been going to fat before his arrest. From the look of him, he'd been busy turning that fat into muscle.
The prison system approved of physical fitness.
He and another man were unclogging the runoff on the other side of the road, working systematically and in silence as they gathered up dead leaves, litter.
Devin bided his time, waited until Joe straightened, hauled a plastic bag over his shoulder and turned.
Their eyes met, held. Devin wondered what the warden would say about rehabilitation if he'd seen that look in Joe's eyes. The heat and the hate. If he'd seen that slow, bitterly triumphant smile before Joe tossed the bag in the bed of the pickup parked on his side of the road.
Because he knew himself, Devin stayed where he was. He knew that if he got close, too close, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. The badge he wore was both a responsibility and a barrier.
If he was a civilian, he could walk across the road, ram his fists into Joe's leering face and take the consequences. If he was a civilian, he could pummel the wife-beating bastard into putty.
But he wasn't a civilian.
'Help you, Sheriff?' One of the supervisors walked over, ready to chat, officer to officer. His easy smile faded at the look in Devin's eyes. 'Is there a problem?'
'Depends.' Devin took out one of the cigarettes he'd been working on giving up for the past two months. Taking his time, he struck a match, lit it, blew out smoke. 'You see that man there, the big one?'
'Dolin? Sure.'
'You remember that name.' Devin flicked his gaze down to the ID clipped to the supervisor's shirt. 'And I'm going to remember yours, Richardson. If he gets away from you, even for a heartbeat, it's going to be your ass.'
'Hey, look, Sheriff—'
Devin merely fixed his eyes on Richardson's face, kept them there as he pushed off the hood. 'You make sure that son of a bitch doesn't wander into my town, Richardson. You make damn sure of it.'
Joe watched the sheriff's car pull out, drive away. He bent his back to the work, like a good team player. And patted his pocket, where the latest letter from his mother-in-law was tucked.
He knew what it said, almost word for word. She kept him up with Cassie just fine. How the little bitch had a fancy job now at the MacKade Inn. Lousy MacKades. He was going to take care of all of them, every last one of them, when he got out.
But first he was going to take care of Cassie.
She thought she could have him tossed in a cell. She thought she could divorce him and start strutting her stuff around town. Well, she was going to think again, real soon.
Her mama was helping him out, writing him letters. They were preachy letters, and he couldn't stand the dried up old bat, but she was helping him out. And he wrote her every week, telling her how he'd suffered, how he'd gotten religion, how he wanted to be with his family again. He made sure he went on about the kids.
He could have cared less about the kids. Whiny little brats.
It was Cassie he wanted. She was his wife—till death do us part. He was going to be reminding her of that before too much longer.
He hauled another bag to the bed of the truck, tossed it in. Oh, yeah, he was going to remind her good, just like the old days. She would pay, in spades, for every hour he'd spent in a cell.
Curling his hand into a fist, he dreamed about his homecoming.
Chapter 3
Instead of going directly to Cassie, Devin went to the prison. He didn't doubt Jared's skill as a lawyer, but he wanted, needed, to add his weight. He forced himself to stay calm as he laid out the facts, and his opinion, to the warden.
For every protest he made, he was shown a report to offset it. Joe Dolin had indeed made himself into a model prisoner, one who showed every sign of rehabilitation. He worked hard, followed the rules, went to chapel regularly. He expressed regret over his crimes and kept up with his alcohol-abuse counseling.
When Devin left, he understood that the system he worked hard to uphold had just kicked him in the teeth. All he could do now was tell Cassie and try to reassure her.
He found her on her hands and knees in the parlor, polishing the carved wood of a gateleg table. She was so busy humming to herself, she hadn't heard him come in. She was wearing a white bib apron over her blouse and slacks, and had a plastic basket beside her filled with rags and cleaning tools.
Her wavy hair was tucked behind her ear to keep it from falling forward into her face. She'd been letting it grow some, he thought. It rippled just past her chin.
She looked so damn happy, Devin thought, and jammed his hands into his pockets.
'Cass?'
She jerked up, barely missed rapping her head on the table extension. Then blushed right to the hairline.
'Devin.' She twisted her polishing rag in her hands as her nerves went into overdrive. She'd been replaying the dream in her head, the dream she'd had right here in the parlor, on the window seat. The dream where Devin had... Oh, my...
He stared at her, then stepped forward. She looked as though she'd been caught rifling the till. 'What's wrong? What's the matter?'
'Nothing. Nothing.' It seemed her stomach was suddenly full of bats and she had to hold back a nervous giggle. 'My mind was wandering, that's all.' Was it ever. 'And you startled me. That's all.'
It wasn't like her to keep repeating herself, and his gaze narrowed. 'Are you sure you're all right?'
'Yes, yes. Fine. Just fine.' She scrambled to her feet, still twisting the rag. 'The couple who are staying here went out to tour the battlefield. They're going to stay another night. They're from North Carolina. He's a battlefield junkie. That's what he said. I gave them all the pamphlets, and... and a tour of the house. They wanted to see all of it. They're excited about the idea of ghosts.'
Puzzled, he nodded. She was babbling like a brook, when he usually had to coax to get three sentences in a row out of her. 'Okay.'
'Do you want some coffee? I'll get you some coffee,' she said, and started to bolt before he could answer. 'And brownies. I made brownies this morning, and—' When he put a hand on her arm to stop her, she froze like a doe caught in headlights.
'Cassandra, relax.'
'I am relaxed. I'm relaxed.' His hand was firm, warm. She thought she could feel the texture of it through her skin, all the way to the bone.
'You're about to jump out of your shoes. Take a deep breath. Take a couple of them.'
Obediently she did, and felt some of the nerves settle. 'I'm fine, Devin.'
'Okay, we'll have some coffee.' But even as he started to lead her out, his beeper went off. 'Damn it.' He strode to the candlestick phone on the gateleg to call in. 'MacKade. Yes, Donnie.'
Devin pressed his fingers against his eyes. Where had the headache come from, and why the hell was Cassie staring at him as if he'd grown two pounding heads?
'I'm on a call now, Donnie. Handle it. That's what I said. Look, put the damn poodle in lockup, along with those idiot women, if you have to, but—' He broke off, cursed himself, knowing Donnie would do exactly that.
'Abort that. Be diplomatic, Donnie, and do your job. You're going to have to fine the poodle lady, but do it privately and professionally. Suggest a fence. Remind her that the leash law is there for her pup's safety, as well as the public's. There's traffic on that street, and her little dog could get himself squashed. When you've handled that, you go over to the complainant, tell her it's been dealt with, and compliment her on her flowers. Suggest a fence. You know, how good fences make good neighbors. No, I didn't make that up. Go away, Donnie.'
He hung up and turned to see Cassie smiling at him. 'A small dog problem,' he explained.
'You're so good at that, and knowing how to handle people and put things right.'
'I'm a regular Solomon.' He blew out a breath. 'Sit down, Cassie. I need to talk to you.'
'Oh.' Her smile faded. 'Something's wrong.'
'Not necessarily. Come on, let's sit down.' Because he wanted to be able to hold her hand when he told her, he chose the curvy settee that always made him feel like a clumsy giant. 'I'm going to tell you first that there's nothing
