Texas Stakeout. Virna DePaul
15
U.S. Marshal Dylan Rooney was on a stakeout. Only in the hill country of Texas a stakeout didn’t mean sitting in an unmarked sedan, drinking coffee and eating donuts. Nope. A Texas stakeout meant sitting on the back of a horse. And Dylan, who was a mediocre rider at best, had drawn the short straw in more ways than one. As a marshal, it wasn’t uncommon for him to work away from his home base in California. It was, however, uncommon for him to be this bored. And this sore.
He much preferred traveling by plane, train or automobile—the faster and sleeker the mode of transportation, the better—than relying on a four-legged best from hell.
While two other marshals from Dylan’s five-member team, and several other marshals from various states, scoured the country for Jackson Kincaid, a prisoner who’d recently escaped transport in California, Dylan was on his third day in Nowhere, Texas, binoculars trained on the ranch owned by Jackson Kincaid’s sister, Rachel. Besides the sheer boredom of it all, it wouldn’t have been a bad assignment, but he hadn’t counted on his damn horse having anxiety issues. Ginger, the horse he’d rented from an adjacent farm, wouldn’t stop dancing in the red Texas dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust in Dylan’s face.
It would be the height of stupidity for Kincaid to run here, especially given that it was where he was first taken into custody, but it still had to be covered. Dylan and his team would do whatever it took to apprehend Kincaid, even if it meant endless hours of watching Kincaid’s ten-year-old nephew popping soda cans off fence posts with a BB gun.
The kid wasn’t a half-bad shot, Dylan thought just as his mother came into view. Dylan sat up higher on the horse and pressed the binoculars tighter to his face, watching as she made the long hike up the western fence line and across the field to where her kid stood, BB gun at his side. Just as it had when he’d first seen her picture—hell, every time he’d caught a glimpse of her in the past few days—Dylan’s pulse accelerated. Rachel Kincaid was nothing like the sophisticated women Dylan normally dated, but she was hands-down gorgeous. Willowy and tall, she had a dark Texas tan and dark eyes that clashed with the vibrant near white of her blond hair. She worked hard—too hard—and there was no doubt she loved her son, Peter, to distraction.
Too bad she had lousy taste in men, her brother and deceased husband included. Her husband’s alcohol problem and subsequent drunk driving accident had left Rachel a widow.
And her brother?
He’d taken everything his sister had sacrificed for him and flushed it down the toilet the minute he’d agreed to transport drugs across state lines.
Now Rachel was basically running the ranch by herself. She had some help, but not much.
Earlier, the woman had been conferring with her only ranch hand—records listed him as Josiah Pemberly, age sixty-three—down at the natural spring. Though Dylan hadn’t been able to hear their conversation, it had appeared pleasant, with both parties smiling a lot. Now that Rachel had reached her son, the conversation going on between them seemed far from pleasant. As Rachel spoke, the child stood motionless, his back to her. Frowning, Rachel lifted a hand as if to reach out to the boy, then stopped. Shaking her head, she wheeled around and strode quickly back to the ranch house, her entire posture stiff with frustration.
The woman was sexy as hell, Dylan thought, but it was obvious she had no control over her kid. And she’d obviously lost control of her brother, whom she’d essentially raised, a long time ago. Dylan just hoped her kid didn’t end up taking the same path in life that his uncle had.
Dylan dropped the binoculars so they hung on their leather strap around his neck. Day three in the stakeout for Jackson Kincaid, and all Dylan had seen at the Kincaid ranch was one gorgeous yet overworked woman, her sullen brat, one elderly ranch hand and a bunch of weird-looking llamas. At least, he figured they were llamas. Texas was getting too froufrou. Whatever had happened to sheep and cattle ranching?
The next fifteen minutes passed in a drone of boredom. The ranch hand kept mending the fence. The kid continued popping soda cans off fence posts. Dylan gulped down water until the wind picked up, snapping more dust into his eyes and sending a tumbleweed straight at his horse.
“Whoa,” he murmured, tightening his grip on the reins with one hand and wrapping his other hand in Ginger’s mane. The mare shied, as expected, but Dylan managed to hang on and focused on maintaining his seat and keeping his feet in the stirrups. He fought for control, working to recall the instructions his camp counselor had taught him the year the state had sent him to summer camp in the boonies.
“Keep your seat. Don’t yank on the reins. Dig your heels down.”
And then he heard a shriek wend its way upward from the valley below.
The kid? The mother? Dylan wrapped the reins around his fist to control the horse and brought the binoculars back to his eyes. The kid had dropped his BB gun and was running toward the house. Dylan panned the lenses over to the house but didn’t see the porch door swing open. In the few days that he’d been spying on the Kincaid Ranch, Rachel had always come running whenever the kid wanted her. Now? Nothing. Had something happened to her?
“Mom!”
The single word caught on the edge of the wind and whipped up the ridge to Dylan. Desperation filled the boy’s single word.
Dylan loosened his grip on the reins and squeezed with his knees, yelling, “Yiya!”
Ginger responded by leaping forward. Immediately she settled into a gallop and headed down the ridge to the valley. The ranch house was only about a quarter mile away as the crow flies, but the trail down the ridge zigzagged like a pinball machine. Still, even with all the switchbacks, he’d probably be able to reach the kid in time to help.
Assuming he didn’t get thrown and break his neck first, of course.
* * *
Rachel Kincaid let her long hair drip water down her back. The cold shower had felt good and had taken the biting edge off her nerves. With their higher elevation, the Texas heat usually stayed away from the ranch, but not this summer. This summer the heat got to her. Or maybe it was that Peter kept getting to her.
God, she loved her son, but he’d never been an easy kid. Often affectionate and sweet and funny but also hyperactive. Defiant. Impulsive.
Six months ago he’d been diagnosed with attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. At the time, she’d been relieved to have an explanation for his moodiness that didn’t come with being