by Deb Stover
"What do you think about all this?" Mr. Larabee asked gently.
"Not only is this written in legal mumbo-jumbo, but there are words here I'm pretty sure aren't even English. Do you know what it really says, Mr. Larabee? The bottom line, sir, if you please?"
Mr. Larabee returned the document to the folder and removed another. "Read this letter from Fiona Mulligan instead. It might make more sense."
She took the letter and removed it from its envelope. Neat handwriting on crisp white paper leapt out at her. It was brief but friendly. "She wants to meet me."
Mr. Larabee nodded, his expression compassionate. "That makes perfect sense. Her son died and left a wife behind she's just now learned about."
"Yes, I reckon she's curious."
"When I spoke with her on the phone, I got the impression she's a lot more than just curious."
Realization made the flesh around Bridget's mouth tingle again and she had to swallow several times before she could speak. "You... you told her about Jacob."
Mr. Larabee's cheeks reddened. "It should have come from you, but... the divorce settlement Culley never received did mention child support. I'm sorry."
"And...?"
A huge grin split Mr. Larabee's face and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "She said, 'I want to hold me boy's flesh and blood in me arms, and see the lad's face with me own two eyes.'"
Bridget had to laugh at Mr. Larabee's attempt at an Irish accent, though nothing about this was humorous. The man she'd married was dead, and his momma wanted to meet his son. Bridget owed Culley that. "I understand." She leaned closer, sliding the letter across the desk's smooth surface.
"I'll be blunt, Bridget." Mr. Larabee sobered again. "Mrs. Mulligan indicated to me that her older son—Riley, I think she said—believes you might try to con the family out of their land."
"Con?" Silently seething, she tried to quell her rising indignation. And failed. "Con?"
"Mrs. Mulligan also said that Riley will want proof."
She stiffened. "I don't need to prove anything to anybody. I know the truth."
Mr. Larabee cleared his throat. "Your mother-in-law had just the opposite reaction, however. She can't wait to meet you and Jacob. In fact, she reminds me of you."
That's what Culley said. Her heart stuttered and she warmed from within, realizing with a start that she could now give herself permission to have loved Culley Mulligan. "Culley's momma wants us to come for a visit?"
Mr. Larabee nodded. "More than a visit, Bridget. She wants you to bring her grandson home. Her words."
"Home?"
"Where he belongs, according to her."
An odd tremor of fear and excitement coalesced and pulsed through Bridget. Her cheeks grew warm and she clutched the fabric of her skirt in both fists. "He belongs with me."
Mr. Larabee pulled off his glasses and leveled his gaze on her. "Mrs. Mulligan's said her late husband's will was pretty specific."
"Specific?" She knew it was too good to be true. There was probably some catch to all this that would keep Jacob from receiving his inheritance.
"I mentioned earlier, this is what's called an entailed estate. One family member can't sell any portion without the permission of them all."
"I remember."
"Your son will be entitled to an inheritance when he reaches his majority."
"That's good. Culley would've wanted that."
Mr. Larabee sighed. "They may require proof of paternity since the marriage was sudden and secret—"
"I'm not the one who kept it secret."
"I know, but they can probably prevent Jacob from inheriting anything, or at least drag it out for many years." Mr. Larabee met her gaze. "Going there will show good faith, and—let's face facts—you have nothing here except your job with us."
Bridget reminded herself of the eviction notice. She had a child to feed, and that child's daddy might finally come through with some support. Remembering Culley's laughing eyes, tears welled in her own. She'd much rather have had Culley with her all along than have his property now without him.
In fact, she owed it to Culley to make sure his son took his rightful place in the Mulligan family. Pride made her lift her chin and square her shoulders. A slow, determined smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Then I reckon I'll take my son to meet his daddy's family."
"That's the spirit." Mr. Larabee returned her smile. "When shall I tell Mrs. Mulligan to expect you?"
A sinking sensation struck Bridget. The final blow. Her mouth went dry and her eyes burned. "Never." She held her hands out, palms up. "I don't have the money for the trip." Her breath came out in a whoosh and she fell back against the chair. Defeated. "I guess that's the end of—"
"No. It's just the beginning." Mr. Larabee smiled again and handed another envelope to Bridget. "Open it."
Shaking from the inside out, she leaned forward and took the envelope and looked inside. "It's full of cash."
Mr. Larabee nodded. "Mrs. Mulligan wired the money for you and Jacob to use for plane fare."
"I see." Bridget stared at the money in amazement. "And she trusts me enough to believe I won't use this for something else?"
"She said if you don't bring Jacob to Ireland, she'll assume you lied about his paternity."
Bridget's pride reared its offended head and she rose, her knees quaking beneath her. "I never lie."
Mr. Larabee rose as well and gave her a satisfied nod. "I know."
After several deep breaths, she trusted herself to meet his gaze again. His eyes twinkled approvingly.
"Now what do I do?" She held the envelope against her chest, afraid it might vanish as magically as it had appeared. "I don't even have a passport. And what about General Lee?"
"We'll walk you through the process, but it will take a few weeks," Mr. Larabee promised. He rolled his eyes heavenward and chuckled. "And, heaven help me, we'll take care of General Lee."
She laughed along with him, and a strange new emotion filled and empowered her. A feeling she'd rarely known in her twenty-eight years.
Hope.
"Is there enough here to buy plane tickets and repay you and Mrs. Larabee for your generosity?"
"That's not ne—"
"Yes, it is necessary." She met his gaze and he nodded.
"Very well. I'm sure there's plenty."
A huge grin spread across her face and she hugged the envelope close. "A real castle, Mr. Larabee?"
He nodded, smiling. "Caisleán Dubh—Cash-Lawn Doov. At least that's how Mrs. Mulligan pronounced it."
"Doov?" Bridget echoed. "I wonder what it means."
"Mrs. Larabee said you'd want to know, so she looked it up on the internet. We think it means black."
"Black? So Caisleán Dubh must mean Castle Black."
"Or Black Castle, I suppose." He folded his arms across his lean abdomen, his expression paternal. "We're going to miss you, but I think you're about to embark on an adventure."
"Lord, yes." Bridget stared out the window at the soft drizzle. "An adventure."
"I think I'm jealous."
She smiled. "You're just going to miss my biscuits and red-eye gravy."
The man blushed to his ears and gave an emphatic nod. "And everything else you cook."
"I'll leave recipes."
"Much obliged."
She released a long sigh and grinned. "By golly, that finance company can have the trailer with my blessing."
"Good for you."
"After all," she hugged herself to make sure she was awake, "who needs a rundown old trailer when they have a castle?"
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Page forward for an excerpt from
Deb Stover's highly-praised
Some Like It Hotter
A Time Travel Historical (western) Romance
Excerpt from
Some Like It Hotter
by
Deb Stover
Chapter 1
"I'll bet Dirty Harry never had to do this," Mike Faricy said, leaning back against the worn vinyl upholstery.
"I hear that." Barney aimed his binoculars toward the three-story building again.
Parked in a lonely alley behind a waterfront warehouse, the Chevy was more like a prison cell than a car. Darkness settled over the sleeping city of Natchez like a shroud; a thick bank of fog from the river blotted out the stars. The streetlights appeared as nothing more than faint golden halos in the unseasonably cool, moisture-laden air.
Trying to fill the boring hours with happier thoughts, Mike allowed himself a smile. Barney and Carrie's great news more than compensated for the gloomy ambiance. "Man, this is great—I'm going to be an uncle," Mike said, feeling himself warm from within. His sister, Carrie, had been trying for years to have a baby. Finally, it looked as if her dream might come true. "Let's see, today's June twentieth, so when's the baby due?"
"Sometime in early March, you'll be an uncle and I'll be a dad." Barney gave a satisfied grunt, keeping his curly head turned toward the dark building as he spoke. "I hate stake-outs."
"Yeah. Me, too." Mike sighed. "Having a brother-in-law for my partner's bad enough. I can just imagine what having an expectant father around is going to be like."
"It'll be far freakin' out, and you know it." Barney chuckled low in his throat, never interrupting his surveillance of the still-dark building. "You don't suppose Milton's men are going to let us down again tonight, do you?"
"Nah." Mike shifted in his seat to peer toward the building. "If they do, it'll be embarrassing as hell after all the trouble we had convincing the state police this was Milton's point of operation."
"A little town like Natchez sure as hell isn't the most likely spot." Barney shot Mike a crooked grin, barely visible in the increasing darkness. "Yeah, Mike, I'd say after ten days of this crap, it's past time for them to come out and play."
"That's for sure."
"So, you think the kid'll be as good-lookin' as his old man?"
Mike chuckled, ignoring his partner's indignant grunt as he turned to face the warehouse again. "I don't know, Barney. I think Carrie'd prefer he take after his Uncle Mike."
"In your dreams."
They laughed quietly, nervously, continuing to stare in silence at the building.
Nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours. Well after midnight Mike was ready to call their shift another waste of time when a van, headlights off, pulled into the alley adjacent to the warehouse. "Hot damn." A few minutes later, light filled an upstairs window.
"It's about time," Barney whispered, drawing his gun from his shoulder holster and releasing the safety.
Mike mimicked his partner's actions, sharing Barney's obvious excitement. "This is one crack shipment that isn't going to find its way to the streets." Barney didn't have to respond—Mike knew they both felt the same way. Group think became automatic after all the years they'd worked together.
"Milton's mine."
"Don't be an ass." Mike reached for his partner's arm. "That kid's overdose wasn't your fault and you know it."
Barney sat quietly for several seconds, then released a sigh. "I know, but if my last collar had stuck, Milton would've been locked up...and that kid would be getting ready for his frigging prom about now."
Mike nodded, knowing this wasn't the time to press. "I'll call for backup."
"Do that." Barney turned toward the warehouse again.
Mike reached for the radio and wasted precious seconds waiting for the frequency to clear, then he called for backup. Every time they were on the brink of busting Milton's operation, something always interfered. The drug lord had more than his share of luck, but he was pure pond scum.
"Ready?"
"Yeah," Mike whispered, climbing from the dark car. Barney'd permanently disabled the dome light to allow them to get out of the car without tipping off the bad guys. He and Barney were the white hats now, out to see justice done, to preserve the American way. But this wasn't a game like the cops and robbers they'd played together as children.
This was for keeps.
"Cover me, Mike," Barney whispered over his shoulder, breaking silently for the open alley before his partner could stop him.
"Barney, damn you. Wait for backup," Mike whispered fiercely—futilely—then darted from the sidewalk, adrenalin pumping through his body. He flattened himself against the cold brick building across the alley, squinting to get his bearings through the thick fog. Barney had always been the brave one—foolishly so, on more than one occasion.
But now Barney was an expectant father. Mike couldn't let anything happen to his brother-in-law. That would devastate Carrie, especially now.
One of them had to keep his head, and it sure as hell wouldn't be Barney. History'd proven that. Mike's brother-in-law hadn't earned the status of most-decorated cop in the department from practicing common sense. Mike had to be the voice of reason.
Scary thought.
Barney—the horse's ass—was walking right through the side entrance as if he paid the mortgage, the taxes, and had the only key. Mike clenched his teeth, feeling his jaw twitch as he watched the slight shifting of light near the doorway where Barney slipped stealthily inside.
With the bad guys.
Cautiously, Mike scanned the street. Nothing. Where was their backup? Damn. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he darted across the alley, thankful for his black athletic shoes, dark jeans and denim jacket. He was quiet and invisible in the night.
Quiet and invisible was the only way to be on a night like this.
There was an edge to the evening that Mike had felt before, and he didn't like it. Instincts became lifelines to cops over the years, and separated the veterans from the rookies.
Tonight, for some insane reason, Mike felt like a rookie.
Pausing outside the door Barney'd slipped through, Mike waited for his breathing to slow, listening for sounds from inside. What the hell was Barney doing in there?
Panic wasn't Mike's way, but tonight he had to struggle against it. The stakes had gone up, and suddenly he almost wished Barney hadn't shared his good news.
Why couldn't he shake the cold sense of dread that had crawled inside him like a deadly snake?
I hate this.
The door was open, allowing Mike to squeeze through noiselessly. He had to find Barney. Some deep feeling of urgency coursed through him, driving him to seek out his partner before...
A cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he eased his way along a dark hall toward the stairs. Weapon drawn, Mike kept his back against the wall to guide him until he reached the metal stair railing, then he gripped it with one hand, continuing to clutch his gun in the other.
"You son of a bitch!" The shout echoed down the dark stairwell.
Mike took the steps two at a time, reaching the top as a gun exploded on the other side of the door. His blood turned to ice. He froze, his free hand clutching the doorknob.
Always wait for backup.
Swallowing his fear, he ignored all the standard rules of precaution as he turned the knob and opened the door. More darkness greeted him on the other side, but he knew he was no longer alone. A subtle alteration in the blackness divulged another's presence.
Barney?
"Stupid cop," the raspy voice—definitely not Barney's—taunted from across the hallway. "Dead cop."
Mike dropped to a low crouch, taking aim on the shifting silhouette. What dead cop? Did the thug mean him?
Or Barney?
A flash from the man's gun pinpointed his location as a spray of bullets blasted into the wall just above Mike's head. Splintered plaster showered him as he scooted to his left, hoping to confuse the gunman.
Where's Barney? Mike couldn't
risk accidentally shooting his partner. He took careful aim and waited for the man to fire another round, praying his adversary would miss again.
Both guns discharged almost simultaneously, followed by the welcome thud of a falling body. Mike lurched to the right, coming into contact with something warm and solid on the floor.
Mike's heart hammered dangerously loud as he remained alert to a possible counter attack from his enemy. He felt the shape on the floor with his free hand.
A body.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Mike moved his hand along the supine form, finding warm, sticky blood where there should have been a neck. He struggled against exploding panic, glancing once toward the area where his opponent had fallen. There was no movement, no sound.
Cautiously, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the penlight hooked to his key ring. After flipping it on, he shined the small light on the body.
Barney.
"Oh, God." Mike sucked in a breath to kill his rising nausea as he searched his brother-in-law's face above the wound. Sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling.
Lowering the beam, Mike confirmed that CPR would be pointless. Barney's throat and neck were blown wide open—no chance that his heart would beat again.
You dumb son of a bitch. I told you to wait for backup. He sucked in a breath and struggled for control. How the hell am I going to tell...Carrie?
Barney—his childhood playmate. His partner. Carrie's husband. Mike's kid sister was a widow because of Milton and his apes.
A gaping wound in his own throat would've been easier—better—than this. God, not Barney.
The sound of running feet came from the far end of the hall, then a door burst open. Three men carrying large flashlights—and even bigger guns—emerged, stopping to take in the carnage.
"Holy shit. Somebody got Joe," a man said, sweeping the floor with his flashlight. "Milton said we wouldn't have no trouble tonight."