how I hate that.”

  Liane surprised herself by laughing. “Good to hear there’s a little healthy self-interest buried in there somewhere. You’ve been so sweet and generous and patient lately, I was beginning to wonder if the pod people had replaced you.”

  Liane ended up agreeing to breakfast, mostly to repay her friend for being the best boss she could imagine, and before long Em’s shameless flirting with the waiter had her blushing.

  “Toni’s going to ban you for life if she catches you hitting on her son like that,” Liane whispered when the nineteen-year-old left their table, a big, loopy grin on his face.

  Em waved off her misbehavior. “She knows I’m just playing.”

  “But does he think so?”

  Em shrugged happily. “Oh, honey. Boys at that age never think. It’s one of my most favorite things about them.”

  “One of these days someone’s going to call your bluff, Em.”

  “Oh, I dearly hope so. And I hope it’s a luscious firefighter this time.”

  Liane dropped her gaze to her coffee, reminded that one of the notches on Em’s bedpost belonged to Jake Whittaker—and she was far more bothered by the fact than she liked to admit.

  “Don’t worry,” Em said soothingly, as if she’d read Liane’s discomfort. “If you’re worried about me swooping in on Jake again, forget it. He’s not my type, believe me.”

  Liane speared her with a look. “Since he lost his leg, you mean?”

  Em set down her coffee cup and made a dismissive gesture. “You know darned well we broke up before he was hurt, so I won’t dignify that with an answer. I meant since he made it clear that he’s the type who plays for keeps.”

  “Jake?”

  Em nodded. “We’d never even done the deed before I had his number.”

  Liane was overwhelmed by the sense of relief cascading through her. “You mean, you two never...?”

  Em shook her head. “No way, not when it was so obvious that man was burned out on the game and looking for a wife. And, heaven help me, babies.”

  She made the sign of the cross, warding off the very notion. Great as she was with Liane’s children, Em had insisted from the time they were in high school that she was cut out to be an eccentric aunt and not a mother.

  Meanwhile, a lump formed in Liane’s throat. She’d always known he wanted his own family, so why shouldn’t he have started looking elsewhere after she’d turned him down? Still, the thought was so painful that pure contrariness had her saying, “For someone supposedly on the make for a wife and kids, he sure seems to spend a lot of time holed up in his cabin.”

  “Last summer had to be hard on him,” Em allowed. “But I’ve been thinking there might be another reason he’s been sticking close to home just lately.” She raised her delicate brows and gave Liane a meaningful look.

  Still thinking of Jake’s gentle strength, of the kiss that had blazed up between them, Liane understood that Em was right, that the tragedy of her father’s death had rekindled feelings on both their parts. But as true as their connection felt, she knew that the fair thing, the right thing, to do would be to distance herself from him instead of allowing both herself and her kids to grow any more dependent.

  Because the Jake she’d come to know again, the man she couldn’t help but care for, deserved a family, the kind that came with kids of his own. And even if she ever emotionally or financially recovered from this latest blow, that was something she could never give him—not since the emergency hysterectomy the surgeons had performed to save her life after the shooting.

  Holding up her palms, she argued, “Jake’s my father’s tenant. That’s all. There’s nothing more between us. Hasn’t been for years.”

  Em scooted her chair back, its feet screeching against the tile.

  “What’s wrong?” Liane demanded, irrationally irritated by the way her friend had attracted the attention of half the cafe.

  “I’m just moving out of range in case you’re struck by lightning,” Em said. “Because I’m pretty sure you’ve never told a bigger lie in all your life.

  * * *

  When her cell phone rang, Liane was packing up the suite she and the kids had been using, and wondering how long it would be before finances would force her to leave her father’s place, too. Grateful for the distraction, she didn’t even bother looking at the Caller ID window when she picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Mason, this is Hal Shoemaker.”

  “Oh, hi, Hal,” she said, recognizing the name of the local feed and tack store owner. Her father had done business with him for decades. “Before I forget, I wanted to say how good it was to see you and your wife at the funeral.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. We all still can’t believe it. I keep expecting your dad to call or walk in to look at the new saddles. My heart goes out to you and your family.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Well, yes. I hate to bother you with this now—”

  “I can’t put off reality forever,” she said, hoping that her already strained bank account wouldn’t be hit too hard. “How much did my father owe you?”

  “No, Liane. It’s not that. Your father had a credit balance. I found an envelope with cash left on my desk one day. He’d not only taken care of his bill, he’d paid in advance for the next five months. I wasn’t sure he’d mentioned it to you, and I thought you ought to know, since your dad mostly did business on a handshake. He was a good customer and a good man.”

  “You’re saying he paid five months ahead in cash? When?”

  “Last month. He paid off what he owed, plus another five months.”

  “How much?” she asked, her voice shaking. “How much did he give you?”

  When Hal Shoemaker named the figure, what should have been good news crashed in on her like a wrecking ball. Because her father couldn’t have come up with that much money. Not through any means she knew of.

  After thanking Hal, she hung up, her mind desperately wheeling through the possibilities. Could her father have cashed in an insurance policy or taken out a loan against the property? Had she missed something, some resource she didn’t know of?

  But as desperately as she tried to come up with other explanations, she had a sinking feeling that she finally knew what Harry Wallace and his deputies were looking for in their third search of the property in as many days.

  And she would be damned if she allowed him to turn her father, a murder victim, a man loved and respected by everyone, into some kind of criminal scapegoat for her ex-husband’s crime.

  * * *

  After forcing open a kitchen window and slipping inside, the first thing Mac did was wolf down a pair of honey-glazed donuts from a box the homeowners had left on the counter. He washed down the lump of doughy sweetness with the still-warm dregs of a pot of coffee, and bitter as it was, he was so grateful that he could have wept for joy.

  He’d just picked up the last donut in the box in his filthy, shaking hand when a bolt of panic stopped him. What the hell was he thinking, snatching food and drink from the counter, where they were sure to be missed, with no more thought than some half-starved animal? For the past week he’d played it smart, lying low in a shuttered old vacation cabin he’d found off a logging road miles from the fire. Though mice had destroy
ed what was left of an old sofa, and the roof was leaky, he’d found a cache of canned goods—much of it years past its expiration date—to supplement what he’d found in the hiker’s backpack, along with the privacy he’d needed to heal from his scrapes, bruises and the racking cough he’d picked up from the smoke.

  But far worse than the physical discomfort were the worries that gnawed at him. Had Liane, in her terror, led both his kids to their deaths? And if she’d died, too, had she taken with her his last hope for finding out what had happened to his money?

  With no TV or newspapers, and not even a working radio in the hikers’ ancient car, it had been his desperation to find out that had finally forced him to risk traveling again, using back roads to thread his way toward the one place where he could find answers. But the closer he’d gotten, the more he’d realized how naked and exposed he was without a weapon, so when he’d seen a pickup truck pull out of a driveway with an older couple inside, he’d decided to take a chance that, like most of the yahoos in this area, they had some sort of gun in the house to ward off troublesome wildlife.

  As he walked through the family room, the sight of several mounted bucks’ heads had him grinning in anticipation, and soon he was on his way, taking with him a pistol he had liberated from the back of a gun cabinet the homeowner had thoughtfully left unlocked.

  As he walked to where he’d hidden his car behind a woodshed, he realized he had taken a huge risk, a foolish risk, choosing a house so close to the Mason ranch. Once his theft was discovered—and the homeowners could return at any moment—he had no doubt that law enforcement would swarm the area and maybe even bring in dogs to try to catch his scent.

  So leave now. Get out while you still can....

  But the thought of abandoning the money—money he’d accumulated through a canny combination of cunning, nerve and patience—stopped him in his tracks. He damned well deserved better from life than skulking like a stray dog and surviving on other people’s leavings. It infuriated him to think of who he’d once been and all the hellish years he’d put in to achieve his success, years he’d spent convincing everyone from get-rich-quick schemers to large corporations’ pension boards to invest.

  Long before any of the others whom he worked with, he’d realized that his boss’s whole elaborate strategy was nothing but a giant Ponzi scheme. At first he had thought of going to the authorities, until he’d realized that in doing so he would lose everything he’d worked for, from the Mercedes to the new house to the reputation that made people look up to him—including the beautiful young innocent he’d wanted from the first time he’d spoken to her.

  Unable to bear the thought, he’d kept on working, skimming a little off the top to take care of his family. And why not? It wasn’t as if any of those greedy and gullible investors were ever going to see their money again anyway, especially not after his boss had funneled off more than a hundred times what Mac had pilfered and disappeared once the FBI and SEC investigations had finally zeroed in on him.

  In the end, however, it was the stolen car that made the decision for him when it stubbornly refused to start. Despite a desperate search of the property, Mac found no vehicle to steal to get him out of there.

  So this was it, he realized. He had no choice but to walk to the Mason ranch. To take one last shot at reclaiming what had been taken from him.

  And one last shot at paying back the woman who had never for a single moment appreciated that everything he’d done, he’d done to make the perfect life his family deserved.

  * * *

  As Jake stepped onto his front porch, Misty slipped out growling, the hackles on her back raised.

  “Back inside,” Jake ordered the dog, who gave one last rumble before tucking her tail between her legs and slinking back through the door. To Harry Wallace, he said, “Sorry. She’s been a little on edge since Deke...”

  “Can’t say as I blame her.” Harry’s forehead creased with concern.

  Noticing the dark circles shadowing the sheriff’s eyes, Jake asked, “Are you doing all right, Harry? You didn’t strain yourself digging for that money, did you?”

  “That’s why I hire young deputies,” Harry countered with a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Don’t you worry, I’ll be all right. It’s just been a lot of long hours lately, that and worrying over what the feds will find that I missed.”

  “Not to mention you lost a good friend last week. Your best friend.”

  Rather than replying, Harry abruptly changed the subject. “So how’s the arm?”

  “Not too bad, considering.” With the sling more a hindrance than a help, Jake had downed a couple of ibuprofen and ditched it a few hours earlier.

  Harry studied his face. “The eye looks a lot better, too. So how have things been out here?”

  “Nice and quiet,” Jake answered, though he’d been lying awake night after night, jumping up and reaching for his gun with every creak and crack in or near the cabin he’d spent his days setting back to rights.

  Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the pain from his gunshot wound, but sometimes it seemed as if Deke was at his side again, still talking about tools and foundations as the two of them planed the floor and sanded down the new cabinets they’d built for the galley-style kitchen.

  “Just because the place is small,” Deke had once told him, “doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be every bit as solid as we can build it. Look at the homestead over there. You think my grandfather built it up to be a great big lodge like that? No, sir. He started out with a little place no bigger than this bunkhouse. As the children started coming, he and he sons built on all around and above it. But inside those old walls is the beating heart of everything my grandfather and his sons created, everything I have, you hear me? Even if I’m long gone, if all the rest burns down or blows away, it’s the one place my family can always look to for their future.”

  At the time Jake had only nodded, filing Deke’s seemingly idle chatter away with all the other advice he had always been so eager to impart. But knowing what he knew now, Jake couldn’t help but wonder what else the old man had been hinting at.

  He knew he should mention it to Harry, to point him in the direction that had been taking shape in his mind ever since he remembered the conversation. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, not without first checking out his hunch himself—and thinking through how any discovery might impact Liane.

  Harry released a sigh. “Can’t say I haven’t been a little worried, even with your buddy Herbert back in custody. But I guess I would’ve heard from you if there’d been any sign of trouble out here.”

  Jake offered a strained smile. “Right after I shot whatever it was dead, you would’ve been first on my list to call.”

  Harry smiled back and nodded. “Can’t say I blame you. Listen, Jake. I want you to know that this is it for us. My deputies and I are turning the investigation over to the FBI this afternoon. They’ll send a team to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb. And they have the resources to search for any additional assets or offshore accounts that might be involved.”

  “Then you really think Deke took that money?”

  Harry shook his head. “At this point, I’ve got no idea. But I can tell you for certain, whatever Deke might’ve done, you can bet your life he did it for his family. Maybe he figured after everything Mac put Liane though, she deserved a secure home, at the very least.”

  Jake was inclined to agree, but he didn’t imagine any judge would. “Have you told her yet?”

  Harry shook his head. “I’ve been putting that part off, but I’m heading over to the lodge to try to catch her right now.”

  “I don’t envy you that conversation,” Jake said, “but once the Feds start digging, there won’t be any keeping it from her anyway.”

  “Maybe they won’t find anything, just like you said.”r />
  “I hope to God they don’t,” Jake said, “because the last thing Deke ever would’ve wanted is to see this place auctioned off to strangers.”

  As Harry prepared to leave, the two shook hands, and Jake couldn’t help but notice that the sheriff wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  * * *

  Jake knew that if he were caught, he would be arrested, that if he found anything at all and didn’t immediately report it, he could be charged with obstructing an investigation, tampering with evidence, or maybe even theft. But with no one in sight, he shoved aside those worries and went to the tack room where Deke kept his tools.

  He tucked a pair of work gloves into the back pocket of his jeans, then grabbed a hammer, a screwdriver, a pickax and a crowbar. About halfway to the homestead, he belatedly remembered the set of house keys Liane had left him. Cursing his forgetfulness, he turned back to his cabin, intent on grabbing them, then getting down to business.

  But before he could leave, Misty pranced and yelped, air-kissing the door as she fanned her thick gray tail.

  “Liane,” he murmured, recognizing the greeting the dog reserved for family members. Cursing Liane’s timing, he looked around the cabin for a place to stash the tools. Left with few options since his cleanup, he ducked behind the half wall obscuring this bedroom and had just shoved everything beneath the bed, hidden by the oversize fringed spread, when the knocking started.

  “Just a second,” he called, breathing hard as he rushed to the door. “Liane, what’s going on?” he asked a moment later, taken aback to see her looking as furious as a shaken bag of bees. Could she have spotted him with the tools when she’d been driving up and jumped to the wrong conclusion?

  Instead of hurling accusations, she fended off Misty’s greeting and said, “I thought I’d catch Harry out here. When did he leave?”

  So she was gunning for the sheriff. Jake wondered if she’d somehow figured out what Harry suspected her father of.