Dakota Marshal Page 5

  His stomach clenched, but beyond that, he didn’t react. Didn’t want to think about Alessandra as part of his past. He knew it was unfair to her, and really, if he’d been asked, he wouldn’t have been able to explain to anyone, least of all himself, why he rejected the thought of divorce so completely.

  “McBride, look out!”

  When she made a grab for the wheel, he swore. Directly in front of them, in the middle of the road, stood a white-tailed doe and two half-grown fawns. He swerved, hit the brakes and felt the truck begin to slide.

  The back end struck something—not one of the deer, he hoped—fishtailed and slammed into a large spruce. Which was the only thing that kept them from falling into the creek bed some thirty feet below.

  Several seconds passed before Alessandra released a slow breath. “If it’s any consolation, we missed the deer. Did we damage anything?”

  “Only the outer edges of my pride.”

  Her eyes danced a little. “So nothing important, then.”

  “I’ll let you know in a minute.”

  It didn’t take half that time to determine that the rear axle was bent. Not undrivable, but the work needed would cost more than just money.

  With Alessandra’s help, McBride changed the flattened left tire and limped the truck the rest of the way to Ben’s Creek.

  One of the things he’d always appreciated—and, yes, loved—about Alessandra was that she never bitched or berated. She did what she could, what she had to and left the rest to him.

  The unpaved road widened, the terrain began to open up and the woods thinned as they approached the valley town of Ben’s Creek. Small houses dotted the landscape. He saw a kid with an iPod, train tracks bordered by weeds half as high as his truck and a small filling station with three men sitting in chairs beneath the overhang.

  Alessandra regarded the unmoving trio. “Doesn’t look terribly promising, does it?”

  “It’d look a lot better if they saw you.”

  Unfastening her seat belt, she stretched her back muscles. “I figure it’ll take the better part of a day to repair that axle, McBride. Given the fact that it’s after eight now, getting dark and I have no intention of sleeping in your truck again, someone in this town is going to see me. Might as well be these guys.”

  She had the door open before he could get his teeth unclenched. How the hell had she gotten more bewitching since their separation? More to the point, how was he supposed to fight the hunger gnawing in his belly and his groin?

  Stuffing his gun in his waistband, McBride reached for his jacket, forced a lid down on the heat and followed her into the thankfully cool night air.

  Every head on the porch went up at Alessandra’s approach. “Hello.” McBride heard the smile in her voice and allowed himself a vague one of his own. Just keep breathing, boys. The blood will start moving again in a minute.

  The youngest of the men, seventy-five if he was a day, stood. “Hello back at you, ma’am. I’m Larry Dent. These are my brothers. Folks hereabouts call ’em Curly and Moe.”

  “What did your parents call them?”

  “Among other things, Curly and Moe. Our ma died watching the Stooges on TV.” His grin gave way to a shrewd once-over for McBride. “You together?”

  Since he didn’t mean that in the traveling sense, McBride draped an arm across Alessandra’s shoulders. “Married six years. Is there a mechanic in town?”

  “Repair shop’s mine,” the oldest and least mobile of the trio said. “Closed till morning, I’m afraid.”

  If he was the mechanic, it probably wouldn’t matter.

  “Engine trouble?” Larry asked. The question was directed at Alessandra.

  She fell easily into the part. “If it was that, my husband could fix it, no problem. We went for a bit of a slide to avoid some wildlife and wound up damaging our back end.”

  The owner, Moe, creaked toward the stairs. “Let’s have a look-see, Mr….?”

  “Abbott,” Alessandra supplied.

  She used her mother’s surname. Going with it, McBride added a cheerful, “Joseph Abbott. My wife’s Chastity. Her sister’s due to give birth any day now. We need to get to Pennsylvania as soon as possible.”

  Alessandra watched old Moe descend the stairs. “We heard there was an accident on the main highway, so we took an alternate route this morning and pretty much stayed on it.”

  “Surprised your truck’s not in worse shape, considering.” Old Moe finally reached solid ground. “Nice machine, though. Don’t see many like it ’round here.”

  That couldn’t be good.

  Larry’s eyes were glued to Alessandra. “Will you be wanting a motel?”

  Her delighted “Is there one nearby?” brought an expression that would have earned the man a fist in the stomach if he’d been a day under seventy.

  Pivoting, Larry pointed. “Norm and his ma have a place a mile and half out of town on old 17. It ain’t much, but it’s clean. You get your gear. I’ll run you over, make sure there’s someone to check you in. Moe here’ll ring up one of his workers. Should know by lunchtime tomorrow if we can help you enough so you can leave town.”

  Alessandra thanked him, then climbed into the truck and began handing down their backpacks. “Between Norm, his mom and Eddie, I’m not sure I like our chances here, McBride.”

  He said nothing. He was already envisioning a painful night ahead, a prediction that had nothing to do with his injured shoulder.

  They transferred their supplies to a thirty-year-old Dodge pickup. “Ruthie’s not partial to pretty women,” Larry warned McBride as he squeezed into the seat. “Best all around if you do the talking.”

  “He usually does,” Alessandra said from between them.

  McBride knew better than to chuckle. He also knew better than to let himself be distracted by the prospect of spending yet another night in close quarters with her. Last night had been relatively easy. She’d taken the backseat. He’d toughed it out in the front. And used the hole in his shoulder to full advantage whenever his mind had taken a dangerous turn.

  Ruthie was planted on a barstool at the front desk when they arrived. She looked almost as pickled as Norman Bates’s mother in Psycho. As predicted, she ignored Alessandra and dealt solely with McBride.

  “Phones don’t work.” She poked the guest register he was perusing. “Lights and water do. TV reception depends on the wind. Only got one guest—he’s in twelve—and some other guy who’s renting lot space on account of he likes the smell of incense and I don’t. Neither of ’em are here right now, but that doesn’t mean you can have yourselves a wild party.”

  An enormous gray cat emerged from the back room and headed straight for Alessandra. Ruthie’s mouth compressed. She tapped stubby fingers and averted her eyes. “If you need food, there’s a café in town. Moe’s oldest boy does the cooking after he closes up the gas station for the day.”

  “Sounds good.” McBride looked over at Alessandra but noticed she was preoccupied by the cat.

  “Your cat has ringworm,” she announced, crouching for a closer look. “I can give you the name of something that will take care of the problem.”

  McBride expected the woman to snarl at the offer. Instead, her wrinkled face took on a suspicious cast. “What’s ringworm, and how come you know about it?”

  “It’s a parasitic infection.” She caught the look McBride sent her and added an innocent, “My husband and I have a farm in Iowa. Our cat had ringworm, but he’s better now thanks to the medication.”

  Ruthie snorted. “I told that no-good doctor something was wrong with Puddles. But would he listen? No, he only does people, not pets.” She slammed the register closed, shoved the key at McBride. “You’re in seven.” She looked to Alessandra. “What needs to be done?”

  “There’s a shampoo that will take care of the problem. You can order it online. It comes in a concentrate. Follow the instructions, and Puddles will be fine.”

  The old woman raked her from head to toe. �
�You sure you two are married, because my Norm has a fondness for dark-haired ladies.”

  For “ladies,” McBride read something a little less flattering. So did Alessandra, but she let it go and pulled the necklace from under her T-shirt.

  “My wedding rings.” She jingled them. “I’ve lost weight so they’re too loose to wear.”

  McBride’s eyes narrowed. The old woman’s face cleared.

  “Guess maybe you’re okay, then. Write down the cure for Puddles and give it to Larry. He’s got that internet. Norm and me don’t.”

  When they emerged, Larry grinned and lowered the truck’s rear gate. “Am I seeing things or did Ruthie just crack a smile?”

  “Is that what that was?” McBride used his good arm to take out the bags. Then he paused as a prickle of unease slithered across his skin.

  His gaze swept the narrow lot. The only vehicles in sight were an old mini school bus turned camper and a Ford Escort from the eighties. Insects chirped in the neighboring trees and leaves rustled overhead. Beyond that and a faulty flickering light in the motel sign, nothing stirred.

  “What’s wrong?” Alessandra followed his trajectory.

  He made a final sweep and set the last of their packs on the ground. “Not sure.”

  Larry clapped him on his bad shoulder. “Likely you’re just worried about your pregnant sister, Joseph.”

  “My sister.” Alessandra printed the name of the ringworm medication and handed him the notepaper. “This is for Puddles. Tell Ruth to follow the instructions, and he’ll be as good as new in no time.”

  Larry seemed curious, but didn’t question them further. “I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner since you rolled in on old 17,” he said as they walked toward the motel room. “I’ll run on over to Moe’s Café and fetch you a couple of burgers. My brother’s boy Morley’s only a so-so mechanic, but he can whip up a barbecue sauce that’ll make your eyes water for three days. Give me thirty minutes.” He chuckled. “Service tends to be a mite slow seeing as Morley’s only got three fingers on his right hand.”

  Small towns, McBride reflected. You had to love ’em.

  The motel room was small, poorly lit and boasted a double bed that resembled a canoe. Alessandra gave it and him a meaningful look before grabbing her backpack and heading for the bathroom. “Chastity and I want to freshen up.”

  He could have pressed her for an explanation of the rings, but since he still had his wedding band and occasionally wore it around his own neck, he decided to let the subject drop. For now.

  He prowled the room as Alessandra had Joan’s cabin last night. His mind seesawed back and forth between the present and the past.

  He’d made their lives difficult from the start with prolonged absences and work-related secrets he couldn’t or wouldn’t share. But it was his gradual withdrawal that had hurt Alessandra the most. By year three of their marriage, and right near the end of his time as a Chicago cop, he’d been moody and short-tempered, disinclined to talk and pissed off at the world in general.

  She’d ridden it out, because she loved him, he assumed, but of course, he hadn’t explained much, and eventually she’d stopped asking.

  Joining the U.S. marshals had improved his outlook on what he considered to be a failing justice system, but it had also taken him away from her for even longer periods of time.

  He stopped the thought there as a single headlight slashed across the partly shaded motel window.

  A motorcycle with a beer-bellied driver cruised past, then roared off. The prickle returned and this time snaked down his spine.

  He heard the shower running in the background. Music dribbled from a scratchy speaker system. Carrie Underwood was slashing her ex’s tires—and Alessandra was wet, naked and less than twenty feet away.

  Swearing softly, McBride let his eyes flick to the door. A grim smile played on his lips when he realized he was seriously considering slamming his injured shoulder into the frame in an effort to get his thoughts back in line.

  At long last, the water stopped. Releasing a breath, he reached back and pulled the gun from his waistband.

  He was setting the weapon and his badge on the nightstand when Alessandra screamed.

  Chapter Six

  A pair of mud-brown eyes glinted courtesy of the hanging, and currently swinging, bathroom light. Alessandra had hit it with her hand when she’d jumped back. Her heart pounded, her leg muscles wobbled—and those muddy eyes kept right on staring at her.

  She didn’t realize she’d screamed until the bathroom door opened and McBride appeared behind her. With his gun in one hand, he reached for her arm with the other. He stepped in front of her and although nothing dangerous presented itself, his eyes continued to move around the room. “What happened, Alessandra?”

  Her legs firmed up as the last of her fear dissolved.

  “It’s nothing… Or, well, not much. I opened this door.” She tapped a tall cupboard next to the shower. “And there she was.”

  McBride turned the knob. Once again, Ruthie appeared, in glossy cardboard, large as life and propped up by a heavy metal stand. A motel key dangled from her upraised fingers, and she had a lethal come-in-or-else gleam in her eyes.

  “This scared you?” Alessandra caught the trace of humor in McBride’s voice and gave him a swat between the shoulder blades.

  “You try opening a door to what you think is the linen closet, find that face staring at you in bad light and see how you react. No wonder they hid it away. A roadside sign like that would terrify kids, adults and probably small animals.”

  Alessandra was so busy being indignant that it didn’t occur to her she was wearing nothing except a skimpy white towel. Until she spied the far less malevolent but equally wicked gleam in McBride’s eyes.

  “Uh… Hmm.” She looked down, let her hand fall from his back. “This is awkward.”

  “Not from where I’m standing.”

  “I’m not dressed, McBride.”

  “I noticed.” The gleam became a glitter. He lowered the gun.

  Something inside her heart stuttered. “Sex will only mess things up.”

  He gave a brief laugh. “Darlin’, things can’t get more messed up than they are at this moment.”

  He had a point. That didn’t make him right.

  “I want to keep our relationship simple.”

  “Not possible, Alessandra. Nothing’s ever been simple for us. That’s why it all screwed up.” A wry smile tugged at his lips. “Or I did.”

  He was doing it again, holding her with his eyes, making her want to retreat and stand her ground at the same time.

  He eased her up against the wall, set a hand next to her head.

  “McBride…” she warned through her teeth.

  Time stopped right there. Time and every scrap of common sense Alessandra possessed. “God help me,” she finally murmured. And with a bolstering breath, she bunched the sides of his open shirt in her fists and dragged his mouth onto hers.

  THE HEAT IN THE ROOM, and most definitely in her body, shot up a full one hundred degrees. The kiss was an arousing jolt, surging through her veins like liquid fire.

  There never had been anything sweet or slow or tentative between them. Need fused instantly with a hunger Alessandra couldn’t seem to obliterate from her memory.

  Greed pumped from him into her and back. Desire spiked. His tongue found hers, then plunged in deeper until she groaned.

  His fingers tangled in her hair. Her hands slid over his rib cage. He was so hot. His skin was smooth, his muscles sleek and every inch of him was deliciously hard.

  She was drowning, she realized, losing herself in the feel of him, in the taste of his mouth and the weight of his body as he crushed her against the wall.

  She couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to. A thousand tiny pulse points snapped to life. His lips explored her face, her cheeks, her eyelids, ran along the side of her neck to her throat.

  Another pulse jumped. She wanted to push him onto the floor,
to let the animal sounds rising in her throat escape.

  Energy zinged around them, a great electric cloud of it. It had a beat.

  “Like a drum,” she murmured aloud as she let her head fall back so he could kiss her throat.

  McBride’s lips curved on her skin. “Not a drum, darlin’. There’s someone at the door.”

  Someone… What? Her eyes opened, her head came up. Frustration and a rather unsettling amount of disappointment crept in. “Larry?”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  She wanted to say, “Damn,” but turned it into a sigh. “There must be some deep cosmic reason for his timing.”

  “Yeah.” McBride took one last taste of her mouth before backing off. “Morley’s not as slow as he thought.” Trapping her chin between his thumb and fingers, he stared into her eyes and said, “Don’t move.”

  She didn’t, for a full ten seconds after he left. Not because he’d said it, but because her limbs trembled, and that intrigued her as much as it unnerved her. With her brain too rattled to sort any of it out, she simply waited until the sensations passed—more slowly than she would have liked. Then she closed the door on Ruthie’s face and let her towel fall to the floor.

  It only took her a few minutes to dress and finger fluff her wet hair. Even so, she wasn’t surprised to find McBride outside with Larry, talking. She couldn’t hear them but she knew they weren’t discussing the burgers that sat in a big brown bag on the phone desk.

  Sitting down, she unwrapped one. And she had to admit, Three-Finger Morley could cook.

  The men talked for several minutes. Finally, with a wave for McBride and a broad wink through the window for her, Larry started off.

  “You moved,” McBride said when he came back in. But she knew his mind was miles away and already in overdrive. “Cheech is dead.”