It was tense a moment, two…
Walsh’s arm went around her and the negative energy dissipated at once.
“More cake, anyone?” Bea asked, rising.
Emmie dropped her head onto her husband’s shoulder. “Over a bike,” she murmured, smiling.
“See what you married into?” Walsh asked, and she knew he was teasing.
“Siblings,” she answered, smiling.
December
Thirty-Nine
With the doors at either end flung wide, the barn aisle at Briar Hall was icy cold, horse breath pluming like smoke in the bright afternoon light.
“This must be dedication,” Sam said, “because usually I can’t even get her to take out the trash if it’s this cold.”
Emmie was wearing a long down jacket that made her look even tinier, usual baseball cap crammed low and covered over with a beanie. She blew the steam off her coffee and said, “Yeah. She’s really putting the work in, and she’s doing well.” She glanced over with a smile. “In my experience, horses have the power to make girls do things they never would ordinarily.”
“Thank God for horses, then.”
In the wash rack in front of them, Erin was busy unsaddling Sherman, crooning and talking to him, absorbed in her task in a way Sam had never seen.
“And thank you,” Sam said in an undertone. “Emmie, seriously. I was so afraid she’d end up in some kind of alternative school or something. And her grades are better, and she’s making her bed, helping around the house.”
Emmie waved off the gratitude. “Nah, it’s not me. Like I said, it’s the horses. Who knows where I would have ended up if it wasn’t for this place.”
Tack set off to the side on all the proper racks and hooks, Erin selected a brush from the box and began to curry Sherman’s thick winter fur, putting her whole arm into the effort, until the horse’s chestnut coat stood up in sweat-damp cowlicks.
Sam had no real desire to take up riding herself, but she could watch her sister groom one all day. It had that lulling, fish tank effect, the regular strokes of the brushes, the quiet sound of the horse breathing, like bellows working. She’d come to love their trips to Briar Hall, Erin’s lessons peaceful hours of escape, when the various worries of the day were overtaken by the scents of hay and sawdust. Emmie was good company, when she wasn’t delivering calm, competent instruction. Sam had come to realize that she and Walsh’s wife had more than just bikers in common – they were both teachers, in their own fields, both consumed by knowledge that they then wanted to impart to the next generation.
But as lovely as it was, the world of Briar Hall could only hold back reality for so long.
“Emmie, can I ask a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Will you give me Tonya Sinclair’s home address?”
Emmie gave her an assessing look. “You really want it?”
“Yes.”
~*~
Aidan clenched his teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter as he swung off his bike. No matter how many layers, or how thick his gloves, or how much coffee he drank beforehand, riding in this kind of weather always ate through the leather and sank into skin and bone. It was a dry cold, the sky bright, Dartmoor windswept. He’d used his lunch break to run an errand, and was glad to see that Mercy and Carter were still out, only Tango inside. Good. He could kill two birds with one stone…so to speak.
The roll top doors were half-closed against the cold and Aidan ducked beneath one, stepping into the relative warmth of the shop bays. They had big radiant heaters plugged in, and they took the chill out of the air.
Tango sat on a stool beside a client bike, bundled up in a hoodie and fingerless gloves, hair hidden under a stocking cap. Even in profile, he looked like shit. Like he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, and didn’t care about anything. His broken fingers had healed, and his bruises had faded. But mentally? He was still in bits.
“Hey,” Aidan greeted, taking the stool opposite.
“Hey.” His look was one Aidan hadn’t seen in years, laced with a caution that hit Aidan like a shove to the chest.
He decided to ignore it, push past and see if he could draw the guy back. So far, Tango hadn’t wanted to talk about anything that had happened, clamming up when anyone broached the subject. It was unhealthy; he was a powder keg ready to blow. But they couldn’t force him.
“I wanted to show you something,” Aidan said, reaching into his pocket for the velvet box he’d just picked up at the jeweler’s. “What do you think?” He opened the lid and showed him the modest white gold band with it’s even more modest diamond solitaire. “The saleslady tried to get me to look at one of those round ones, with all the little diamonds around it, but damn, everybody has a ring like that now. And I wanted…” He trailed off, feeling stupid.
Tango’s mouth twitched, a pathetic smile. “You wanted it to be special. Like Sam.”
“Yeah.” He blushed; actually felt the warmth and color come up in his cheeks and ducked his head.
“Hey.” Tango’s expression was absolutely haunted when Aidan looked at him. “You deserve to be happy. And she deserves a ring.”
Aidan said, “Any hope of you being happy?”
“No. None.”
~*~
Tonya was trim and fit, and so her baby bump was just that, a bump beneath her sweater, her arms, legs, and hips still slender. She took a seat in a plush cream chair by the fireplace of her parents’ palatial family room and invited Sam to sit in the chair opposite with an elegant gesture.
Aware that she’d come from the barn, she sat carefully on the edge of the chair, hands clasped in her lap. “You’re engaged.”
Tonya lifted her left hand so the sunlight glinted off the massive rock adorning her third finger. “For about a month now.”
“And you really don’t want the baby?”
“No. Is that why you’re here? To threaten me the way his stepmother did?”
“I happen to know that Maggie Teague doesn’t threaten people,” Sam said, voice hardening. “Please don’t cheapen the woman’s confidence that way.”
Tonya’s brows lifted.
“And no. I’m here to tell you that I won’t be intimidated by you. We aren’t little girls anymore, Tonya. And because I needed to see you in person, to see if you were being honest.”
Tonya gave her a measuring look.
“I need to know you won’t renege and pull some stunt after the baby’s born, try to keep it.”
“The paperwork’s already been signed. Aidan’s oh-so-charming father and his lawyer actually put together a contract.” She snorted. “Rest assured. You’ll get your baby, Samantha.”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about Aidan. I’m just looking out for him.”
Tonya’s head tilted, beautiful dark hair cascading down her arm. “You really do love him, don’t you?”
The woman’s expression, and her question, struck Sam as beyond odd. She returned: “And you’re not capable of love, are you?”
Tonya shrugged. “Maybe. One day. Maybe I learned to suppress it.” Her smile was cool, bitter. “More power to you, then.”
~*~
In truth, Sam wasn’t sure what she’d been searching for, going to see Tonya. To reassure herself, perhaps. Deep down, she was anxious about the baby. The birth was still a ways off, and though things had been good with Aidan – things had been wonderful – she felt the distant pressure of his little girl’s arrival, growing stronger by the day.
His little girl. A lump formed in her throat every time she revisited her mental picture of the child – which was often.
Last night, when Aidan was still inside her, as they’d lay gasping together, hot and slick with sweat, she’d closed her eyes and imagined the baby, little wrinkled pink features and tiny fingers and toes. She thought her womb had tightened, a deep longing that echoed through her whole body. I want a baby. Well, she was going to have one. And maybe one day…
But all of this was shadowed
, still. She didn’t know why, couldn’t put her finger on it, but some small seed of worry kept growing roots in the back of her mind.
Maybe because Don Ellison was still alive out there, slinking around the underworld, eluding the club’s tracking efforts.
Yes, that was it.
Probably.
She’d dropped Erin off at home after her lesson, told her to hit the books, and checked the soup in the crock pot before heading to Tonya’s. As she pulled back into the driveway, she was surprised to find Aidan’s bike parked alongside her mother’s car. They hadn’t made plans for tonight. In fact, he’d been evasive over the phone earlier, and she’d chalked it up to him being distracted by Tango.
Poor Tango. To Sam’s knowledge, he hadn’t cracked a smile once since his rescue.
“Mom?” she called when she stepped through the back door.
“In here,” Helen’s voice came from the living room.
Sam found her mother and boyfriend sitting side-by-side on the couch. Helen had a crumpled tissue in her hand and dabbed at her eyes. Aidan looked slightly nauseas.
“What’s wrong?” Sam’s heart leapt behind her breastbone.
“Oh nothing.” Helen got to her feet, blowing her nose. She shook her head and gave Sam a watery smile. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” She came to Sam and hugged her.
“Mom, you’re freaking me out.”
“Don’t pay any attention to me. You stay here, and I’m going to check in on Erin before dinner, okay?” Another tear-filled smile before she left the room.
“Mom…” But Helen was disappearing up the staircase. So Sam turned to Aidan. “What’s going on? Is somebody hurt? Is there–”
He grinned, the movement sudden, and even if she didn’t know what was going on yet, the way his eyes crinkled up allayed her immediate fear.
“Aidan?”
“Do me a favor, and keep standing there just like that.”
“Okay…”
Still seated on the couch, he looked up at her, and his face became tight with some emotional strain, smile plucking hard at the corners, the lines around his eyes deepening.
“Aidan,” she repeated, concerned anew.
“Just stand there,” he urged. “And bear with me as I butcher all kinds of grammar, like Ava always tells me I do.”
Her heart rate picked up another fraction.
“This year has been…insane,” he began. “And a lot of bad shit happened. A lot.”
She nodded.
“But the best thing happened, too.”
That was when she saw the box in his hands. The little black velvet box.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Aidan’s eyes looked too bright, his smile almost apologetic. “Aw damn, I had this whole speech planned out, but it was stupid. So…” He heaved a deep breath. “Sam, I can’t live without you. I’m a smarter, stronger, better person since you came into my life. I love you like hell, and I want to wake up with you every morning, and I want you to be the mother of my baby. She’s gonna need a mom. My real mom wasn’t worth a shit, but my stepmom – she’s my mama. And that’s what I want. I want you to be my wife, my old lady, and her mama.” In a rushed afterthought, voice thin with fear, he said, “If you want to. If you can stand it. I know I’m not…”
She leaned forward, framed his face with her hands, and kissed him. She felt him smile against her lips; felt his fast, startled breath. “That sounded like a speech,” she said as she pulled back, eyes filling with tears. “And it wasn’t a bit stupid.”
He opened the box, and it was a pitifully small ring. She’d never seen anything more beautiful.
“Will you marry me?”
Her hand shook as he slid the ring onto her finger. And they were both shaking when he stood up and hugged her tight to his chest.
Forty
“What do you want with her address?” Walsh had asked, suspicious, when Tango asked for it.
He hadn’t cared. Let Walsh think what he wanted; it didn’t matter anyway. “I just want it,” he’d responded, and after a moment of enduring his blank expression, the VP had handed over the info.
Whitney’s brother had bought for his family a Mediterranean-style home on a pie-shaped corner lot, one whose dusky orange stucco, dark cedar pergolas and wide patios were out of keeping with the rest of the ranch-and-colonial dominated neighborhood. One of those pretty eyesore houses that leapt off its foundation and demanded a passing driver’s attention, night or day. It was night now, and Tango sat out front on his bike, breathing down a cigarette, letting his eyes wander across the careful winter landscaping of pansies and evergreen shrubs, illuminated by solar lights.
He recalled Thanksgiving, sitting up in Ava’s old bed, an untouched plate of Maggie’s cooking in his lap. The smell of marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes had made him want to gag. Whitney had sat at Ava’s old desk, picking through her own food, attempting small talk.
He recalled her face, when Ghost told her that her brother was dead, the way bravery had crumbled to make way for grief. Tango hadn’t climbed from bed, hadn’t comforted her. Hadn’t hugged her. He should have hugged her.
He finished his cig, flipped the butt in the gutter and lit another, his hands numb by the time he was breathing in the first drag. He tugged his gloves back on, grateful for the warmth of the hot cherry so near his face. Would it feel better, he wondered, to press the burning end to his skin? He didn’t think it would hurt. He thought it might feel wonderful…
Beneath his tattoos, the old cutting scars on his arms tingled, excited by the idea of more destruction.
The front door opened.
Shit. He hadn’t intended to make contact; had hoped for a glimpse through a window, a backlit look at her face.
He tossed the cig away and reached for his handlebars. But Whitney was standing on the front porch, cinched garbage bag in one hand, and she’d seen him.
She took a step off the porch.
He had to leave.
The bag fell out of her hand and hit the grass with a sound of aluminum cans rattling. “Kev?” Her voice, a bright, shivery note through the cold air. Surprise, curiosity, hope, fear, all contained in that one clear sound, like a bell tolling. “Kev, is that you?”
Move. But he didn’t.
She looked beautiful, as she walked up to him, her hair clean and shiny, her petite form clad in jeans, sweater, and ankle boots. Regular, wholesome, sweet-faced. Grave sadness in the gentle curve of her mouth, dark circles beneath her eyes, the edges red from crying – things that made her more fragile, lovelier somehow.
“It is you,” she said when she reached him, breathless from hurrying, exhalations puffing white in the cold. Her cheeks burned pink; her eyes glittered against the wind. “How are you? I wanted to call, but I didn’t have a number and…”
An urge struck him, so unexpected and unthinkable that he pushed it down hard: He wanted to pull her in close to him and shove his hands up beneath her sweater. Not for any licentious purpose, but just to feel the warmth of her skin and the patter of her heartbeat against his palm.
“I’m fine,” he said, looking away from her, hands tightening together over his fuel tank to keep still.
“No you’re not,” she said, softly. When he glanced at her again, he saw the breeze snatch her hair across her face; she shoved it back. “Because I’m not fine either. And I didn’t have it as bad as you.”
“Yeah. Well.”
She stepped in close, too close, into his personal space. He wanted to flinch, but it was her, Whitney, who’d held his hand, so he stayed still, very still, and didn’t react when she touched his shoulder.
Didn’t react outwardly.
Inwardly, he swore warmth blossomed beneath her small hand, pulsing in his shoulder and radiating outward, a slow fill that he wanted to continue.
Not wanting her to break contact, fighting the urge to lean into her, he looked into her face again, and said, “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Her lips compressed. Her eyes took on a new layer of shine. “Me too. My sister-in-law’s not taking it well. She…she told me it should have been me instead, that she wished they’d killed me and let Jason live.” She blinked hard. “She said it just now. Yelled it. I took the garbage out to give her some space but…I don’t think she wants me in the house with her and the girls.”
“People stay stupid things when they’re grieving,” he said, chest aching for her. “You can’t take it personal.”
She nodded. “I know.” But had to dab at her eyes with her free hand.
“Besides, your brother was an asshole for putting you and them in that kind of danger,” he said, more viciously than intended.
She looked like he’d slapped her. “He had an addiction.”
“Addiction isn’t an excuse for anything.”
“Speaking from experience?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She pulled her hand back, and the cold rushed in to erase the warmth she’d given him.
“Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” he said, “like what happened to you. But most of the time, bad people invite bad things to happen to them.”
She took a step back.
He started his bike and rode off.
~*~
He splurged and bought the good wine this time. It settled like a warm hand in his belly, caressing him from the inside out, feeding a slow-burning fire into his veins. His brothers wouldn’t agree, but he’d always loved wine for its painkilling properties. Everything else could get you drunk, but wine could ease the sting. Could chase away the deep ache.
He heard Ian’s approach before he saw him. The arrival and then shutting off of the Jag’s high-power engine. The snaps of the door shutting. The clip of Ian’s expensive loafers echoing off the concrete walls of the parking garage.
Bruce hung back, on orders no doubt, and Ian entered Tango’s line of vision, long wool coat swirling around his ankles, the breeze catching his cream cashmere scarf. His expression became complicated, his voice simple and warm as he said, “Hello.”
Secondhand Smoke (Dartmoor Book 4) Page 40