An Excerpt
Maddie Kincaid was in trouble. Again.
Trouble caused by a man. Again.
Maybe she should reconsider the convent idea after all.
"There's the sign, Oscar," she said to the fat goldfish swimming in the clear glass fishbowl belted into the minivan's passenger seat to her right. "The Caddo Bayou Marina. We made it."
The goldfish didn't answer, although the way her world had changed in the last twenty-four hours, Maddie wouldn't have been surprised if Oscar had leapt from the water and belted out "The Yellow Rose of Texas."
Approaching the marina entrance, Maddie gently applied the brakes and flicked her left-turn indicator. Since beginning this long, meandering trip to southwestern Louisiana fourteen hours ago, she'd taken extra care to obey all traffic laws.
It wouldn't do to get pulled over by the highway patrol, not when she had four million dollars' worth of an illegal substance stacked between her dry cleaning and a new sponge mop.
Gravel crunched beneath the minivan's tires as she drove across the lot and claimed a spot between a Dodge pickup and a Chevy Suburban. After shifting into park, she took a deep, calming breath and twisted the ignition key. The engine sputtered and then died. In the sudden quiet, Maddie let out a soft, semi-hysterical laugh. Better it than me.
She sat without moving for a full minute. Her mouth was dry, her pulse rapid. She needed to use the facilities. "Okay," she murmured. "We made it. We handled the crisis. Got here in one piece. We did good. Now we'll have help."
Help. From the DEA. "I must be out of my ever-lovin' mind."
Maddie opened her car door and stepped outside. The summer morning air was hot, heavy, and thick with moisture. She glanced toward the boat slips, then back at the marina's ship store and restaurant. "I'll be right back," she said to Oscar as she grabbed her purse before shutting the door. Then, noting the heat and imagining boiled goldfish, she reconsidered. Moments later, fishbowl cradled in one arm, purse hanging from the other, she headed for the store and its bathroom.
As she walked toward the building, movement at the gas dock out on the water caught her notice. Three pontoon boats filled with people dressed in swim trunks and brightly colored clothing motored slowly away from the dock. Must be one of the swamp tours she'd seen advertised on a billboard on the way in, Maddie surmised. Her gaze drifted over the crowd before it snagged on the man standing at the stern of the trailing boat as he stripped off a sweat-stained T-shirt and tossed it away. He lifted his arm above his head to take a minnow bucket off a hook, and Maddie sucked in a breath.
My, oh my, oh my.
She may be tired, scared, hungry, thirsty, and ready to wet her pants, but abs like those deserved a second look—even if she had sworn off studly men forever.
He wore a battered straw cowboy hat, low-riding Hawaiian-print swim trunks, and grungy deck shoes. Sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his deeply tanned skin. His body looked lean and hard, with long legs and shoulders as broad as the Mississippi.
Yum
Her appreciative gaze lingered until a good look at his face made her forget about his form. Even from a distance, she could see devastation etched in his expression. Empathy melted through her. Poor man. She wondered what had happened to him.
Then, as if he tangibly felt her gaze, he jerked his stare away from the minnow bucket dangling from his hand and met her gaze head-on. His eyes narrowed, his jaw hardened. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and widened his stance, his aggressive posture a challenge to her for catching him in a private moment.
Whoa. Maddie gave a tentative smile and took a step back. In another moment, he'd be baring his teeth like a wolf, she thought.
A wolf in low-riding swim trunks.
"Oh, for crying out loud," she muttered, deliberately turning away, shifting the fishbowl from one arm to the other. What was wrong with her, ogling a bayou boy when she should be looking over her shoulder for drug-dealing killers? Had she totally lost her mind?
Yes, she was afraid so. This was what an overload of stress and lack of sleep did to a girl.
Dismissing the party barges, Maddie redirected her attention toward the ship store. The place appeared deserted. In fact, other than the pontoon boats now disappearing from view, the only signs of life around the entire marina were a pair of big black grackles pecking at the ground near a lidded metal Dumpster.
Cautious in ways she'd never been before, Maddie slowed her steps and took a second look around.
On the murky water of the bayou, dozens of boats floated beneath the shelter of covered docks. Both the gas pump on the water and the one near the cement launch ramp remained unmanned. She spied an open tackle box and two fishing poles propped against a silver propane tank, but the fishermen themselves were nowhere to be found.
Curious. On a Saturday morning, she'd expect the marina to be bustling, especially on a warm, windless day. Apprehensive now, Maddie advanced toward the ship store's door.
A handwritten sign was taped to the glass at eye level. "Closed for funeral," she read aloud. "Reopen at 1:00 p.m."
Well, that explained the quiet, and all the vehicles in the lot probably belonged to the swamp-tour people. It didn't solve her need for a bathroom, however, so Maddie turned toward the boat slips in search of the Miss Behavin' II.
The woman she'd come to see lived on a houseboat moored at this marina. It shouldn't be difficult to find. If Terri Winston wasn't aboard, then Maddie would backtrack to the fast food restaurant she'd passed on the interstate. She hoped it didn't come to that. She felt safer here in this out-of-the-way spot than she did in a town or on the highway.
It had occurred to her as she drove through central Texas at three o'clock in the morning that the Brazos Bend police could have issued a BOLO for her van. From that moment on, she'd lived in fear of seeing the red-and-blue flash of a highway patrol car.
Maddie noted two normal-sized houseboats and one huge houseboat that brought the Queen Mary to mind among the twenty or so boats berthed in the slips. Since the mansion-boat didn't seem like something a federal agent would own, she made her way toward the smaller vessels.
The name painted across the stem of the first read Playtime. Maddie's stomach knotted with tension as she approached the second. It'd be just her luck for Ms. Winston to have up and moved her boat.
"Bayou Queen," she read aloud, grimacing. She blew out a heavy sigh, then gazed at the floating palace. It had to be eighty feet long, with front and rear decks, outdoor ceiling fans, and a spiral staircase to the roof with its fiberglass flybridge and swim slide. A boat like that would be called Bellagio or Shangri-la. Not Miss Behavin'.
Since she was out of other options, she decided to be thorough. To her shock and relief, the sign hanging from the rear deck of the mansion-boat displayed the words she prayed she'd see.
However, the Miss Behavin' II appeared as deserted as the rest of the marina.
"Hello?" Maddie called. "Ms. Winston? Is anybody home?"
She heard nothing but the squeak of a rubber boat fender against the wooden dock in reply.
Maddie grimaced. Where could the agent be this time of day? At the funeral? A quick check of her watch left Maddie moaning. If Terri Winston was at the funeral and the funeral lasted all morning, it didn't bode well for Maddie's bladder.
Her teeth tugged at her lower lip and she groaned aloud. Had she made one more mistake in a long line of them by putting her life in the hands of a stranger based solely on the advice of that meddler Branch Callahan? So what if Branch insisted that Terri Winston was a stand-up woman who'd listen to Maddie's story without immediately snapping on the handcuffs? Recent events suggested that Brazos Bend's leading citizen wasn't as knowledgeable as he claimed.
Branch hadn't known about the drug ring operating right under his nose, had he?
Maddie let out a long, shaky sigh. She may well have made a serious mistake, but what other choice had she had? Despite her vow of self-sufficiency in the wake of the disaster that had been her love life, she'd needed help. When she'd swallowed her pride and reached out to her father, he'd been off indulging in one of his new hobbies— wildlife photography in the Alaskan wilderness. According to his latest assistant—his latest twenty-year-old, starry-eyed bed partner, no doubt—he'd be beyond cell phone reach for another week—an eternity to someone in Maddie's predicament.
A predicament growing more dire by the second. She needed a bathroom now. Raising her voice, she tried again. "Hello? Ms. Winston?"
Nothing.
Maddie glanced from the houseboat to her van, then back to the floating manse. It was a long way back to that fast food place. Not a soul was in sight. Even if she tripped an alarm, she'd probably have time to visit the restroom and make herself scarce before anyone showed up to investigate. "Ordinarily I wouldn't think of trespassing," she told Oscar. "But these are no ordinary times."
Besides, Ms. Winston was a woman. She'd understand.
Maddie wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts and then stepped onto the boat and tried the sliding glass door. It slid open easily, and when no alarm sounded, she stuck her head inside, gazing with interest at the luxurious features and furnishings. She hadn't seen a boat this tricked out since she visited her father for a week aboard a Greek tycoon's yacht. "Ms. Winston?" she called. "Terri?"
No response.
Maddie stepped inside. An overstuffed couch and two plump easy chairs faced a plasma TV hanging on a wood-paneled wall finished with crown molding. A wraparound bar separated the main living area from a kitchen complete with granite countertops and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. She spied recessed lighting, brass hardware on the cabinets, and roman shades and padded cornice boards on the windows.
"Wouldn't Daddy love to have one of these," she murmured.
Maddie set Oscar and her purse atop a stylish iron and glass dining table, then made a beeline for the bathroom. With personal business out of the way and fully intending to return to the dock to wait for Terri Winston like a polite uninvited guest, she nevertheless paused when she passed the refrigerator.
She was awfully thirsty. Maddie tapped her foot, then sighed. At this point, what was one more sin?
She opened the fridge. Hmm... the agent must have recently visited the grocery store. Lots of meat, cheese, eggs. Looked to be a Paleo dieter except for the three gallons of low-fat milk. She spied a twelve-pack of spring water and a six-pack of imported beer. Maddie reached for the water, but somehow, her hand grabbed the beer.
Boldly, she rummaged through Ms. Winston's galley drawers to find a bottle opener and, after hesitating over a bag of Double Stuf Oreos, grabbed a half-empty package of pretzels from her pantry. She sat at the table, drank her stolen beer, and finished off the bag of pilfered pretzels. When she belched aloud without even trying to smother the sound, Maddie knew she'd lost it.
"Maybe I'm having a heat stroke," she said to Oscar. Or a post-traumatic stress episode. But it couldn't be that. There was nothing at all "post" about this stress.
Something told her that murdering, drug-dealing dirty cops wouldn't give up the hunt for her just because she didn't go home last night.
Grabbing her beer, she tossed the empty pretzel bag into a plastic trash can, then walked past one, two, three bedrooms and another bathroom to the front deck. Maddie gazed out at the bayou, where late-morning sunlight strained through the thick green canopy of trees and vines that stretched across the murky water of the swamp. Long strands of Spanish moss dangled from the branches of the live oaks like gray-green tinsel, adding an eerie atmosphere to an already fantastical morning.
"I can't believe I'm in trouble again," she said softly. This time, she hadn't sought it. This time, she hadn't fallen for a seductive man's line. This time, all she'd done was clean house!
The urge to cry came over her then, but Maddie fiercely fought it back. She'd sworn off crying at the same time she'd sworn off studly men. She was stronger now. She'd survive this.
But as she returned to the kitchen to gather her purse and her pet, despite her best intentions, a pair of big, fat tears overflowed her eyes and slid slowly down her cheeks.
She swayed on her feet, overcome with exhaustion and emotion and the effects of half a bottle of dark ale. Then, channeling her inner Goldilocks, she chose a stateroom, kicked off her sneakers, found an out-of-the-way spot on the floor for Oscar, and crawled into a queen-sized bed.
Luke Callahan set the plastic bottle of mustard on the ship store counter and said, "That ought to do it."
Perched like a heron atop a three-legged stool behind the counter, Marie Gauthier sighed heavily, her frown deepening the lines in skin tanned dark and leathery. "Ah, it be a sad day, cher," she said, ringing up his purchases. "Me, I'll be missing that old coot. I thought the service was fine and fitting."
Luke nodded and cleared his throat. “Terry liked a good party."
"Mais yeah." Marie neatly stacked Luke's groceries in a brown paper bag. "That man, he loved a fais do-do, and he loved the bayou. It's the right place for his ashes to rest."
Luke agreed. Spreading Terry Winston's ashes was the single part of this god-awful day that had felt right.
"And now, what about you, mon ami? My man, he say you're taking the Miss Behavin' II away from Caddo Bayou. Are you leaving us for good? The ladies here, they will be brokenhearted."
"I'll be back." Luke lifted the grocery bag into his arms and offered her the first genuine smile he'd managed in a month. "I'm going fishing for a few weeks. One of my brothers just bought a new thirty-foot Grady-White. I'm meeting him in Lake Charles and we're heading out toward the Keys."
"An extended fishing trip? Mon Dieu. My man, he be pea green with envy when he hears that. So, it's true, then? You're trading in your gun and badge for a fishing pole and bait?"
Luke's smile slowly died as the sick sensation in his stomach returned. He'd broken the rules when he went after Terry's killer. He'd resigned before they could fire him.
"Beyond fishing for my supper for the next few weeks, I'm not sure what I'm going to do."
Marie Gauthier reached across the counter and gave Luke's arm a comforting pat. "Ah, it's none of my business, anyway. My Pierre, he always tells me I'm a nosy old woman. You take your time, mon ami. These are grievous wounds you've suffered. The bullets, they are bad enough, but losing your partner... That Terry, he was like a father to you. You give yourself time to heal, Luke. You come back to us when you're whole again."
When he was whole again. Yeah, right.
Luke tried to put the old woman's words out of his mind as he exited the store and made his way across the parking lot toward the wooden pier and the Miss Behavin' II. The day had been a killer, and he was anxious to put it behind him. He wasn't scheduled to meet Matt for two more days, but after the strain of Terry's send-off, Luke wanted some downtime, some time alone. Time to decompress.
The months of constant danger during the undercover assignment in Florida had worn him down. Saying good-bye to Terry Winston had nearly killed him.
He'd held up all right in the heat of the moment. The gunfight in the Miami warehouse, stealing the car, the mad race to the ER while trying to staunch Terry's wounds and his own. He'd even managed when, after fighting for weeks in the hospital, Terry had squeezed Luke's hand, and died.
It was the aftermath that did him in. The reality that Luke's mistake had gotten his partner and friend killed was a devastating burden to bear. He'd gone a little crazy bringing the killers to justice. It cost him his job, but he didn't regret it.
What he regretted was losing control of himself last night when Terry's friends set out to honor his memory in a way the man would have appreciated. Terry's farewell had started at sunset with a party the likes Caddo Bayou hadn't seen in years. Lots of food and drink, music and dancing.
Luke had kept it together until the band played a rendition of Jimmy Buffett's "Lovely Cruise." At that point, he'd sat down on a bench and bawled like a baby.
He'd hit the booze hard after that in a misguided attempt to dull the pain, and the rest of the night remained fuzzy in his memory. The festivities had continued past dawn, culminating in this morning's church service and the trip into the swamp to spread Terry's ashes. The remnants of a hangover still throbbed in Luke's head and the lack of sleep dulled his thinking.
A dog's bark jerked Luke back to the present, and his mouth twisted in a hint of a grin as the stray mutt who'd adopted him during the past week came bounding toward him from the woods where he'd been off exploring. A mix of golden retriever, boxer, and who-knew-what-else, the dog must have been dumped on the highway by an uncaring owner. The mutt had made his way to the marina the same day Luke returned to Caddo Bayou.
Luke had tossed the dog a bite of his burger, and from that moment on, the mutt considered himself Luke's. Luke took longer to come around to the idea, but finally, last night, he'd sealed the deal by giving the dog a name.
"Whoa, there, Knucklehead," Luke said as the dog went up on his hind legs, planted his front paws on Luke's shirt, and licked his face. Luke pushed the mutt off him, saying, "The slobber factor is getting out of hand. If you're going on this trip with me, you're gonna have to get some control."
His tail wagged, his tongue dangled out one side of his mouth, and he looked so stupidly friendly that Luke let out a laugh. He reached down and scratched the pooch behind the ears before continuing toward the Miss Behavin' II. The dog bounded aboard ahead of Luke, then waited at the door for Luke to let him inside. Like a flash, he disappeared toward the starboard stateroom where he'd claimed the queen-sized bed for his own.
As Luke stowed the last of his supplies for the upcoming fishing trip, he wondered why he'd been a sucker for the mangy hound. He hadn't had a pet in seventeen years. A man in Luke's business had no business owning a dog. Since his job was eighty-five percent travel, he couldn't properly care for a pet.
"Well, that's not a problem anymore, is it?" Luke slammed the cabinet shut with more force than necessary. He didn't want to think about the job. He didn't want to think about what he was supposed to do with the rest of his life. He hadn't felt this lost since the day his father booted his butt out of Brazos Bend.
Well, he didn't have to think about any of that now. For the next three weeks, he'd think of nothing more serious than which bait to attach to his line. Old Marie Gauthier was right. He needed time. He'd give himself time. That's exactly what Terry would have told him to do.
Up at the flybridge helm, Luke fired up the twin Mercruiser stern drive engines, then he struck the lines and pulled away from the Caddo Bayou Marina, headed on a southerly course. He knew his way without consulting a map. He and Terry had made this trip dozens of times over the years, first with the smaller Miss Behavin' I, then after their dot-com windfall, aboard this boat. This was the first time Luke had made it alone.
Well, alone but for a mutt named Knucklehead.
Luke cruised for hours before the lack of sleep caught up with him. After guiding the boat into a protected inlet, he sank the anchors, then sought his bed. The hum of the air conditioner drowned out the songs of Mississippi kites and cardinals drifting on the air, and Luke Callahan drifted off to sleep.
He dreamed of a bikini-clad redhead playing topless beach volleyball and awoke to a bloodcurdling scream.