The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (38 page)

              Aidan eased the door shut behind him. “Hey.” Whispering felt like the thing to do.

              Mercy glanced up at him with a smile that made him embarrassed for some reason, the naked joy in the other man’s face more than he wanted to bear, as a non-parent. “Hey, bro.”

              Calvin Louis Lécuyer was placed in his arms, a tiny red-faced human beyond his wildest comprehension.

              “Y’all named him for Uncle Cal?” he asked, glancing over at Ghost, whose younger brother had died as a child in an accident.

              “Yeah,” Mercy said. “Him and my Gramps.”

              Ava stirred. “That fuzz on his head is blonde,” she said, smiling tiredly. “He’s got some recessive genes in him.”

              “That’s your story anyway, huh?” Aidan asked.

              “Hey, I’m blonde,” Maggie said, tossing her hair. “And your grandfather was, right?” she asked Mercy.

              “Yeah. He was real pale. And he’s where the nose comes from.” He tapped his own.

              Aidan looked down at the baby in his arms. “He does have a beak, I’ll give him that.”

              As if he’d heard and been offended, little Cal started to squirm and whimper.

              “Uh-oh.”

              “He’s hungry, bring him here,” Ava said, sitting up higher against her pillows.

              Mercy took the baby back and went to the bed, which meant breastfeeding was about to happen, which meant Aidan didn’t want to stay in the room.

              “Hey, Mags? Can I talk to you a sec?”

              “Sure, baby.” She stood and passed Remy to Ghost. “Here, Poppy. I’ll leave you in charge.”

              “Come here, man.” Ghost took the kid with an ease that always amazed Aidan. Crappy dad, good grandfather. That’s just how it went sometimes.

              Maggie slid her arm through his as they left the room. Ghost headed down toward the vending machines, and she steered Aidan the other way, toward the window pouring warm light into the cold tile hallway.

              “It’s been a while since you asked to talk to
me
about something. I feel honored,” she joked, bumping him with her shoulder. “You usually go to your sister for female advice these days.”

              “Well, sometimes…”

              She chuckled. “That’s good. She’s a woman now. She’s a good source of womanly wisdom.”

              He snorted. “Maybe about some stuff.”

              “But not other stuff?” She gave him a lifted-brow, penetrating glance.

              “Not about…well…I mean.” He sighed. “She was born into the club. And she knew she wanted Mercy all along. Which is gross, by the way, when you think about it.”

              Maggie made a disagreeing sound.

              “What I mean is, she doesn’t know much about being outside the club and coming into it.”

              “Who are you wanting to come into the club, baby?” she asked, giving his arm a little tug so they stopped in the patch of sunlight and she moved around to face him. She had a seemingly innocent stare that could have forced a confession out of a mob boss.

              “Not a new member,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, wanting to shift his feet. “But…” He exhaled. “That girl I brought to the party a few weeks ago.”

              “Ah.” Her expression tightened. “The princess.”

              “Yeah, her. Well, I was thinking, when I asked her out, that since she was different from some of the other girls–”

              “Collections of dead braincells.”

              “ – I’ve been out with–”

              “Screwed around with.”

              “ – that she might be, I dunno…a good old lady.”

              “Are you serious?” Her hazel eyes widened.

              “I know she’s not,” he rushed to say. “She’s a bitch, and a brat, and I don’t ever wanna see her again.”

              “Thank God.”

              “But I was trying this time, Mags. Really I was.”

              She smiled sympathetically. “That’s good. I’m proud of you.”

              “So how do you know” – an image of Sam popped into his head, her pretty eyes behind her glasses, the unbound waves of her hair, her tea and syrup-drizzled bacon, the catch in her voice when she talked about her dad – “when someone’s
really
old lady matieral?”

              “Oh, sweetie.” She smiled again. “It takes time to know that. Women don’t come with resumes.”

              “Unfortunately.”

              She chuckled. “You’ve got to find someone who sees Aidan underneath the cut, who’s got her eyes open wide, and who doesn’t run when she gets scared. The good ones are always harder to catch,” she said. “But they’d never think of running once they’re caught.”

Forty-One

Three Weeks Later

“Dad, the longer you delay, the later it’s going to be when you get done. And I’m not going to hold dinner for you.”

              Karl gave her the most wounded look, and for the first time in her memory, his eyes were clear, his gaze sober. AA was working. So far. Falling off the wagon was a distinct possibility, but given how grouchy and uncooperative he was, it was a safe bet he’d stuck to his pledge today, at least.

              “You’re cruel, Emmaline,” he told her. “Trying to let me go hungry.”

              “Not trying, Dad, no. I’m trying to get you to implement a little time management. If you’re the groundskeeper around here, then you have to stick to the farm schedule. And Miss Walsh is coming in tonight, and she’ll be starving, so I won’t hold dinner just because you wouldn’t get your butt in gear.”

              He glared at her, grumbled under his breath, but finally started the lawn tractor and rolled away.

              Emmie folded her arms and watched him ride off a moment, feeling a sense of pride in her father for the first time in…ever. He was just mowing the grass, but that was worlds better than what he’d been doing – which was nothing.

              It was Walsh who’d started Karl on the proper road. They’d gone to drag him out of Bell Bar and Walsh had put his foot down. Dumped ice water down his back and gotten in his face when Karl started to go on a drunken rampage. “You’re breaking your daughter’s heart, you sod! Bloody step up and be a man for once.”

              He was three weeks sober, and he was the new Briar Hall groundskeeper. Small steps, but positive ones.

              The sound of a car engine on the driveway drew her attention, and she saw Walsh’s truck swing past the barn and head up to the house, three heads silhouetted in the back window where before there had been one.

              She took a deep, shaky breath, nerves jumping all at once. It would have been terrifying enough to meet a boyfriend’s mother, but to meet her mother-in-law? That typically wasn’t done in this order.
Hi, I married your son almost two months ago, nice to meet you!

              Ugh, what was this woman going to think of her?

              She ducked into the tack room and glanced in the mirror above the sink. “Oh, shit.” Her hair was coming loose, curls clinging to her damp neck. A big smear of horse slobber marred what had been a clean polo shirt, and there was an inexplicable smear of dirt across the bridge of her nose.

              She did the best she could with damp paper towels, called herself a lost cause, and took three huge deep breaths that did nothing to calm her.

              “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