The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3)

by Gilley, Lauren

  “Something wrong?” he asked her.

  She swallowed; he saw her throat work. Her mouth twitched in a halfhearted smile. “You mean aside from the fact that my father’s a raging alcoholic?”

  Johansen chose that moment to curl forward and deposit his liquor onto the asphalt.

  Emmie’s nostrils flared as they listened to the retching. Her eyes were laser-focused on him, though, a question and a rejection building in them. “You’re one of those bikers,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”

  He snorted. “One of those bikers?”

  She pulled back inwardly, composing the fear out of her expression, fiddling with her hair again. It was fast trying to come down and the dramatic curls were more noticeable than they had been earlier. “I meant…I don’t think of…someone like you buying a farm like Briar Hall.”

  “Because I can’t possibly afford it? Or because it’s too fancy for me?”

  She blushed and looked away from him, but her voice was strong. “You know the sorts of stories that get told about the Lean Dogs. You grow up in Knoxville, you’re either fascinated by them…”

  “Or?”

  “Or you wonder if you can bring yourself to work for one.” She gave him a cold sideways glance. “Thanks for helping with my father, Mr. Walsh. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t ever see you again.”

  Some inner stirrings of chivalry left him wanting to manhandle her father into the truck for her. But there was such a proud lift to her chin as she stepped off the curb, he stood back and watched instead.

  Apparently, Johansen felt better after puking, and managed to stumble to his feet, crawling up into the truck with minimal help from Emmie. Walsh waited for her to glance his way once more, as she walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.

  She didn’t. He could sense the tightness in her, the way she was making an effort not to look toward him.

  But as she put the truck in reverse, her gaze came through the windshield, and he had one fast glimpse of the raw panic in her face. Then she turned away and didn’t look back.

  Back inside, at their tall table, RJ looked like a kid awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus, about to burst with curiosity. “So,” he said, tone mock-casual as Walsh climbed back on his stool. “Who was that?” He hid a grin in his mug as he took a swallow.

  Rottie rolled his eyes.

  Walsh gave RJ his flattest, most disinterested stare and said, “What?”

  Undeterred, RJ wiped the beer foam off his mouth with a sleeve and kept grinning. “Do you have a girlfriend? Or is it more of a fuck buddy situation?”

  “Bro, you have nothing but restraining order situations,” Rottie said. “Leave off.”

  “I’m curious, though,” RJ persisted. “I was starting to think you didn’t like chicks or something, man.” He lifted his brows with mock sternness.

  Idiot.

  “That’s the manager from Briar Hall,” he explained without enthusiasm. “And she runs a tight ship, and she already spotted Michael and me over at the cattle property, so it’d be nice to keep her on and not have to hire someone new, yeah?”

  RJ seemed to deflate. “You mean you’re not hitting that?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? She’s got a great ass.”

  “Why don’t you go tell her that,” Walsh shot back dryly. “And see if she can be a little more biker-phobic while we’re at it.”

  “Ah,” Rottie said with a little nod. “The cut freaked her out?”

  “Women fall into three categories, mate.” Walsh heard the grim note in his voice. “The ones who think it’s hot” – he touched the front of his cut – “and the ones who can’t get far enough away from it.”

  Rottie made a thoughtful face. “And the third kind?”

  “Old lady material.”

  ~*~

  Karl’s second wife wasn’t at home, and there was evidence she’d been gone for a few days: stacked dishes by the sink, overflowing laundry hamper, pizza boxes on the coffee table. The place was a shambles, and smelled like alcohol and body odor.

  Emmie helped her dad shuffle to his room, deposited him on the bed, and went into the kitchen in search of the booze he’d so obviously restocked.

  She found a bottle of gin wedged behind the kitchen trash can, and she carried it to the sink, unscrewed the cap and poised the bottle to pour it all down the drain. She was swamped by the stink of unwashed dishes. Through the window above the sink, the outdoor security light was an ugly smear against a greasy night sky.

  An outlaw biker wanted to buy Briar Hall. Wanted to hire her. Wanted to save her farm…

  And do what to it?

  She put the bottle to her lips and took a long swig, relishing the burn.

  Brighton Racecourse

  Brighton, East Sussex, England

  20 Years Ago

  The roar. Not the crowd – never that. He couldn’t hear that roar for the one that had swallowed him whole. The drum of forty-eight hooves digging up the turf with each lunging stride; the great inhale and exhale of air as the Thoroughbreds dragged oxygen down into their massive lungs. It was the roar of the race, and this time, it was a real race, and not just a practice run.

  Walsh was nineteen, and still growing, but still small enough to make weight as a jockey. This was a claims race, with low attendance, but his horse was quick out of the gate and he wore real silks, instead of jeans and chaps.

  The reins bit into his hands, the horse was an undulating lightning bolt beneath him, and the wind scraped his face as they hurtled down the slightly-curved track toward the grandstand.

  Lost in the track, he didn’t notice the horse coming up on his left at the rail until the other jockey was angling his mount sideways. The horse’s shoulder slammed into Walsh’s horse, and his animal shuddered, staggered…then rebalanced.

  Walsh shot the other rider a furious look, only to realize that another collision was coming. Forget pace, forget safety – this bastard was trying to unhorse him.

  Without thinking, Walsh brought his whip down across the other jockey’s face, with all the force in his small arm.

  The jockey jerked backward, hauling on the reins –

  The horse stumbled –

  Walsh felt the bottom go out of his stomach as he watched the other horse go down on its knees, falling from a full gallop, somersaulting. The jockey went flying –

  Straight into another horse’s path.

  Five

  She was dreaming. Gin always made her dream. Knowing that it wasn’t real, that it was only an illusion, Emmie lay still as Walsh climbed onto the bed beside her. He was still wearing that vest with all the patches, and he smelled dangerous, and his eyes were narrow, bright, and penetrating.

  She was naked, but that seemed natural. She eased onto her back as he climbed over her, opened her legs so he could settle between them. She was the one to initiate contact; she took his hand in hers and brought it to her breast, jerked upward into his touch because his rings were cold against her skin.

  He stared at her a long, unreadable moment, his expression blank.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I…”

  And then he was thrusting inside her, and it was even better than she’d expected. They were well-matched size-wise, and his hips flexed generously against hers, creating a delicious friction as counterpoint to the heat and weight of him inside her.

  Emmie closed her eyes and gave into the rhythm, let herself relax and enjoy it. She –

  Her eyes slammed open and she was in her apartment, in her bed, alone. She’d kicked her covers off and rolled onto her stomach. Her face burned when she realized she was grinding against her mattress, flushed and damp all over, physically affected by the vision in her dream.

  It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and before that, it had fallen flat and been less than stimulating. She’d known the day before that she was attracted to Walsh – she was a big girl, she could admit that.


  Apparently, she hadn’t known how attracted. And apparently, dream-her was all hot and bothered about the biker angle, even if awake-her found it irresponsible, immature, much too dangerous…

  And Jesus, hot as hell.

  She rolled onto her back and exhaled loudly toward the ceiling. She was falling apart. The fatigue, the worry, this wet dream – all symptoms that a breakdown was in her future.

  What she needed was a ride. And not of the biker playboy variety.

  She checked the clock – five. Still dark, but that’s what arena lights were for. She dressed in riding clothes and slipped downstairs to the dark barn, greeted by the contented, sleepy sounds of resting horses.

  And by the stink of cigarette smoke.

  She had no doubt who she’d find in the office, and when she flipped on the lights, Brett cursed, sitting forward in the chair he’d been reclined in, coughing on a drag of smoke.

  Emmie folded her arms and propped up in the doorway. “You’re smoking in the barn.”

  He kept choking and gave her a dismissive wave.

  “So either, like I suspect, you can’t read all the No Smoking signs out there. Or you’re trying to burn the barn down.”

  Recovered, Brett scowled at her. “What you gonna do about it if I burn the place down? It’s not your barn. Not any of your business.”

  “Considering I get paid to ensure the health and safety of all the horses in here – yeah, it’s very much my business. There’s over three-hundred-thousand dollars’ worth of horseflesh in this barn,” she reminded him. “That’s three-hundred-thousand dollars you’ll get sued for if you start a fire.”

  He shrugged with one shoulder, putting the cigarette back to his lips. “They’ll sue my grandfather, not me.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Why should it?” he sneered. “What’s that rich old fucker ever done for me?”

  “Um, for starters? Posted your bail, got you sent to that rehab program instead of jail–”

  “Shut up and get the fuck out of my business. You’re just the goddamn hired help.”

  Inwardly seething, outwardly composed, Emmie turned away from him, and her now smoke-scented office. “Put the cig out, Brett,” she called over her shoulder in parting.

  “Get fucking laid and loosen up,” he shot back.

  Her face felt scarlet and hot to the touch as she flipped on the tack room lights and went for her brush box. Everything that ever came out of Brett’s mouth was poison. He was an uneducated, unmotivated, and mean little screwup with nothing but insolence and thievery to his name. Exposed to it since childhood, she was long used to his nastiness. Other girls came and went, part of the revolving door of boarders, mistakenly thinking he was some sort of tortured bad boy with a genuine soul hidden behind his harsh outer shell. Emmie knew better; with Brett, there was nothing but shell.

  So why was her face on fire after his last comment?

  Just the dream, she told herself. Just her inappropriate subconscious hunger that had nothing to do with an attractive stranger, and everything to do with her stress level.

  Yeah, getting laid would be a godsend. Only, she didn’t do casual hookups, and she hadn’t been on anyone’s radar in a long time.

  So saddle therapy it was.

  Apollo whickered a deep greeting as she let herself into his stall. She had an apple wafer in her pocket and he nosed her hip impatiently, already smelling the treat.

  “You brat,” she scolded, feeding it to him on a flat palm. “You only love me for the food.”

  The big gelding snorted as if in agreement.

  Grooming her horse went a long way toward relaxing her. The repetitive brush strokes down his sleek sides, the careful detangling of his tail, the struggle with a pebble lodged against his shoe – all of it slowed her heartrate, lowered her blood pressure. She was humming to herself by the time he was saddled, and her stomach gave a happy twirl as she led Apollo through the darkness down toward the arena, and its glowing flood lights.

  The second her butt hit the saddle, every extraneous, nagging thought flew out of her head. “Alright, ‘Pollo,” she said, gathering the reins in a light warmup contact. “Let’s see how rusty you are.”

  On horseback, she was distracted by nothing. Her mind was totally clear, occupied only by the loose swing of Apollo’s walk, and then trot. Without thinking, her body adjusted, compensated, steered and corrected. It was like dancing, the perfect harmony of working together with the horse.

  Her father had asked her, in one of this rare sober moments, if Briar Hall selling was a sign: She was too stressed and tired, and long overdue for a career change. But Dad didn’t understand the way this right here made all the stress worthwhile. Nothing could compete with this.

  ~*~

  The sky was lightening when Walsh parked in front of Briar Hall’s barn. The morning was a pearly gray, thick drifts of mist hugging the grass. There was a rider in the arena, and he sat on his bike a moment, watching.

  He recognized Emmie, the way her posture in the saddle made her seem taller than she was, her little gloved hands held lightly above the horse’s withers. A big horse – her legs extended only halfway down its deep barrel. A heavy-bodied giant of a horse, black and shiny beneath the arena lights, his movements powerful rather than fleet.

  At the top of the arena, the horse turned down the center line, and then began to track sideways and forward at once. What was that called again? A half-pass; yeah, that’s what it was. A dressage move, executed with no obvious cues from Emmie.

  She sat the horse well, neither hampering, nor over-helping its movement. There was little tension in the reins – she and the horse had a good working bond; he was listening to his mistress.

  Walsh scanned the front of the barn, searching for movement or a watchful presence. When he saw none, he dismounted and walked down to the arena, pushed a hand absently through his hair, tidying it by some impulse he didn’t understand. When he reached the fence, he braced his forearms on the top rail and waited.

  She executed another smooth half-pass before she noticed him, and then it was only a flicker of head movement. She slowed the horse to a walk, patted its muscled neck, and took her time ambling over to the rail.

  “You’re back,” she said without inflection, but there was a bright flare of interest in her eyes, their blue electric under the manmade light.

  “Your boss is a busy man and an early riser,” he said, voice equally blank.

  Her gaze moved over him. “Where’s your vest thing?”

  “It’s called a cut, actually. And I left it at home.” Before she could ask anything else, he said, “How’s your father?”

  She cringed. “Asleep still, I’m guessing.” Shame colored her face. “Thank you, again, for helping me with him.”

  “Always happy to help a beautiful damsel in distress. Twice,” he added, grinning a little. “I think that’s two favors you owe me, counting the night the horse got out.”

  She fixed him with an annoyed look, which he found more attractive than he would have thought. “I’m not loving the word ‘damsel.’”

  “Damsels never do.”

  “And even if I owed you ten times over, I’ve got nothing you want, trust me.”

  “Hmm. Not sure about that, lovey.”

  As hoped, her eyes popped wide and her lips pressed together. Something passed through her eyes, something that wasn’t shock, disgust, or rejection. Like maybe she was feeling the pull same as he was.

  Yes, definitely. He’d been around enough women to know when one was put off…and when one was interested.

  Even if this one didn’t want to be interested.

  Emmie opened her mouth to reply –

  And in a feat of bad timing, Davis Richards’ golf cart came whirring up behind him.

  The horse flicked its ears and let out a deep breath of mixed curiosity and surprise, but didn’t spook.

  “Good morning, Mr. Richards,” Emmie said, before turn
ing her mount and walking off.

  Walsh took a deep, bracing breath and turned to greet the farm owner.

  ~*~

  “Lean Dog. You mean, like, the Lean Dogs? The biker dudes with all the leather and all the riding together and that stuff?” Becca asked.

  “That would be them, yeah,” Emmie said, adding a scoop of electrolyte granules to the next bucket in line.

  Walsh was still up at the house with Davis, it had been almost two hours now. Emmie had no idea if that boded well for negotiations – or if she wanted them to go well in the first place.

  “I’m confused,” Becca said as she scooped Farrier’s Formula into the proper buckets. “Is he gonna kick us all out and use the barn as a motorcycle garage?”

  “He says he wants to keep it running as is,” Emmie said, frowning to herself. “Says he likes horses.”

  “Is he lying?”

  “No idea.”

  “God, I hope he buys it,” Becca said. “I so don’t want to leave.”

  Emmie felt agreement wasn’t necessary.

  A quick rap at the doorjamb brought her head around, and she was surprised to find Amy Richards lingering in the threshold. “Em, can we talk?” she asked, expression almost hesitant.

  “Uh…”

  “I’ll go feed,” Becca said, stacking up the buckets.

  “Thanks.” Emmie dusted the orange granules off her hands. “Coffee?” she asked her mentor, and they headed for the office.

  ~*~

  Though doubtless a maid service came to clean the house, Davis Richards didn’t have a housekeeper or homecare worker. He made his own coffee in his massive, stainless-everything kitchen, poured it, and invited Walsh out onto the wraparound porch where they settled into white rocking chairs, overlooking the barn and arenas below. The silence stayed companionable for a while, and then filled up with expectation.

  “That’s a nice Harley you’ve got down there,” Richards said in the deep, gruff voice that seemed to leave his throat with a lurch, like he was trying to surprise whoever he was talking to. “I didn’t know you Lean Dogs could afford bikes that nice.”