Wow! Once again, I have to thank you for the absolute wonderful support for this story! Thank you for the reviews ... and please keep them coming. They are very appreciated.

By the way, not my characters. Just having some fun.

A/N: May 23, 2009, Edited to … see chapter 1 if it matters. Between SLS and COL.


Marshal 3:

Danny walked around the office, and studied the layout under the window. Lindsay had been right about the lack of a vacated building feel. Someone stayed around, got in, enough that the place stayed relatively empty of vermin. Not that it was clean—he'd thought, until he'd realized the lack of dust in the office.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to remove fingerprints and obvious trace from the office. There was no dust on the desk, squeaky desk chair, or … along the window sill.

His hands gloved, he pushed the window up. Hands on the sill, he carefully free-lifted himself up and through the window.

On the other side, Flack simply shook his head. "Never said I didn't understand how he got in, Messer. I was wondering how he got the drop on you. If he came in that window, and you were behind the desk. You didn't see him, didn't hear him."

Danny dropped to the floor, and dusted off his jeans. "I was under the desk."

"Really?" Flack glanced back, laughing. "Find anything interesting?"

"Besides myself on the wrong side of a gun? We'd been in and out, through everything. There had to be something else here. And as it turned out ..." he nodded toward the laptop on the desk.

"So he just came through the window, dropped in on you and you didn't even hear him?"

"Hey, Flack, I'm not your suspect," Danny spat. "'Sides. I heard him drop. Came out from under the desk to find a gun pointed at me."

"And Lindsay?"

"She was out there, had a phone call. She came in; hit the kid over the head with one of those clothes hanging bars."

"Lindsay saves the day."

"Team work," Danny smirked as he walked over to the laptop he'd asked to have sent over from the lab. He typed in a few keys. "Boy came in to get his disk. Look like something to you?"

He turned the laptop around for Flack to study.

"If you substitute names for the letters, employees on the left, customers on the right … looks like a low end prostitution ring." He looked around at the dusty back office. "Still professional. Used this empty back room to keep up shop."

Danny nodded. "Central meeting place. Probably center of traffic, or territory for the pimp and his lineup. We have motive now. Or a direction for one."

"I'll make some calls, see what my boys have heard and who they've picked up in this area. I'll head back to the precinct. See if we let our boy cook long enough."

Flack walked out and left Danny to close up shop. He half expected Lindsay to come in and join him. Flack had sent her out so he could get Danny's testimony after she had given hers. They would wrap it all up neatly with official paperwork, but Mac always said that details were what mattered.

And it could have been Lindsay stuck in the back corner of the office.

Alone.

He wouldn't, couldn't dwell on it. He'd only just begun to get her back, only just begun to forgive himself for the mess he'd created. She'd nearly walked away from him. He wasn't ready to lose her. He was beginning to believe he would never be ready to let her go.

He quickly tugged his gloves off with a snap and packed up the laptop, stowed his gear. When he walked out the back office, he saw her case set by the door. He set his cases down beside hers and stepped outside.

The sun had come out; the cars drove by on wet roads. He saw the people moving past down the street. And then he saw her, arms crossed as if staving off the cold. He saw the fretful look in her eyes.

"Linds? Hey—" he grabbed her arms and turned her to face him. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? You almost died in there, as I had to … and it was like you're not worried about … and then you're making jokes with Flack."

"I'm fine."

"I'm not," she wrenched herself away from him. "I'm not fine."

He tugged her close, and then wrapped his arms around her. At first, she stiffened; he thought he was used to it now, but it hurt. He couldn't believe it hurt. Even when she wasn't mad at him, even when they weren't at odds, there was always this moment when he pulled her into his arms that he felt her stiffen for the tiniest moment.

As if she had to remind herself she was okay.

Slowly he felt her relax.

He rested his cheek on the top of her head. Gave himself a moment. He could still see the gun. Could still see her behind the gun.

And had to deal with the fact that he'd needed her to put herself in danger to save himself. Didn't she know, he hated himself for that?

"Want the truth?" he ran a hand over her hair.

"What?"

"I needed this, too."

She lifted her head and smiled finally. "Really?"

"Yeah. Why do you think I kissed you in the first place?"

"Because you're Messer," she grinned, but even that didn't reach her eyes as she searched his. "It happened so fast."

"It's over."

"I saved you."

He grinned. Though he could have lambasted the point, he held back. He didn't want to. "Yeah."

"No arguing?"

"Nah. I'd rather spend it with somethin' better."

She said nothing as he leaned in for another kiss. She leaned into him, into it and felt her insides relax. Minutes ago, she'd just been wishing for him to just be hers, not responsible to the city, to the case, to the dead.

They could have been among the dead.

And now, right now, as she felt his lips against hers, she could only think that this was so right.

"This what they pay you for in New York little girl?"

Lindsay pulled back, shocked … to find her grandfather standing there. She'd always thought he had the look of Clint Eastwood, with his lantern jaw that she'd inherited, eyes that always seemed to squint, the warn lines around his lips. And the wavy peppered hair, thinned at the edges because of his Stetson.

"Marshal…" He had that look, too—simply direct. "I—we were just—" she glanced at Danny, suddenly realizing that she hadn't had a chance to tell him, to warn him. Not with the suspect, and the questions and the adrenaline still fading from her system.

Danny looked ... uncertain. Like he would bolt at any minutes. It suddenly occurred to her that with the name Marshal, his hands had dropped from her back. He might not have met all of her family on that single trip to Montana, but he had seen photos and heard about them.

"Marshal," she said as she stepped away from Danny, "this is Danny. Danny … my grandfather. You remember—"

Danny held out a hand. "Sir."

"This is what you do on the job?"

"Ah—no. Not before. We just had some—"

"We're on our way back, Marshal," Lindsay interrupted. Heaven forbid her grandfather find out that she was in danger. For him, it was one thing because he seemed to talk about the thrill of the chase, but for her …

"What are you doing here?"

"Doesn't work with a lawman, Girlie," he lifted a brow. "You can't let things distract you from your job. I could tell you a dozen stories of men I knew who through caution to the wind and let themselves where they were, who they were with…"

She'd heard it all before. The stories had warnings—not quite morals or lessons for a preschooler, but warnings for a lawman.

They were part of growing up with Marshal.

And if she told him his phone call had distracted her from her job before—that Danny had been in danger because she hadn't been there as back up?

She let out a breath. She shouldn't have let the call come between her and her job.

"Yes, sir," the words came out obediently, automatically. "How'd you find me?"

"Called your office. Came over when I finished at the Bureau," he stepped over, stepped close, and she was suddenly back home—warm and safe—as he tugged her into his arms. "Thought I'd take my youngest granddaughter to lunch."

He stepped back, glanced at Danny. "Seems we should invite you, too."

"It's fine," Danny said—glancing first at Lindsay. "You two catch up."

Marshall reached out and slapped him on the back, "You're part of the catching up. Promised her father that much. Heard you'd caused a little bit of grief here recently."

Danny stiffened, Lindsay inwardly groaned.

"Wanted to see if my granddaughter here was making the right choice for herself."

"If I am, its my business, Marshal," Lindsay murmured through tight lips. "Besides, Danny and I can't do lunch righht now. We've got to get back to the lab. New information's come in on a case."

Wise eyes searched hers. "You hiding something?"

"Doing my job."

"Oh, is that what that was?"

Lindsay narrowed her eyes. "My turf, Marshal. You're not here to grill me," she pocked a finger to his chest. "Or Danny. Neither my father, nor you have anything to say about my decision."

Marshal stepped forward, slapped a hand to her back. His smile at her was soft, but genuine. "Not worried. You got me in you girl. I don't expect anything but the best."

So ... thoughts, questions ... the good, the bad, the ugly? (Shameless Clint Eastwood play on words, I know--but why not?).