The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Read online

  Something skittered in the brush and she jumped, sucked in a breath, berated herself. She was no stranger to the dark, or to the woods, for that matter. With the exception of Fred, Briar Hall was seriously lacking in the white knight department, and she’d learned to just suck up her worries and soldier on.

  Still…

  A little chill went down her back, light as the stroke of a finger. There was something about being five-feet-tall and wandering alone on someone else’s land as night fell. She knew nothing about the people who owned this property, only that she heard the muted crack of distant gunshots on occasion. Becca’s description of a farmer bearing a shotgun and pitchfork was a real possibility, one that left her mouth dry.

  The clump of forest began to thin as she walked, last year’s leaf litter crunching under her feet. Big flashes of indigo sky became visible, and then, swatting a cypress branch aside, she was striding into a pasture, a broad expanse of tangled grasses swaying in the wind.

  Off to her right, a barn loomed as a dark shape stamped against the sky. It gave off that distinctly abandoned vibe: overgrown at its base, one massive door flapping idly. There were no lights, no vehicles, no homey scents of animals floating toward her.

  What was this place?

  A shrill whinny pierced the gloom, and she started, jogging forward a few steps through the tall grass. “Tally?” she called. She puckered her lips and made a loud kissing sound. “Tally, come here, man. I don’t wanna hike all over this damn place looking for you.”

  “Don’t suspect you’ll have to, love,” a male voice called out to her. “I’ve got him down here.”

  Emmie froze, heart slamming up into her throat. Her skin shrank tight over her bones, the sensation painful, as panic coursed through her in sudden, hot currents.

  She felt like one of the horses she cared for: Stranger Danger! And a strange man, at that. She wasn’t afraid of men, but being five-foot-nothing had its strength disadvantages when you were talking strange men in dark pastures.

  She wrapped her hand tight around the flashlight and let the beam precede her as she stepped over the small rise ahead, and surveyed what lay below.

  Two men stood in the center of a dirt driveway, both in dark clothes, one dark-headed, the other pale in the glow of the flashlight. The blonde had a belt looped right behind Tally’s ears, holding the horse beneath his throatlatch with a makeshift collar.

  It was the blonde who glanced toward her, squinting against the glare. “Put that away before you blind everybody,” he said, and it confirmed her initial impression. He was English, the accent unmistakable. The words were said kindly, but in a way that suggested he meant to be listened to.

  Emmie aimed the flashlight down at her boots. It was dark, but she could still see both men, and the white of Tally’s eye as he glanced at her and snorted.

  “Easy,” the Englishman told the horse, stroking his neck. Something flashed on his hand. Rings, maybe?

  Emmie pushed down the fear rising in her belly and took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry he bothered you,” she said, pulling the halter down off her shoulder and stepping forward. “I hope he didn’t damage anything. He’s a boarder’s horse, and we can’t seem to keep him inside a fence.”

  The blonde man held onto the belt until she had the halter secure on Tally’s head, then pulled it free and stepped back; slow, deliberate movements like he’d been around horses before. Greenhorns all shared a certain clumsiness. This man eased back smoothly, sliding the belt back through the loops on his jeans.

  “No harm done,” he said. “Gave us a bit of a start, seeing him come over the hill. I thought somebody’d be along to find him eventually.”

  She took a firm grip on the leadline, acutely aware of the dark-haired man’s stare off to the side. His malevolence was visible even in the failing light. “Well…thank you for catching him.” She clucked to Tally and began to turn him away.

  The Englishman spoke again. “You came over from Briar Hall, yeah?”

  She paused, skin still prickling, nerves rattling her breath. “Yes. I wouldn’t have trespassed, but Tally–”

  He waved off the explanation with a dismissive gesture. “If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you get over here?”

  She swallowed, and her throat felt sticky on the inside. “There’s an old gate, just up that way. It was locked, so I climbed over.”

  “Ah.”

  When he said nothing else, only continued to stare at her, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I’d better get him back…Come on, Tally.”

  She had her back to the men when Mr. English said, “How’re you gonna lift the beast over, love?” He breathed a sound that might have been a laugh.

  “I’ll figure something out,” she said, face burning, glad of the concealing darkness.

  “Hold on,” he told her. “I’ve got the key.” A metallic jangle proved his point.

  He moved up on her left, and Tally tugged at the line. She started walking again, feeling trapped between the two of them.

  Her British horse-catcher wasn’t tall, she noted as they moved. His chin was on eye-level.

  So maybe, if he was a psycho rapist, she stood half a chance of kneeing him in the jewels and making a break for it.

  His friend, though…That guy ought to be interrogating mafia rats somewhere.

  “Briar Hall’s for sale, isn’t it?” the blonde asked beside her.

  Warning sirens pinged in her head, sirens she would have heeded on a normal day. But she was tired, frightened, and emotionally taxed. “Unfortunately.”

  “Hmph.” God knew what that sound meant. “How much does old man Richards want for it?”

  “More than is polite for me to ask him about.”

  “You work for him then?”

  “I’m the barn manager.”

  “So you run the place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You turning a decent profit?”

  “Excuse me?” She shouldn’t be talking to him. She should just close her trap, let him unlock the gate, and then get the hell out of here.

  “Does the barn make money?” he continued, unabashed. “All your horse-keeping, and lessons, and what have you. Is it profitable?”

  She scowled at the dark trees ahead of them. “You’d have to ask Davis.” A thought struck her. “Why?” she asked with a snort. “You interested in buying the place?”

  “I might be.”

  That shocked her into silence.

  Before she could gather a comeback, a low whicker issued from the brush ahead of them.

  “Friends?” the blonde asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Em?” Becca called. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” she called back. “I’ve got Tally. Everything’s fine.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Becca asked, voice uncertain.

  “Your pitchfork-wielding farmer,” Emmie shot back.

  The Englishman made another of those indecipherable sounds in his throat and they ducked beneath the branches to get to the gate.

  “No, for real,” Becca insisted in a loud, frightened voice.

  So done with this entire ordeal, Emmie said, “I have no idea. Some dude. But he’s got the key, so he gets props for that.”

  She thought her English savior was laughing as the key slid into the lock and the thing came apart with a loud, rusty sound.

  “Is he, like, a total serial killer?” Becca asked.

  “Probably,” Emmie called back. “My working student,” she explained to the blonde. “She gets a little dramatic.”

  In answer, the gate squealed as it was forced open, long weeds and brambles catching at the lower rungs.

  Visible only as shadows, Becca, Sherman, and Mocha appeared on the other side.

  “Oh my God,” Becca said. “I was so worried.”

  Tally whinnied to his friends and they answered.

  Emmie hesitated, turning to her gate-unlocker. “Thank you,” she told him, and meant it.
/>
  “Go on,” he said. “Don’t be losing hold of that nag.”

  She wasn’t sure, but as she walked through the gate, she thought she caught the quick gleam of white teeth as he grinned.

  Three

  Dolly’s quiet chuff of greeting from the porch was the first thing he heard as the growl of the engine died away. The Aussie/Border Collie cross was laid out across the top step, mismatched eyes trained on him, tail thumping the boards.

  “Dolly-girl,” Walsh greeted, climbing off his bike, taking the two steps up onto the porch and bending to stroke the dog where she liked it best, behind the ears. She licked his wrist and made a happy sound.

  Home sweet home. Arriving, petting his dog – it always set things to rights inside him, eased the tension across his shoulders.

  He’d left a lamp on in the front window, and it shone out on the porch, illuminating his keys as he found the right one and unlocked the front door. Dolly pressed in behind him, heading for her bowl and sitting in front of it expectantly. She knew the routine: lock up, set the mail on the table, hang up his cut, boots off – and then chow time.

  It was a tiny house. Three rooms encased in time-eaten white clapboard, quaint front and back porches. Room enough only for one man and one dog. But the kitchen was fairly modern and the back porch was screened in. It sat a stone’s throw off the railroad tracks, and the trains rattled the windows at night when they passed.

  The front room was part-kitchen, part-den, the stove and accoutrements on one side, his one fat chair, the dog bed, and TV on the other. The back room was his bedroom, and off that the bathroom, with its wall-mounted sink and narrow fiberglass shower stall.

  Walsh went to the cabinets, pulled down a can of Purina wet food and opened it for Dolly, pouring it and a scoop of dry Chow into her bowl and leaving her to it. He grabbed a Newcastle for himself from the fridge, leaned back against the counter and drank half of it standing up.

  His mind was whirring away like a computer.

  Of all the possibilities, there was one he hadn’t considered until right this moment. Briar Hall falling into the wrong hands spelled discovery for the Dogs. No one was aware of the connection between the club and the cattle property. At least…that had always been the case. But if that little barn manager had gotten a good enough look at either of them…

  The girl came back to him, what he’d been able to see of her. Small, well below his own insubstantial height. Pale hair – it had seemed to glow in the gathering dark. And that faint sharp edge he’d always associated with horse women. Handling animals that large and dangerous had a way of washing all the silliness out of a person.

  But even the most practical of civilians could prove a liability.

  He pushed her out of his mind for the moment. Now wasn’t the time to try and recall the exact golden shade of her hair. She’d done something more impactful than provide him with a few moments’ entertainment. She’d pressed home the urgency of their situation. That farm couldn’t fall into anyone’s hands but theirs.

  ~*~

  Emmie pulled off her left boot with a sharp tug and a grunt, then fell boneless onto the bench just inside her front door, too exhausted and harried to face the task of showering just yet. Catching Tally had been only the beginning.

  She and Becca had returned to the barn spotted with beggar lice, sweaty, and grumpy from managing Tally on the ride back, only to find that the barn had been beset upon by not one, but two problems. First had been Tally’s owner, Patricia Cross, red-faced and frantic as she demanded accommodations for her horse. The fences must be built higher. The pasture situation must be re-evaluated; surely Tally jumped because he was being chased, not because he was making mischief. More food, that’s what he needed; his rations needed increasing because he was jumping to get to better grass, the poor hungry baby.

  Becca, stressed and eighteen, had said, “We can’t change the whole freaking barn for one horse.” She’d clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes closing in regret the moment the words left her lips, but it was too late. Damage done. Patricia exploded, words pouring out of her in an angry tirade. It had taken Emmie fifteen minutes to smooth things over, and even then, there was still no solution to the Tally problem.

  Then there’d been Brett.

  Brett Richards was Davis’s ne’r do well grandson, her mentor Amy’s son, and had been given the title of groundskeeper and an undeserved paycheck as a means to (unsuccessfully) keep him out of further trouble. He mowed the grass when it suited him. Most of the time, he was meddling in barn business and making life difficult for the Briar Hall employees he deemed lesser than himself, him being related to the owner and all that.

  Tonight, he’d taken the tractor and manure spreader, who knew why, which meant Fred couldn’t empty the spreader and prepare it for the next day’s stall-cleaning. Emmie spent a half hour tracking the equipment down, only to be told by Brett that she’d get the tractor back “when he felt like giving it to her.”

  What she should have done was march up to the house and inform Davis of the problem. What she did was flip Brett the bird, conduct one last sweep through the barn, shut out the lights and lug herself up the stairs to her apartment.

  Exhaustion fell across her, made it hard to breathe. Not just physical, but mental, emotional – total exhaustion, the kind that left her unsteady. She let her head fall back against the smooth plank wall and stared up at the rough-hewn beams of the slanted ceiling.

  She loved her apartment. It was a large loft space, with dark timber and plank walls, so it gave the feeling of living in a cabin. Her bed was tucked beneath one eave, leaving plenty of room for her small kitchen, café table, dresser, steamer trunk and desk. Her clothes were on open, wheeled racks, pilfered from a going-out-of-business Dress Barn. The bathroom was hidden in the far corner. It was cozy, comfy, perfect for her.

  And she’d have to leave it behind when the farm sold.

  Her phone rang and she groaned. “What now?” She checked the wall clock as she pulled the cell from her pocket. Ten till nine. “Hello?” she answered.

  “Emmie, it’s Joan,” a familiar voice said on the other end. Deep sigh. “I’m sorry, doll, but you’re gonna have to come get your daddy.”

  She closed her eyes, fighting the scream that welled in her throat. She swallowed and said, “How long’s he been there?”

  “Since three.” Which meant he was good and pickled at this point.

  “Right. On my way.” She disconnected and reached for her boots.

  Maybe, she thought, if this horse business didn’t work out, she ought to go into bartending. If nothing else, her dad would enjoy the family discount.

  ~*~

  It was five-forty-five the next morning when Walsh pulled into the Lécuyer driveway. The little white house was ablaze with light already at this early hour. Parents of one-year-olds didn’t sleep late.

  Ava answered his knock at the back door, her narrow face appearing in the window to check his identity before the latch turned. Her hair was up in a towel turban, and she’d just done her makeup, the mascara still wet in the glow of the mudroom lamp. She cinched her black robe a little tighter over the round protrusion of her pregnant belly and waved him in with a tired smile.

  “Bit early for house calls, isn’t it?”

  He ducked his head in apology as he followed her into the kitchen. “Yeah. Sorry, love. I wanted to talk to your man about something.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, brows going up. A silent question.

  “Thought I’d catch him before he got to the shop.”

  Before he got to Dartmoor, after which whatever they discussed would feel more like official club business, and less like two friends chatting.

  “Ah,” Ava said, and her smile became knowing. “He should be out of the shower by now. I’ll send him out.”

  She managed to move elegantly, despite being seven months pregnant, leaving him to wait in her coffee-scented kitchen.

  The hous
e hummed with quiet morning sounds: a radio murmuring down the hall, rush of water in the pipes, low notes of voices. There was an untouchable warmth in the air, one his own small house lacked. That energy of two people and the bond they shared; it marked everything, from the hand-print on the frosted steel of the fridge to the multiple jackets hung up at the back door. There was a love in this house the likes of which he’d never lived with.

  Mercy’s slightly uneven footfalls announced his approach, and he stepped into the kitchen scrubbing his long black hair with a towel. The portrait inked into his right biceps seemed alive as his arm flexed, like Ava’s seventeen-year-old face was winking.

  “What’s up, brother?” the Cajun greeted, setting the towel on the counter and going to the gurgling coffee pot. “You want?”

  Walsh nodded. “I wanted to run something by you, see how it hits you.”

  “I’m intrigued.” He handed over a full mug.

  “Ta.”

  “Should I get the whiskey out for this?” Mercy grinned as he poured his own coffee. “Or…”

  “Not yet, I don’t think.”

  When they were settled at the table, Walsh thought maybe he should have waited for daylight, because this felt like a nasty confession under the glare of the overhead lamp. He took a deep breath.

  “I think the club ought to buy Briar Hall.”

  Mercy blinked. “Come again?”

  “I want to get a look at the old man’s records, first, talk to him about net profit and all that – but I think a farm that big, and that exclusive could make decent money, if it’s run right. We already said it has to stay a farm, and it has to go to an owner who won’t cause trouble for us.” He shrugged. “Who better than us?”

  Mercy took a long swallow of coffee. “Okay, so nobody can make something profitable like you. I give you that. But how are we gonna come up with the cash to buy the place? We’re not exactly…liquid, routinely.”

  Walsh made a face. “Still working on that part. Sort of. I’ve got good enough credit to take out a loan for three-hundred K.”