The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Read online

  Dolly lifted her head and let out a single low bark of greeting.

  Walsh turned, and the sharpness of his eyes froze Emmie in her tracks. Whatever he meant to convey, she was powerless against the onslaught of heat that poured through her, turned her stomach to molten gold. The night before flashed through her mind like a slideshow, and she knew then that she wanted it again, and again. Wanted him.

  Damn it.

  She wasn’t ruled by her hormones, though. “Morning,” she said, closing the distance between them, striving to look as unaffected as possible.

  His eyes flicked over her, and she knew he was looking right through her clothes and remembering. “Mornin’.” Then his eyes went back to the laptop and he turned it toward her. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

  It was a video streamed from that morning’s local Fox affiliate news cast. Walsh clicked play and it jumped into motion.

  “Davis Richards died Tuesday evening, found in his home, unresponsive by an employee,” the grave suit-wearing anchor said to the camera. “Authorities initially believed cause of death to be a heart attack, but we’re just learning that’s not true. According to the coroner’s report, Richards’ death was the result of a drug overdose…”

  Emmie didn’t hear the rest of it. It seemed like her ear canals compressed, like sound was coming from a long, long way off. “What?” She turned to Walsh. “What?”

  ~*~

  The coffee was helping. Emmie took another long sip, drew her legs up into the chair and watched over her knees as Becca and Fred led the horses out one at a time to their pastures. She wanted to feel terrible that she was abandoning them to the morning feeding routine, but she was too shocked to feel much of anything.

  She got more hot coffee down her throat and glanced over at Walsh, still shirtless, still gorgeous, much less distracting now. “That door,” she said, frowning. “I knew there was something fishy up because the back door was open a crack.”

  “Bloke’s having a heart attack, he might forget to shut the door.”

  “But he didn’t have a heart attack, did he? I know for a fact that man didn’t have a secret drug habit. Drinking, sure. You hardly saw him without his Solo cup of hooch. But drugs? Enough to OD? No. Never.”

  “Well you know what that means, then.”

  “Murder.”

  His brows gave a jump that seemed regretful. “Think about what you wanna say, pet, ‘cause that story got leaked, and we aren’t supposed to know about it yet. Coppers are gonna be talking to you and me.”

  She blinked. “Why us?”

  “You found the body.” He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the table, put it between his teeth while he lit it. Smoke curled through his words when he spoke again. “And ‘cause I’m living in his house.”

  The coffee congealed in her stomach. “We’re suspects.” Except she knew she wasn’t. Which meant… “You’re a suspect.” And she’d been alone with him, been in bed with him, had him inside her.

  He met her wild eyes with a steady, calculating look. “Do you think I killed him?”

  Did she?

  Davis had sold the farm without fuss. And the way Walsh had been with her, the blunt way he was asking her now – she couldn’t think the worst of him, biker or not.

  “No,” she said, her inner tension easing. “I really don’t.”

  His mouth twitched. “Woulda been a shame to have my girlfriend thinkin’ I was a murderer.”

  His what?

  She opened her mouth to protest, and caught a flash of shine down on the driveway. A police cruiser pulling up down at the barn.

  Emmie took a deep breath and got to her feet. “The ‘coppers’ are here.”

  ~*~

  Walsh had no personal feelings toward Sergeant Vince Fielding. From what he’d seen, the guy was a standup cop who took his job seriously, who tended toward fussy when rebuffed. Not the enemy, just someone whose path he didn’t love crossing.

  “I wasn’t here,” he said with a shrug. “Not much else to say.”

  Fielding propped his hands on his gun belt and looked beleaguered. “Walsh, you know this doesn’t look good.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “Considering you’re the only one of this bunch with an IQ, yeah, you do.” Pointed look down the length of his nose. “So tell me your whereabouts, with decent alibis, and don’t gimme a buncha shit, alright?”

  “Fair enough.” Walsh was still at the table on the porch, working on his second cigarette and third cup of coffee. He’d gone in to shower, shave, and draw on clean clothes while Fielding was busy down at the barn, talking to that crew. Respectability lending itself to credibility, and all that. He tapped the ash off his smoke and took another drag.

  “We closed on the sale that afternoon,” he said, and the cop lifted his brows in surprise. “Richards knew loads of people at the banks, so he got it all accelerated. We closed, I left from there ‘bout four, went to Dartmoor. Security cameras should clock me in the clubhouse till eight. Then I went home. Old home,” he clarified. “Had a beer, talked to my brother on the phone – you can check my mobile for the time stamp. Give Shane a call if you want. He’ll tell you we talked about my mum’s terrible love life. That’s when Richards bit it.”

  “And you can say all that on record for me at the station later?”

  “If you need me to.”

  Fielding sighed, but nodded. “Thanks.”

  It always paid, Walsh kept trying to tell Aidan and the younger ones, not to be a smartass with law enforcement. No sense making trouble for yourself.

  The sergeant paused at the top of the porch steps, glancing back over his shoulder. “Your barn manager was very defensive of you, by the way.”

  “Have to give her a raise then.”

  Fielding snorted. “Yeah.”

  ~*~

  “Oh my God, I heard it on the news!” Tally’s owner said, grabbing Emmie by both shoulders in a way that was meant to be concerned, but came off as manic. “Overdose! Who knew? Did you know anything?”

  Emmie tried unsuccessfully to back out of the woman’s grip. “We had no idea.”

  “None of you?” She looked at Fred and Becca, then swung her gaze toward Walsh, who stood propped against the stone façade of the barn. “Who are you? Are you the new guy?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, straight-faced. “Just a groundskeeper.”

  Emmie rolled her eyes before Patricia whirled to face her again.

  “I just can’t believe it!”

  “None of us can,” Emmie assured her. She pried the woman’s hands off her and was thankful no offense seemed taken. “The police are looking into it.”

  Which meant they’d shooed Walsh out of the house and were dusting for prints, taking lint-rollers to everything, and accomplishing nothing because any evidence had to be trampled at this point. Drug overdose, sure, but it was being investigated as a homicide. No needle found? That meant whoever had pumped the drugs into Davis had taken it with him.

  “Señora Cross, Tally is ready,” Fred reminded, gently.

  “Yes, of course.” Patricia seemed to shake herself. “Just shocking,” she muttered, heading into the barn.

  When she was gone, Becca said, “Mr. Walsh, did you kill Mr. Richards?” in an innocent voice Emmie knew to be an act.

  She elbowed her working student and got a muffled chuckle in return.

  Walsh didn’t take the bait, eyeing Becca flatly. “Gonna turn me in if I did?”

  “Yes! I always wanted to be on the news.”

  Even Fred had to laugh at that.

  Emmie smiled and saw the echo of a grin deep in the centers of Walsh’s eyes.

  “Fred!” Patricia called from inside the barn. “I need you!”

  “Ay Dios mio,” he muttered. “Si Señora, I’m coming.” He tapped Becca on the shoulder. “You have horses to ride, amiga.”

  “I know, I know.” She got reluctantly to her feet and followed him inside.

  In
their absence, Emmie became very aware of the fact that she hadn’t showered, probably looked like hell, and hadn’t had a moment earlier to spend any kind of real time with Walsh. The news of Davis’s murder had eclipsed any morning-after stuff.

  “Busy day?” he asked.

  “Lessons start back up, so yeah. Pretty busy.”

  This was awkward, and she didn’t want it to be.

  “Fielding didn’t scare you, did he?”

  “Of course not.”

  He grinned. “Of course not.” With a glance down the barn aisle, he pushed off the wall and walked toward her.

  Her eyes went to the way his shoulders shifted inside his plain gray t-shirt.

  She wasn’t expecting him to lay hands on her, to put one on her hip and cup the back of her head with the other, kiss her like he had every right to.

  Her breathing was shaky when he pulled back.

  “I gotta go into Dartmoor. You’ll be alright, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said, hollowly, gaze trained on his mouth.

  He kissed her one more time and she had a bad feeling she’d be back in his floor-bed again very soon.

  ~*~

  “He just left here with our camera feeds for the past week,” Ghost said of Fielding, scowling. “Jesus Christ.” His eyes flipped up to Walsh. “Who killed the old fucker?”

  “My guy at the lab,” Ratchet cut in, “says it was H. Nobody deals heroin ‘round here that we don’t know about it. So it’s no one in the underground.”

  “My guess is one of his lovely family members,” Walsh said, taking a hard slug off his Newcastle. He filled Ghost in on Amy’s proposition, much to the amusement of his brothers. “And then Em says the grandson’s a total prick.”

  “Em?” Ghost asked.

  “That’d be the little blonde, right?” Briscoe asked, grinning.

  “Totally hot,” RJ put in.

  Ghost made an inquiring face.

  “My barn manager. The one I kept on from Davis.”

  Ghost nodded. “And I’m assuming you’re fucking her?”

  “Dude, I would be,” RJ said.

  Walsh shrugged. “She’s a nice girl. We get on well.”

  Ghost smirked. “Which has gotta be you-speak for ‘I’m hitting that.’ Alright. Whatever. She’s got your back?”

  He hesitated a moment. Sex didn’t turn a staunch MC supporter out of a woman like that. But he wanted to trust her. He thought he could. “Yeah, she does.”

  “Good. You keep the heat off of us. Whatever happens with the investigation happens.” And there was more of that unquestioning trust. So precious and rare coming from Ghost Teague.

  The president then glanced over at Mercy. “You got yourself a peeper trap yet?”

  Walsh tuned them out. He was worried, and since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way, it was consuming him. He was being trusted to handle the Briar Hall situation, and while he could – that was starting to sound more and more difficult.

  Sixteen

  “What a big girl you’re getting to be.” And a squirmy one, too. The first time Lucy rolled over, Holly celebrated with exclamations, clapping, and a little dancing around the room. But by the two-hundredth time, while she was trying to diaper her, it was much less cute.

  Not that she was finding fault. She wasn’t sure there was anything more wonderful in the world than the tiny girl she’d made with Michael.

  Lucy stopped trying to roll over long enough for Holly to get the clean diaper secure, then decided she was done with that game, smiling and cooing up at her mother.

  Holly smiled back. “There, isn’t that better?” She scooped the baby up onto her shoulder and carried her out of the nursery, down the hall into the main part of the house. “How about lunch? Hmm?”

  Most days, Lucy was at the Dartmoor Trucking office with her, in her Pack’n Play, fawned over by customers and employees alike. Sometimes, she had Remy Lécuyer for company, when Ava was at school and Maggie couldn’t watch him. So Lucy was never starved for attention, but Holly loved her days off, when it was just her and her girl, waiting on Daddy to get home at five-thirty. Lucy lit up like Christmas when Michael picked her up every evening, and his mixed bag response of terror and adoration melted Holly’s insides.

  “What should I make for dinner, Luce?” Holly asked as they entered the kitchen. “That roast needs to get cooked before it goes…”

  There was a man standing on the back deck, visible through the glass insets in the door.

  “…bad.” Holly’s heart slammed into her ribs. “God,” she breathed, a hand going to the back of Lucy’s head on protective reflex, tucking the baby in tightly beneath her chin. “Oh, God.”

  He had flipped the tops off their rolling trash cans and was poking around in them. Homeless was her first thought, but then she looked more closely at him. Clean white sneakers, new jeans, a plain black t-shirt. Hair buzzed close to his head. He was young – younger than Michael at least – and tan, appeared to be in good health.

  So not homeless, which ratcheted her panic another notch. Had he been in search of a meal and a trash find, she would have felt sympathy. Now she felt like someone was stalking them. And that never went anywhere healthy.

  As if he’d sensed her presence, he froze, turned around, stared hard through the window panes. He was wearing sunglasses, but she could see the anger in his face; she knew that emotion too well to ever mistake it for anything else.

  Then he flashed her a brilliant smile that was not even a little sincere, and stepped in close, until his nose almost touched the window. “Good afternoon!” He was shouting to be heard through the glass. “Ma’am, I’m with Knoxville PD, and we’ve gotten reports of strange activity in your neighborhood. Have you seen anyone who’s out of place? Heard anything unusual?”

  Yeah, you she thought, frowning. “You’re police?” she called back, and Lucy started to fuss. “Where’s your badge?”

  He gave her an over the top regretful face. “I’m afraid I’m off-duty and it’s in the car. Do you mind if I step in and we have a word?”

  “Yes.” She kicked her chin up. “I do mind. And my husband would too.”

  He stared at her, perplexed. For a moment, the anger caught hold of his blunt features again, but then he put the fake charm back on. “Okay, well, thank you anyway.”

  Her breathing didn’t return to normal until he was out of sight, and then her heart was running like a jackrabbit.

  Michael answered on the second ring, voice gruff and low, like he was glad she’d called, but was never going to be one of those guys who made a big deal about it. “Hi, baby.”

  She took a deep breath. “Michael, I think I just met our peeping tom.”

  Seventeen

  Years after the fact, Walsh could look back on that day with Rita and know that the outcome had been for the best. At thirty-nine, he could say with confidence that a life attached to her in any way would have been nothing but miserable. Anyone related to her, who carried her DNA, would have been poisoned from conception. Just as well a life hadn’t been allowed to grow to fruition. It was better all around that they’d never become a family.

  But at nineteen, fresh from his banishment from the track, holding onto nothing save the ghost of the life he’d tried to make for himself in Brighton, Rita’s betrayal had been one of those tidal shifts in his history. Gramps was dead, and Gram had moved to London to be with Mum, where she could be cared for. It had been just him, all alone in Brighton, pretending he wasn’t a street rat and that exercise riding and stall-mucking was somehow better than the urban heritage he wanted to deny. After all, he hadn’t been alone, not really – he’d had Rita.

  If he opened up his mental file cabinet and pulled out that day, he could see it in aching detail. Could smell the ammonia stink of horse piss and the mold of the straw bedding. He could hear Rita’s footfalls coming down the barn aisle: rat-tat-rat-tat.

  His heart had leapt for a moment, just a moment, bef
ore she came into sight and the sheer cold wall that her face had become told him what he couldn’t bring himself to ask. “I had it taken care of,” she said. Just like that. Like it was a carpet stain, or a shirt that needed mending, rather than a baby in her belly. “I can’t be having a baby by the likes of you,” she’d said. Because her father was a partial owner of one of the horses, and he was just the hired help.

  With one quick trip to the clinic, she’d had his future stripped out of her womb.

  How did a man grow tender with a woman after that?

  Walsh closed his eyes a moment, cleared the memory, and opened them again to see the road unfurling ahead through the lenses of his sunglasses. He didn’t know why he was thinking about Rita now, when there were so many things on his plate.

  He didn’t want it to be because of Emmie. He couldn’t afford to go there with her. He wasn’t Ghost, wasn’t Mercy, wasn’t Michael – wasn’t the sort of man who magnetized a woman to his side. He lacked their magic.

  He shoved it all away.

  The scene he arrived upon at Briar Hall wasn’t a welcome one. Cars jammed the parking pad and a knot of people stood in the threshold of the double doors. Lots of movement, arms waving. When he killed the engine, he heard the shouting, and he leapt off his bike, fighting the impulse to reach for the gun in his waistband. It was knee-jerk, but liable to get him arrested in polite society.

  All of Richards’ kids were present, all red-faced and furious. At the center of the group, Manny Richards held his youngest sister Amy back, while Amy gesticulated, raved, cried, screamed…at Emmie. Emmie, who was ashen-faced, eyes glittering with unshed tears. Fred had stepped in front of her, and little skinny Becca had a stall fork in her hands like she meant to use it on someone. But Emmie was staring at Amy, and she was devastated by whatever was coming out of the woman’s mouth.