The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (27 page)

              “I get that,” she said, though there was a nervous fluttering in her chest.

              “Do you?”

              “You obviously aren’t all that familiar with dressage training.”

              “Decidedly not.”

              The last dish was done and Emmie turned off the tap, staring straight ahead, trying to push down her sudden surge of temper.

              Maggie finished with the dishwasher and clicked the door into place.

              There was no way to stall. “I know what you’re doing,” Emmie said, turning to face the woman.

              Maggie’s mouth lifted at the corners, but her face was otherwise blank, controlled. This was a woman with the sort of aura Amy Richards had always craved. That total ownership of her identity and her superiority. “And what’s that?”

              “Establishing the hierarchy. You’re the boss mare, and I’m the new member of the herd. You’re thinking that Walsh is blinded by the sex, because he’s a man after all, and you want me to know, female to female, that there are rules. This is the ‘don’t fuck with me’ spiel, right?”

              Maggie stared at her, unreadable.

              “I don’t scare easy,” Emmie said, feeling like she’d stepped in it royally, and not caring.

              Maggie was still a moment longer, and then twitched a smile that said
be careful, girlie
, but wasn’t without a bit of approval and humor. “Thank God for that.”

~*~

“The brass have gotten nowhere,” Ghost said, looking to Ratchet for confirmation.

              The secretary shook his head. “The prints they pulled were all from his kids, and from Emmie.” His eyes flicked over to Walsh for a second. “No syringe, no needle, no scrap of evidence from anyone who wasn’t normally in here.”

              “Which means one of his kids killed him.”

              “They all have alibis.”

              “Or the girl did it.” Ghost shot a half-smile to Walsh before he could protest. “Not that I think that. What about the other two who work here, though?”

              “No,” Walsh said. “They were devastated. And their prints weren’t on the doorknob.”

              “Right,” Ratchet said.

              “Had to be the grandson,” Walsh said, grinding his molars in frustration. “He’s the one who left us a spray paint present a couple weeks ago.”

              “But nothing since?” Ghost asked.

              “No.”

              They were all on the back porch, bellies full; the sky was netted with stars and the smell of cigarette smoke blended with pine sap. But unease tickled at the back of Walsh’s neck. It was going too well. He and Emmie, the farm, the loans working out, the cattle property still a secret. In his experience, things didn’t stay serene for long. Especially not when it came to his personal life.

              “Obviously,” Briscoe said with an officious throat-clearing, “we walked into an episode of
Dallas
with this fucked up family. But they’re gone. They didn’t get what they wanted. What’s the sense in worrying about ‘em now? They ain’t gonna shoot any of us up with H.”

              Nods of agreement.

              “You talked to Sly Hammond?” Ghost asked Walsh.

              “Yeah. He and Eddie had to pick up a car for a client in West Virginia. They gotta pass through, so they’re gonna stop by tomorrow afternoon.”

              “Good. Get the scoop on
our new friend
Agent Grey. They know him better than we do.”

              Before Walsh could answer, Hound said, “I wanna know what the hell happened to Fisher.”

              Many murmured agreements.

              “What’d your lab guy say?” Mercy asked Ratchet.

              “No prints or skin cells, which meant the guy wore gloves. And the DNA on the doorknob was, in his words, ‘a big fucking mess.’ Which leaves ballistics. Striations match a nine mil used in a convenience store holdup from two years ago in Detroit.”

              Ghost exhaled loudly, words swirling with smoke. “Which means jack shit.”

              “The gun was stolen or sold before it got here, unregistered. So we’ve got basically nothing.”

              Aidan started to flick his butt over the railing, caught Walsh’s eye, and thought better of it, dropping it into his beer bottle. “What I don’t get,” he said, “is why Fisher, of all people. I know that kinda shit happens. But Fish? Could you get more harmless and pathetic?”

              “He’s never late with deliveries or payments,” Tango said. He snorted. “He was always ‘Dealer of the Year.’”

              “It was about us,” Ghost said. “A message.”

              “Message of what?” Aidan asked, irritated.

              Ghost looked to Tango. “What about Shaman. Is he the type to do shit like that for fun?”

              Tango glanced down at his toes and shrugged, clearly uncomfortable being asked about…whoever the hell Shaman was to him. “Nah. I really don’t think so.”

              Ghost sighed deeply, took one last drag off his smoke, and ground it out on the sole of his boot. “We’ll deal with it when it’s time to deal with it,” he said with an air of finality. He glanced at Michael. “Holly made dessert?”

              “Yeah.”

              Walsh knew that was all the business they’d be conducting for the day and he let his thoughts drift. And then himself, sliding back into the house with the others, branching off from the living room-bound group and going in search of his old lady.

              She was on the front porch, hands wrapped tight around the rail, head tipped back, breathing deeply toward the stars.

              He closed the door quietly behind him and took careful steps toward her. She had to have noticed him, but he didn’t want to break the spell. She looked lovely with the moon pouring over her face and unbound hair.

              She looked sad, too.

              When he reached her, he traced a single finger down the ridge of her spine and was rewarded with a shiver. He spread his hand and pressed it to the small of her back, stepped into her, until her shoulder was against his chest. “Too crowded, hmm?” he asked against her ear, and she shivered again and leaned into him.

              “I think – no, I know – Maggie’s trying to play Big Bad Queen Bee with me. That’s the annoying part. Everything else is just your general overwhelming too-many-people type stuff.” She turned her head to give him a thin smile. “You really weren’t kidding about the family part.”

              He grinned. “Nope.”

              She went utterly soft, and molded herself against him, face pressed against his chest, arms going lightly around his waist. “I haven’t ever had that,” she said, like she couldn’t believe it. “A real family.”

              “I know, love.” His hand found the back of her head, held her to him. “I know.”

Twenty-Nine

With a home base in Georgia, Ray Russell ran a security operation that complemented the MC, aided them at times, but was on the other side of the outlaw spectrum. Outlaw Light, with no artificial sweeteners. His two best guys, Sly and Eddie, were classic car mechanics by day, professional badasses by night, and Sly in particular was one of Walsh’s favorite non-club people.

              They arrived at Briar Hall around lunchtime, when Walsh had the house to himself. He was on the front porch with his laptop, feeding Dolly scraps from his sandwich when a gorgeous burgundy Barracuda and a black Dodge Ram pulled up.

              Sly was driving the client’s car, and tossed Walsh a fast wave as he climbed out and hooked his shades in the neck of his plain white t-shirt.

              “I’m driving that the rest of the way back,” Eddie said as he got out of the truck. “Nobody said you were in charge.”

              Sly pulled up short and glanced at his friend with a tiny amused smile. “I did.”

              “Fuck you.”

              “When you say twelve-thirty, you mean twelve-thirty,” Walsh called in greeting.

              “Old habit,” both men said together, and joined him on the porch.

              Walsh stood and handshakes were passed around. He went inside to fetch them beers.

              Sly waited until they were all settled to cast an appraising eye up the front of the house. “So.”

              “Explain the mansion,” Eddie said, grinning. “Did you marry an heiress? Is it like in those books chicks like?”

              Walsh snorted. “I married a broke-ass barn manager with no mother and an alcoholic shit for a father.”

              Eddie’s grin widened. “Is she hot?”

              “Very.”

              “That’s all that counts.”

              “Explain the house, though,” Sly said. “I thought we were here on fed consult. Didn’t know we’d be staying at the Four Seasons.”

              “Don’t expect a mint on your pillow, mate.”

              Walsh gave them the abridged version of things, brief and comprehensive.

              When he was done, Eddie whistled. “Talk about your unforeseen complications.” He leaned over and tapped Sly in the arm with his knuckles. “You know all about that, dontcha, man?”

              Sly exhaled sharply through his nostrils, like a horse. “She handling it okay? That’s a lot of change in a short amount of time,” he said seriously.

              Walsh thought about that morning, about waking up beside her and throwing an arm across her waist, her snuggling back against him. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s smart. She’s adjusting.”

~*~

“Anybody need a salt block, do you know?” Emmie asked, surveying the row of white and brown mineral licks lined up on the floor beneath the halter display. Given the chaotic turn of her life, she didn’t know when she’d be back in the feed store with time to shop at her leisure. Walsh said friends would be in for dinner, and there was already an anxious grinding in her gut at the prospect. She wasn’t a social person, and wasn’t sure she wanted to become one.

              But the store was working its magic on her, like always. Something about the tang of leather, the pungent herbaceous scent of sweet feed, the strike of boots on an old stained concrete floor. It was like a drug to a horse girl, the racks and racks of saddles, the stacks of fluffy saddle pads, the shelves of spurs, color-coded braiding bands and brushes with stiff neon bristles.

              Lawson’s had been her favorite tack and feed shop since she was nothing but a little mouse following along behind Amy. It was delightfully shabby, unpretentious, and sold everything under the sun, all of it crammed into an old converted warehouse space, and smelled charmingly of the coffee and cookies the owner’s wife provided fresh daily.

              A trip to personally pick up feed with Becca was just the way to unwind after an evening of hosting too many bikers to count.

              “Champ does,” Becca said as she sorted through the nylon halters, searching for something hot pink no doubt. “And maybe Tally. He licks that stuff like he’s a salt junkie or something.”

              The mention of a junkie put to mind drug dealers, and criminals, and nefarious deeds, and the dead man’s face Emmie had seen in the pasture next door.

              She shook her head to clear the memory. “Right.” She bent down to heft the blocks up into their cart. “I’ll have him deliver some of the big ones for the pasture when he brings the pallet of shavings.”

              “Yeah,” Becca said distractedly, “hey, what’s it like being married to a biker?” Then, in a rush, “Ooh, they have a pink
and
purple one. I have to have that.”

              Emmie dusted mineral grit off her palms and glanced over at her student, noting the bright tinge of Becca’s ears as she tried to untangle the halter from its hook.

              She grinned. “Seeing as how I don’t have any experience with being married to more than one, I don’t know. But being married to Walsh is…surprisingly okay. It’s kind of…nice,” she finished lamely, no idea how to describe it properly.

              “Is he good in the sack?”

              “Do you really want to know?”

              Becca’s entire face went red. “Um…no?”

              Emmie laughed. “He knows what he’s doing. Let’s leave it at that.”

              Becca sighed dramatically. “I wish Todd knew what he was doing,” she said of her boyfriend.

              Emmie was about to respond when –

              “Excuse me. Emmaline Johansen?” a deep voice asked behind her and she whirled around.

              A man stood on the other side of her cart, dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a windbreaker that was much too hot for the weather outside. Certain things about him – the buzzed hair, the way he held himself, the breadth of his shoulders – signified a young man around her age, fit and confident. But his skin was pale, his face puffy and lined. Eyes shiny, like maybe he had a fever. He wore gloves, a thin pale leather, which she found strange, but she wasn’t up to speed on every cop habit.

              He pulled out his wallet, and then flashed her a badge. “Detective Hanson with Knoxville PD. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

              That explained the puffiness, then. Cops were stressed, worn down, stuck at desks. Fatigue could kill a man.

              “It’s Emmie,” she said. “Emmie Walsh.” She nodded. “Sure. Becca, will you take this up to the front? Have them put it on the farm tab.”

              Becca gave the detective a long look, then said, “Sure thing,” and wheeled the buggy away. She glanced over her shoulder twice before she was finally around the corner.

              Emmie focused on the cop. “This is about Davis? Mr. Richards, I mean,” she added, remembering she’d only ever called him by his first name in her head.

              “I’m afraid so,” Detective Hanson said gravely. He gestured to a stack of feed bags that looked sturdy enough and she sat.

              He stayed on his feet, right in front of her, closer than she would have liked him to be. “Miss…Walsh, you said?”

              He was slipping his badge back into his pocket and fumbled it, dropping it between her feet.

              She picked it up and handed it to him. “Yes. Recently married.”

              A concerned frown etched lines in his face. “He’s a member of the Lean Dogs, isn’t he? If I remember from your vandalism report.”

              She nodded. “He is.”

              “Does that worry you?”

              “Why should it?” she returned. Tell her a few weeks ago that she’d be evasive and worried about her outlaw husband, and she would have laughed someone out of the room. But now, she was seeing it all from a different angle. The one from which Walsh was good to her, and she wanted to hold onto that goodness.

              At the cost of being cooperative with the police.

              He gave her a patronizing smirk. “Your husband is a member of one of the largest international criminal organizations, and that’s not something you worry about?”

              She shrugged. “Walsh is a businessman. He’s hardly threatening. Detective,” she said, frowning, “I thought this was about Davis.”

              “It is.” His smirk became a tight smile, less cocky. He didn’t like the way she was responding to him. “Very much so. You see, the way I look at it,
Mrs. Walsh
” – he turned her new name into a mockery – “what we have is a local legend in Mr. Richards. A man with lots of money, lots of respect, lots of influence in Knoxville. He’s well-liked, frequently donates to charities, and is seen as a pillar of the community.”

              “Yes.” She lifted her brows as if to say
so?

              “A well-liked man without enemies, without any grudges, killed in his own home. Nothing stolen, no robbery, no break-in. Who kills a man like that?”

              He was giving her the stink eye, and she gave it right back. “I think you ought to talk to Amy Richards about that. She’s the only one I know of who stood to gain anything by his death.”

              Look at her, condemning her former mentor and defending her one-percenter husband. My how times changed.

              Detective Hanson snorted. “His grief-stricken, doting daughter, the one he built a farm for? Yeah, that makes about zero sense,” he sneered. “What
does
make sense is an outlaw walked into the picture, and a couple weeks later, the guy owns the place, and Richards is dead. An outlaw who’s part of a club notorious for dealing drugs, I might add.”

              “Check with the bank if you want, but the paperwork was already finalized. Walsh owned the farm before Davis was killed.”

              He stepped in closer, crowding her. “So you’re telling me you truly believe that the man you worked for
for years
winds up dead of a heroin overdose, and his daughter did it? Not the crack-dealing white trash thug you’re living with.”

              Emmie surged to her feet, forcing him to take a step back. “Okay, take me down to the station if you want, but I’m not going to sit here and listen to you insult my husband.”

              She made a move to step around him, and he caught her with one meaty hand on her shoulder. His face grew serious, less mocking. “Did he tell you why he left London? Why he really left?”

              The menace in his eyes sent her pulse tripping, panic unfurling deep in her gut. “He hated the big city,” she said, but couldn’t hear any conviction in her voice. “He came here for a job and liked it so much he stayed.”

              Hanson snorted, but it wasn’t mean. Almost like he was sorry for her. With his free hand, he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a photograph, turned it toward her. It was a mug shot, Walsh, holding the little plaque with his name on it, giving the camera the dead eye. His face was smooth and maybe ten years younger.

              A cold chill moved down her back.

              “It was a turf war,” Hanson said quietly. “There’s a bar in London the Dogs own, and some other club tried to come in. A fight broke out, and three civilians were killed in the mayhem. When the police arrived, your husband had blood all over his hands, literally. No witnesses came forward, the case stalled out, and he jumped ship to America before any real charges could be pressed.”

              Emmie swallowed with difficulty.

              “The civilians? Two of them were women.”

              Her eyes lifted to his face.

              “I’d be very careful about where I put my loyalty, Ms. Johansen.” She didn’t correct his use of her maiden name. “The Lean Dogs sell illegal weapons, drugs, and contract kills. Wherever they go, they leave bodies in their wake, and they don’t care if outsiders get cut down in their quest for power. Why do you think they wanted Briar Hall? Did he give you the old story about how he was a jockey? How he wanted to be around horses? It’s a lie. Everything any of them ever say is a lie. They destroy lives, and they take what they want. It’s what they do.”

              He tucked his chin, eyes softening. “I’d hate to see you get hurt in all this. Or worse.”

              Then he withdrew his hand and the photo and stepped away from her.

              Emmie had to grab hold of a shelf to keep steady on her feet.

~*~

She lingered at the barn longer than she needed to, well after Fred and Becca left. She clipped Apollo into a wash rack and gave him a thorough bath, counting on the lathering of sleek horse hide to serve as its usual balm. But Detective Hanson’s words were a poison in her bloodstream, working on her though she tried to ignore the effects.

              Her horse swung his head around to look at her, sensing her energy. “What am I gonna do?” she asked quietly, running her fingers through his short mane. “When will it stop?”