“She’ll love you,” Walsh had insisted, but she wasn’t real popular with mothers, given that her own had seen no reason to keep being her mother.
“I’ll be back at feeding time,” she told Becca on her way out of the barn.
Becca gave her a sharp grin. “Good luck.”
When she got to the house, she went in the back door, through the library, where they were in the process of amassing a book collection; Ava had made some donations and gifted her some others. She paused in the hallway just outside the living room, listening to the voices.
“King, it’s just lovely!” a light, chirpy female voice exclaimed, bright with an English accent, charming as a period film. “Look at all the light coming in! The windows! Oh, you must have more furniture. And maybe lace doilies for the tables. Yes, you don’t want to ruin them with candles.”
“Candles, Mum?” Walsh asked dryly.
“You must have candles. Much more romantic that way.”
Which would be her cue. Emmie took one last shivery breath and stepped around the corner. She didn’t make a sound, but Walsh’s mother whirled toward her instantly, smile catching, and then doubling in size, her small dark eyes sparkling.
She was a tiny thing, dressed in a simple, modest dress, with a short cap of blonde and gray hair. Her face was heavily lined from smiling. A happy woman, despite her shit luck with men.
“Oh my,” she said with a laughing gasp. “You must be Emmie.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Emmie moved toward her, hand extending for a shake. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I had lessons this morning, and I’m dirty from the barn, and – oh.”
The woman bypassed her hand and pulled her into a tight hug. She pushed her back at arm’s length after, giggling to herself. “You’re beautiful, dear! Such a classic face. Isn’t she classic, King? And the hair – you must let me braid it for you. I’ve always wished I had curls like these.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Walsh agreed, and Emmie thought she’d blush to death.
Walsh’s half-brother, Shane, introduced himself next. He had Walsh’s blue eyes, and there was a certain similarity in his face, but he had dark, close-cropped hair, and his dark brows gave his face a more shadowed look. She read him as shy, and quiet, but his smile was sweet and his handshake warm.
“Call me Bea, dear,” Walsh’s mother said, taking her by the hand and patting the back of it. She had smooth, cool hands, the flesh loose with age, the veins little ridges along the backs. Maternal hands, full of love and affection.
Emmie felt a lump form in her throat.
“Now,” Bea said, drawing Emmie’s hand through her arm. “Show me your lovely home! I can’t wait to see all of it.”
~*~
The house was made for a crowd. For a big family, laughter and chatter filling up all the vast corners.
The Lean Dogs MC was that family. The brothers and sisters she’d never had. And tonight she had her father with her. And Bea Walsh had established herself as surrogate mother in a matter of hours.
Before the party, when she’d been tossing together buffalo chicken dip in the kitchen, Emmie had thrown her arms around Walsh. “I’ve never had a mom,” she’d whispered against his throat, and felt his arms close around her. “I love you so much, you wonderful man.”
He’d turned the color of ripe radishes.
He hadn’t been embellishing, or trying to manipulate her, before their courthouse wedding, when he’d promised her a family. The bikers crowding her dining room now – they were family, in all their ragtag, leather-covered glory.
Emmie glanced around the table. Ava ate one-handed while she held Cal in one arm. Mercy had Remy in his lap, and was tearing bits off a roll for him.
Michael leaned toward Holly to hear what she was saying, and he twitched the tiniest of smiles, one Holly responded to with a beaming, adoring grin.
Nell said something that made Maggie laugh so hard she almost choked on her wine.
Under the table, Emmie laid her hand on Walsh’s thigh and squeezed, a silent thank you, greeting, show of affection. His hand covered hers, his rings warm and smooth on her knuckles.
At the head of the table, Ghost pushed his chair back and cleared his throat, lifting his beer bottle. All heads turned toward him, conversations grinding to silence. “I want to raise a toast,” he said, voice officious, impressive. “To the Walshes.” His eyes came to them. “For holding down this particular fort, keeping our club safe.”
Emmie felt a little shiver move down her back. This was her presidential seal of approval.
“Emmie, welcome to the family,” Ghost continued. “And Walsh, brother, you never let us down.”
There was a hearty round of applause. Even Bea clapped along vigorously, saying, “How nice!”
Emmie’s face warmed; all of her did. This was hers now: this house, this farm, this man, this life, this family.
Hers. And she wanted for nothing else.
~*~
Aidan prowled around the island in the kitchen, scanning the dessert plates, trying to decide which was tempting enough to force into his full stomach and risk a bellyache.
Emmie stepped into the room, expression hesitant. “Aidan, Tonya’s at the front door. She walked up from the barn and she wants to talk to you.”
He sighed dramatically. “Nah. Not gonna happen. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your star student’s a superior bitch.”
“No argument there,” she said with a snort. “But, she was pretty insistent. Maybe you ought to at least see what she wants.”
He groaned. “Yeah. Sure.”
Tonya waited down at the base of the porch steps, arms folded, hair slicked back in a severe bun. She turned at the sound of his footsteps on the boards, and watched him with cold dispassion as he descended.
She was dressed unusually – for her, anyway, in a loose silk shirt and jeans. Her flats probably cost five-hundred bucks, but they were flats instead of spike heels.
“What?” he asked when he reached her, digging out a cigarette just to annoy her. “I’ve got apple pie waiting on me, so make it quick.”
She sniffed hard, face pinched up with cold displeasure. “Alright then, fine.”
He stuck his cig between his teeth, dug out his lighter.
“There’s something I need to tell you, and trust me, I don’t want to. But I thought you ought to know, so you don’t make the same mistake in the future.”
“Will you just get to the point?” he asked as he lit up.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a fast rush through her nostrils. Her eyes were totally dead as they latched onto his. “Yes, Aidan, I’ll get to the point.”
“So do it.”
One last sigh. “I’m pregnant. And it’s yours.”
THE END
~*~
The Lean Dogs, and their old ladies, will return for Aidan’s story in:
Secondhand Smoke
Coming Soon
~*~
Get Connected:
Facebook: Lauren Gilley – Author
Twitter: @lauren_gilley
Blog: hoofprintpress.blogspot.com
Email: [email protected]
Keep up to date with new releases, gain access to exclusive teasers and bonus material, join the Dartmoor discussion group on FB, and enter giveaways. Lauren loves to hear from readers, so don’t hesitate to Like, Follow, leave a comment, or send an email.
Lauren Gilley writes Literary Fiction which is sometimes mistaken for Romance. She’s the author of fifteen novels and several short stories. When she’s not writing, she’s at the barn, plotting stories and cleaning horse stalls. She lives in Georgia.
Other Titles from Lauren Gilley
The Walker Series
Keep You
Dream of You
Better Than You
Fix You
Rosewood
Whatever Remains
Shelter
The Russell Series
&nbs
p; Made for Breaking
God Love Her
“Things That Go Bang In The Night”
Keeping Bad Company
“Green Like the Water”
The Dartmoor Series
Fearless
Price of Angels
Half My Blood
The Skeleton King
Secondhand Smoke (coming soon)
The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Page 35