Texas Stakeout

New York Times bestselling author Virna DePaul thrills with this story of a killer in waiting and a brother in hiding. Could they be the same person?

Dylan Rooney is out of his element. A U.S. marshal and city-wrangler at heart, he must adopt a new cover—and a new client—in the heart of Texas. The assignment: protect Rachel Kincaid, a widow with a young son who realizes her struggles are just beginning when her ranch hand is killed. Posing as the new ranch hand, Dylan quickly learns that catching a killer may not be so simple—especially when Rachel’s fugitive brother is the prime suspect. And when the woman he’s vowed to protect is the same woman he’s falling in love with.

Her chin rose, and slowly, so did her gaze, until she made visual contact.

She cleared her throat, the sound delicate yet deliberate, then spoke. “Like you said, we’re attracted to each other. I thought my reaction to you was a fluke. But this…”

“But this was real,” he finished for her. “No aberration. No fluke.” He knew not to press her, but rather to let her draw out her own conclusions.

She shook her head, sending her hair flowing in the gentle evening breeze. “I want you and you want me.”

He wove his fingers under her hair and stroked the soft skin covering the back of her neck with the pads of his thumb. “That’s a truth I would never deny. But my job. Your brother. Our feelings complicate things, Rachel.”

“I know.” She took a step back, breaking their contact, and blew out a sharp breath. “So while this was fun…” She waved her hands in the air, as if gesturing to their momentary lapse of judgment.

“So while this was fun, it’s over now,” he said firmly.

“Exactly.”

Yeah, they could both wish that were the case. But he knew in his bones it simply wasn’t true.

Dear Reader,

The last few books I’ve written for the Mills & Boon Romantic Suspense line have involved heroes in law enforcement, and this one is no different. Dylan Rooney is a U.S. marshal who is tracking down a fugitive in Texas—a place very different from where he grew up in California. That’s just one of the reasons Dylan feels thrown off balance throughout the book.

The other big reason is Rachel Kincaid, the heroine, who just happens to be the sister of the man Dylan is hunting. Rachel is a strong, independent single mother who believes deeply in her brother’s goodness, so when Dylan shows up accusing him of murder, it’s natural for Rachel to view him as the enemy. Then the real enemies show up.

As Rachel is forced to rely on Dylan for protection, the more she begins to like and respect him, and this includes his dedication to upholding the U.S. Marshals motto: Justice, Integrity, Service. Throughout the story, Rachel and Dylan face a similar dilemma: how to reconcile one’s duty with feelings of desire and love that seem to conflict with that duty.

I hope you enjoy their story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Wishing you much love and happiness always,

Virna DePaul

Texas Stakeout

Virna DePaul

VIRNA DEPAUL

was an English major in college and, despite a passion for Shakespeare, Broadway musicals and romance novels, somehow ended up with a law degree. For ten years, she was a criminal prosecutor for the state of California. Now she’s thrilled to be writing stories about complex individuals (fully human or not) who are willing to overcome incredible odds for love. She can be found on Twitter at @virnadepaul or at virnadepaul.com.

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For James. I miss you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

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 labeled a failure of a parent. But she’d also been overwhelmed and uncertain of her ability to do right by her son. After doing tons of research on the subject, she’d reluctantly agreed to get him on medicine, something that had seemed to help right away. Putting Peter on a schedule that still provided him lots of downtime had helped even more. By the time the school year had ended, he’d been doing so much better and their relationship had become downright rosy.

Now, however, the prolonged time they’d been spending together over summer vacation was beginning to take its toll. So was the fact that Peter missed his uncle Jax; even if he didn’t know the real reason Jax had left last year, he was confused by Jax’s failure to visit or call. Peter missed him, and he was bored with just her and Josiah for company. And Rachel? She missed her brother, too. Missed him terribly. She was also tired from working the ranch. From working Jax’s appeal. From her frequent battles with Peter. It made her feel guilty, but she wanted summer to be over. Wanted the heat gone. Wanted Peter back in school where he could sass his teachers for part of the day instead of her.

She stepped into a worn but clean pair of Levi’s jeans and pulled a tank over her still-dripping hair, knowing it wasn’t fair to compare Peter to what her brother, Jax, had been like at ten but doing it, anyway. Jax had been...easy. Then again, Jax hadn’t had ADHD. And, when Jax had just turned ten, their parents were still alive and she was in her first year in college; she probably wouldn’t have noticed if Jax had given her parents attitude, anyway. Afterward, with their parents gone before he turned eleven, Jax had been so grief-stricken it had taken months before he’d smiled again, let alone thrown attitude.

Peter, on the other hand, had been offering up enough sass to fill a silo. The way he’d turned his back on her earlier when she asked him to stop shooting the pellet gun and fill up the alpacas’ water trough had just about driven her out of her skin. She’d had to walk away before she lost it and started yelling at him.

She grabbed her boots but stopped when she heard something.

Peter calling her. The tenor of his high-pitched voice came through the open bedroom window, urgent and scared.

Her heart leaped into her throat. Her baby needed her.

She didn’t bother with the boots, and instead rushed down the stairs and burst out onto the porch, looking for her son.

There, racing from the western fence line where she’d left him only fifteen minutes ago, came Peter. And coming toward him from the opposite direction, in a cloud of red dust, rode a stranger on a galloping chestnut quarter horse.

“Peter!” she screamed, and ran to him. She stumbled as the rocks on the drive bit into her feet but kept on going.

“Mom, you’ve gotta help!” Peter cried out when she reached him. He wrapped his arms around her and sobbed into her shoulder.

Heart pounding, Rachel held her son tight and faced the rider who brought his horse to an ungainly stop next to them. He seemed about her age, or maybe just a few years older—maybe early thirties. Wide shoulders, legs long against the barrel of the horse. Blue jeans, a plaid snap-front long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows and his Stetson said cowboy, yet his unscuffed boots and the clean felt of his hat screamed of falsehood.

Wait. She knew his horse: Ginger. A horse from her neighbor Aaron Jacobson’s herd. The same neighbor harassing her about the fence line. Hell. Today of all days she didn’t need to deal with a stupid land dispute. And she didn’t need some city slicker to give her a hard time about the spring.

“I don’t know who you are or why Aaron sent you to hassle my kid,” she snapped out at the stranger, “but I swear to God, if you don’t get off my property, I’ll call the sheriff on you. You and Aaron leave my kid alone,” she nearly growled, holding a sobbing Peter even tighter. “Whatever issues that man has with the property line can be handled in court—not by intimidating a child.”

The man slid off Ginger in an awkward motion and stepped forward, palms held upward in a universal gesture of peace. He came closer and she stood shaking, watching his every step, until he stopped a few feet in front of her. His deep blue eyes were steady and without malice. Didn’t matter. He was tall—at least six foot two—and he towered over her and Peter; his wide shoulders and military posture screamed intimidation.

But she was a mother. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. Not when her kid was crying against her shoulder.

“My name’s Dylan, ma’am,” the man said. “Dylan Rooney. And I’m not here about your neighbor. I was riding the ridge, uh, bird-watching, and I saw the kid playing with his BB gun. Next thing I knew I heard him screaming and running to the house. I figured something had happened and came down the hill to help. Kid—” he directed his statement to Peter, who’d raised his tear-streaked face away from her shoulder “—are you hurt?”

Peter pulled away from Rachel and swiped futilely at the tears that kept streaming down his face. “No, it’s not me. It’s...it’s...” Anguish froze his expression, his mouth gaping and open, shutting off whatever he’d been about to say.

Rachel reached for him, but Peter took another step away from her. The distance, a mere two inches, ripped yet another hole in Rachel’s heart. He’d needed her—and then he hadn’t. She couldn’t help thinking of all the family she’d lost—her parents and even her brother in a way. She swallowed the lump of emotional pain down and said, “I heard you ask for my help, Peter. What’s wrong?”

The man—Dylan—came forward and placed a solid hand on Peter’s shoulder. Somehow the masculine grip held Peter together in a way Rachel’s soft hold hadn’t, because Peter took a shaky breath and the tears stopped flowing.

“It’s Josiah...”

Josiah. Her ranch hand. And friend. A sensation like a cold hand slid up her back. Twenty minutes ago she’d checked in on him as he repaired the fence on the property line she shared with Aaron Jacobson. Had Aaron gone too far this time? Was Aaron causing Josiah trouble?

Her neighbor had been a real pain in the neck ever since he discovered a natural spring right on her side of the fence line a couple of years ago. He’d been digging around the courthouse records, trying to prove the spring was actually on his own land. She’d been too preoccupied with running the ranch, keeping Peter in line and working on the appeal process for her brother to deal with Aaron’s constant haranguing, but she’d finally referred him to Julia Rickel, her friend and lawyer, who’d threatened lawsuits and police action and whatnot if Aaron didn’t back off. Aaron had made it clear he hadn’t liked what he considered to be Julia’s threats.

She opened her mouth to speak, but the stranger beat her to the question she was about to ask.

“Kid,” Dylan said, “what happened? Where’s Josiah?”

Peter hitched a breath and pointed back to the fence line. “He’s over there. B-b-but it’s too late. We’re too late.”

The cold hand on Rachel’s back now gripped her throat. No.

“Too late for what, Peter?” she whispered.

“Too late to help. Josiah’s dead.”

Chapter 2

Rachel’s face had turned so white that Dylan expected her to faint at any moment. He reached out a hand, offering to steady her, but she waved him away. Of course she did. He was a stranger. She had no reason to trust him.

He turned to Peter, whose expression was still alight with panic. Had Jackson Kincaid snuck on the property without Dylan noticing? Seemed unlikely, but...

He followed the kid’s pointing finger with his line of sight.

The boy’s voice shook as he said, “Way up the fence line, next to the spring.”

“Did you see anyone up there with him?” Dylan asked.

The boy shook his head.

“Are you certain he’s...dead?” Rachel’s voice came out on a whisper of a breath.

Peter swallowed and nodded, his eyes filling back up with tears. “He has a big hole in his head and there’s a lot of blood and his eyes are open and not moving and he doesn’t have a pulse,” he said breathlessly. “I checked. Then I ran to get you.”

Oh, hell. This wasn’t some kid making a desperate bid for attention. This was real. “You and the kid get into the house and lock yourselves in,” he ordered even as he mentally cursed. As if that would do a lot of good if Jackson Kincaid was on the ranch. He was her brother, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d view him as a threat to her or her son. And truth be told, Dylan had no reason to think Jackson would hurt them. Still, the man had proven himself to be violent and if he’d killed Josiah...

Rachel started, staring at him with wide brown eyes, pupils dilating. “What— Why?”

“Just to be safe. Call 911. Use the landline. Tell them to get an ambulance here immediately.”

Rachel looked from Dylan to her son, then raised her chin. “Peter, do as he says. Lock all the doors and wait for the ambulance, okay? I’m going to check on Josiah.”

“I can do that—” Dylan began, but Peter was already running into the house.

“Not without me,” she said. She watched the house until Peter had slammed the door behind him, then strode toward Ginger. She put a bare foot into the stirrup and easily swung herself up onto Dylan’s horse, then kicked her feet out of the stirrups. “You coming?” she asked. “Because I’m not leaving you here alone with my kid.”

Dylan struggled with indecision. He wanted to insist he check on the ranch hand by himself, but this was her private property and what reason could he possibly give for thinking there might be something or someone dangerous out there? Not the truth, certainly. Not yet. Not when the most likely explanation was that her ranch hand had had some kind of accident.

When Rachel raised her eyebrows impatiently and leaned forward, he slid his booted foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up behind her. Ginger danced for a few seconds, then settled as he used his knees to nudge her forward. He wrapped an arm around Rachel’s waist and pulled her in tight to his chest. She was stiff but didn’t resist. The quarter horse, her hooves steady despite the added weight, settled into an easy lope.

“So, are you a friend of Aaron’s?” Rachel asked over her shoulder. “Did he send you out to spy on us? Did he tell you about the crazy widow and her bratty kid?” Bitterness edged her words, which came out jumpy and breathless as Ginger continued to cover the uneven terrain.

Not exactly, Dylan thought. The Department of Corrections had told him about her brother and his brazen escape, and research had informed his team about Rachel, the sister whom Jackson Kincaid thought of as his mother, and Rachel’s son. Of course, Dylan didn’t tell Rachel that. Lying to her wasn’t his first choice, but he also didn’t want her clamming up and getting irrational when there was a potential crisis to deal with.

“He just loaned me a horse. We’re not friends. Does Josiah have a history of any sort of heart condition? Stroke?”

“No health issues. He’s older, but healthy. He’s repaired the fence line time after time. I don’t know what could have harmed him.”

Dylan immediately thought of her brother again. “Maybe your son is wrong about him being dead.” In his arms her body loosened fractionally, and she twisted her torso to face forward again. Whether she completely believed him or not didn’t matter—she trusted him enough to help her ranch hand.

“I’m not holding out hope. Peter’s been raised on a ranch. We raise alpacas for wool, so we don’t do a lot of butchering, but he’s seen dead animals. He knows what lifeless eyes look like.”

So did Dylan. Personally and professionally.

Professionally? The duty of a marshal was to bring in fugitives whether they claimed to be innocent or not. It wasn’t his job to investigate their crimes, nor to believe them or not believe them—that was for the cops, the courts and the jury system to decide. Fugitives didn’t see it that way. They wanted their freedom. Sometimes they fought to keep it