Apollo noticed Fred first, blowing a greeting to the man as he drew up to the horse’s head.
“Hi,” Emmie said, glancing over as she worked the tangles from Apollo’s tail with a human hairbrush. “Everything alright?”
“Si.” He stroked the gelding’s nose, proving his equine magic; Apollo didn’t like men as a rule, but got on well with Fred. “How ‘bout you, chica. You alright?”
She made a face. “If you’re wondering if I’m going to show up to work half-drunk again, the answer is no. I’m alright. Just had a momentary lapse in judgment.” She laughed hollowly. “We’re all allowed a few, right?”
But Fred didn’t share in her humor. “The new boss has eyes for you. I see it.” He tapped at his temple, alongside his own eyes. “I think maybe you have eyes for him too.”
“What? Phshh.” Her forced laugh sounded stupid to her own ears. “Yeah, right. Like I have time to worry about blonde-haired, blue-eyed bikers who…” She clamped her lips shut, and saw the knowing tilt to Fred’s non-smile.
“You deserve to have a man,” he said. “A good man. A marriage like I have with my Maria. But be careful, Emmie. This man is dangerous.”
Emmie frowned. “I don’t want to be with him. It’s not like that.”
He nodded, but the sadness in his eyes told her he didn’t believe her.
“I need to spread the manure,” he said, and walked off with one last pat to Apollo’s nose.
When he was gone, Emmie found herself still frowning, suddenly cold inside. When she examined herself closely, she realized that she’d been keeping Walsh’s words in the back of her mind all afternoon. You’ll have to say you want it. She’d been gearing up to that, preparing herself to say those words. I want you. Because she did, God help her.
She’d never had what she’d call a successful relationship. So her logic had been, what did it matter if Walsh was the dangerous, bad boy type she was supposed to avoid? Playing it smart had only ever left her lonely.
But the way Fred said dangerous left her wondering. Because there were bad boys…and then there were men who’d kill you.
Twelve
Mercy loved evenings. Without all the rush of mornings, he got to be with his family in a more tranquil state. He got to play with Remy, and after dinner was done and all the dishes stowed away, he got to play with his woman, too.
“He’s moving,” Mercy said, pausing with his hands pressed to the sides of Ava’s distended belly.
She sat in front of him, between his extended legs, resting back against his chest. “Hmm.” One of her hands joined his. “He’s more active than Remy was. He likes to use my bladder as a speedbag.”
“Little monster,” Mercy said affectionately, following the movement beneath the skin as his son squirmed in the womb.
“Mom thinks he’ll come early. She keeps looking at my stomach like she’s got X-ray vision and telling me he won’t make it to nine months.”
“Your mom does have X-ray vision.”
“She does. But are we gonna talk about her?” Her hand closed over one of his, drew it downward along the swell of her belly, down between her legs. “Or do something more fun than that?” Her voice got husky on the end, dark with wanting.
He shifted forward, so he was curled around her, her sleek hair against his cheek, her ear at his lips. “Ava Rose,” he said, laughing quietly. “I think being pregnant makes you even dirtier than you already are.”
“It’s the hormones.” With an impatient sound, she dropped the vixen act and said, “God, Merc, I’m just really horny.”
He laughed again, fingers dancing against her. “Don’t worry, fillette, I’ve got you.”
She twisted her head, like she was searching for his mouth, and he gave it to her, kissing her, taking over –
The loud crash that echoed through the house startled them both.
“What the hell?” Ava gasped.
“That ladder your dad dropped off,” he said, searching for an explanation even as his heart galloped. He’d never known fear that wasn’t tied to his girl, and now that fear had been doubled – tripled – by the babies. Loud sounds he could handle all day. Loud sounds when his family was around? Scared him shitless. “That had to be it. He left it up against the side of the house.”
But then it crashed again.
“That’s not the wind,” Ava said grimly, surging awkwardly out of his arms and onto her knees. She was off the bed almost as quickly as him, tugging the straps of her cotton slip into place, heading for her nightstand as he opened the drawer of his.
Guns were drawn, her Glock and his Colt 1911.
Mercy caught her eye across the expanse of the king-sized bed and he couldn’t help but smile, just for a second. His ferocious fillette, all ready to put lead in somebody.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yep.”
He moved quickly, long legs taking him across the house, through the mud room, and out the back door in record time. The ladder had indeed fallen, and lay on the grass. But it wasn’t the wind’s fault – a man all in black was sprinting down the driveway, arms pumping as he raced away from the house.
“Hey!” Mercy shouted, bringing his gun up.
But it was dark, and they were in a residential area, and the guy was lost to the shadows already anyway.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Ava was waiting in the living room, having pulled a sweatshirt over her nightgown, tied her hair back, eyes serious. “What was it?”
“I’m guessing it was Michael’s peeping tom. He must have a thing for Dogs.”
Thirteen
“Mum.” Walsh closed his eyes and rubbed them with his free thumb and forefinger. The other hand held the phone to his ear. “You know how this is gonna turn out. You know.”
Beatrice took a deep, shuddering breath on her end of the line. Walsh could picture her by the window in the lounge of her flat, hand clutching at the strand of pearls he’d given her two Christmases ago, watery afternoon sunlight touching every line time and worry had etched into her face. “He’s changed, King,” she said unsteadily. “It’s been so long, and he’s learned he went wrong, I think.”
Jesus. “Learned he went wrong with ten women? I have eight half-siblings, Mum. The man’s cock ought to have its own passport.”
“Kingston!” she chided. “That’s no way to talk of your father.”
“He’s not my father. He’s nothing but a bit of DNA to me.”
Rottie ambled past with a travel holder of steaming paper coffee cups, and lifted it in offering.
Walsh shook his head and picked his cigarette up off the edge of the table. “Look, Mum, I’ve gotta go. Will you – will you just promise me you won’t put too much stock in anything he says? You won’t go away with him anywhere or make plans, yeah?”
There was a pause. “Well, I’m lonely,” she admitted in a small voice.
He drew hard on the smoke. “I know.”
After promising to call her again later, with a stomach full of transatlantic dread, he disconnected and plugged himself into the present.
“Problem?” Ghost asked when he joined the rest of the boys in the common room.
“Nah.” He climbed onto a barstool. “What’s this about?”
Ghost gave a quick, tight smile. “It’s about these two are gonna end up cellmates if we don’t figure out who’s spying in their windows,” he said, gesturing to Michael and Mercy, who looked downright chummy sitting at a table together.
“I catch him in my yard, I’m turning him into a baby mobile to go over the crib,” Mercy said matter-of-factly. All his Cajun joviality had dropped away. He was serious about killing someone, and beside him, Michael was his silent bookend, both of them holding up two sides of a frightening hostility.
“You might wanna tap the brakes a bit, boys,” Dublin said. “All he’s done is look in a couple windows, right?”
“He woke my baby up,” Michael said, like that was valid ju
stification.
Ghost glanced over at Walsh with a look that said suggestions?
In his head, Walsh set his personal issues off to the side with a mental sigh. He was tired. Damn tired, inside and out. “Set a trap for him,” he offered. “Set out some tape on the windowsills, see if you can get prints off him. Use a trail camera, one that’s motion-activated. Maybe you can catch him on film and Ratchet’s guy can run facial recognition on him.”
“Or how about I get a bear trap,” Mercy said, snapping his palms together in demonstration.
“Or how about you calm the fuck down a little,” Ghost said.
President and extractor went back and forth a few moments, Mercy’s wish list of punishment growing more graphic, until finally it was agreed some of Hound’s trail cameras would be set up at Mercy and Michael’s houses.
Ghost seemed largely unconcerned, almost content, as well he should be. The new mayor had no interest in the Dogs, had instead been busy the past year and a half putting out all the previous mayor’s fires. The drug business was good. The gun business out of Texas was good, and had helped majorly fund the farm purchase. Then there was the farm – another victory. Their burial ground safe from bulldozers and prying eyes.
But Walsh was stalked by an uneasiness he couldn’t yet define.
Ghost turned toward him as the impromptu meeting broke off and everyone headed back to work. “Everything good out in the sticks?”
Sure, except for the fact that he wasn’t entirely sure at this point that Davis Richards’ heart attack had been natural, and he had a dead man’s daughter trying to fuck him into selling the place, and he was overly distracted by Emmie Johansen at this point. But Ghost didn’t want to hear any of that.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “All good.”
~*~
Whatever Emmie’s feelings about Walsh, she was completely in love with his dog. It was lunch time, and she and Becca were choking down turkey sandwiches at the picnic tables, Dolly lying at their feet, looking at them adoringly until they felt compelled to offer her turkey.
“Who’s a pretty girl?” Becca asked, tossing over a large chunk of meat. “Huh? Who’s the prettiest girl?”
Dolly took the treat daintily and gave a tongue-lolling dog smile.
“Okay, she’s the best,” Becca said, returning to her lunch. “Can we keep her?”
“If we keep her owner, I guess so.”
“Ah, the owner.” Becca grinned as she chewed. “Do we want to keep him?”
“If we also wanna keep the farm, yeah.”
Becca rolled her eyes. “I was trying to do a thing. Be all suggestive or whatever.”
Emmie smiled.
“But, seriously, do you, like, totally want to let him in your pants?”
Emmie wanted to act scandalized, but it was a little late for that routine. “You’ve been talking to Fred, haven’t you?”
“Just as your two concerned coworkers and friends. Well, only Fred’s concerned. I’m more like ‘Girl hasn’t been on a date in forever, let her have some fun.’ Plus” – she leaned across the table, voice going low and conspiratorial – “I think he’s totally cute.”
Emmie’s stomach grabbed in a way it hadn’t since she was still in school. “You do?”
“Definitely.”
“That’s…oh, hell. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s really bad form to mess around with your boss. Plus, I don’t even know the guy.”
“So? You knew your last boyfriend, and look how that turned out.”
She winced. “Yeah.” She shook herself all over and tossed the rest of her turkey to Dolly. “Anyway, there’s more important stuff to worry about right now.”
Becca lifted her brows like she didn’t believe that.
“Donna Murphy’s sitting trot for one thing.” She gestured to the boarder riding trot circles in the arena below them. “I don’t know who’s going to be more sore afterward – her or the horse.”
Becca twisted around to watch. “Ouch. That’s painful to look at.”
Thankful to no longer be the center of attention, Emmie braced her elbows on the table, traced the condensation droplets on her water bottle with a finger. She’d lost sleep the night before, worrying about Amy’s visit. All through the evening, she’d expected Walsh to come down to the barn and tell her what was said, but he hadn’t shown. And walking up to the house felt like she was taking him up on his sex offer.
Which she wasn’t thinking about at all.
The sound of a bike engine started as a low murmur and grew louder as it came up the driveway. Walsh was back.
Becca twirled around and gave her a wide, evil grin.
Emmie rolled her eyes…skyward, and then over to the side, so she could watch Walsh park, strip off helmet and gloves, and climb off the Harley. He wore his jeans just tight enough, and his boots were scarred and dirty. His wallet chain and all the rings on his hands caught the light in a dazzling glitter burst. He kept his shades on – smoked aviators that left her palms damp – but pushed his fingers through his hair, raising it up after the helmet had flattened it.
Damn, he looked good.
She was embarrassed by how much she wanted to slide her hands up into the rolled sleeves of his denim shirt, feel the crinkly hair on his arms and the muscle beneath.
He spotted them and walked over. In the shade of the pavilion, she could see that he hadn’t shaved that morning, sharp edge of his jaw stubbly. He pushed his shades up into his hair and sat down on the bench beside her without preamble, leaning over to scratch Dolly behind the ears.
“Mr. Walsh,” Becca greeted in a chirpy voice. “We were just talking about you.”
Emmie wanted to kick her under the table, especially as the teenager shot her a wide smile.
Walsh looked between the two of them, expressionless. “Really.”
“Emmie was, mostly,” Becca said, getting to her feet. “I was just listening.” She gave them another of her big fake grins. “I better get back to cleaning tack!” she chirped, and left them alone, with no buffer save Donna’s awful sitting trot in front of them.
“I–”
“I–”
They both started talking at once, and Emmie felt her cheeks warm.
A tiny smile plucked at the corners of his mouth; his little almost-smiles were better than any of the widest, whitest male grins she’d ever seen. “Ladies first.”
She dampened her lips and watched his eyes follow the passage of her tongue. “I wanted to ask how things went with Amy yesterday. Did she yell? She’s kind of a yeller.”
His little smile widened a fraction. “She yelled. After I told her I didn’t want what she was offering.”
She lifted her brows and felt her chest tighten. “What was that?” But knowing Amy as she had all these years, she had a pretty good idea.
“Your mentor’s a bit of a whore, pet. A lot of one, actually. You think her fiancé would care she took her top off to try and get me to sell?”
Unbidden, anger coiled through her. “She did what?”
“I turned her down, love,” he said quietly.
“I don’t – that doesn’t matter. I mean…” Her face was hot. She took a deep breath as he breathed a low laugh. “Why in the world does she want you to sell? She’s got her money. God knows she doesn’t have a sentimental streak about this place.”
Walsh shifted to the side and dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket, setting it on the table between them. It read Scott Palmer, G&G, and included an address. “One of my brothers is real good at looking stuff up. Your girl Amy’s fiancé? He works for Gannon & Gannon, heads up their division in Kentucky.”
“No!” she gasped. “No way! I met Scott. He’s…” She frowned. “Well, damn, I have no idea what he does.”
“Now you do.”
“So…what. If G&G is making money off the development, her new husband will, which means she makes more off the developer deal than off her inheritance.”
Walsh nodded.
Her drunken father probably would have said the same thing.
“This place,” she said in a small, defeated voice. “The horses, and the pastures, and the stalls…and all our stories.” She glanced over at him, unable to force a smile. “It never meant a thing to her. It was all about the money, always. I feel like an idiot.” She glanced away, toward the arena. “An idealistic moron.”
There was a pause in which she imagined him agreeing with her. Then he said, “Or you expect the best of people.”
“Like a moron.”
“A rare trait, I’ll give you that. But the world’s better for a bit of rare, I think.”
She glanced over, her sudden burst of nausea subsiding. She finally found her smile. “You talk funny, Mr. Walsh.”
“I know. The ladies usually like it.” He lifted his brows in question.
“Yeah, I’d say they do.”
There was a moment, a brief one, in which she should have torn her eyes away – but didn’t. In which she should have said something snappy to negate her compliment – but didn’t. The men she’d known in her life hadn’t flirted; it had always been “hey, babe, I’m totally gonna rock your world.” There had been no cleverness or intensity to them, and for that moment, she was trapped in Walsh’s blue gaze and didn’t want to be anywhere else.
It hurt, suddenly, how much she wanted a real man, a partner – and it hurt to know that she would probably never have one.
If she leaned forward, she knew, he’d close the gap and kiss her. It was a knowledge that fizzled through her, an assuredness so strong, her lips tingled in anticipation.
But then Donna shouted, “Hey, Emmie! Can you come look at this?” And the spell was broken.
The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Page 11