The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) (4 page)

              Ghost waved for them to be quiet. “Isn’t it gonna look real damn suspicious if the club up and buys something like that? What the hell would we need with a farm?”

              “Which is why I buy it privately,” Walsh said. “Everybody in this city knows I’m a recluse who likes it out in the country.” He shrugged. “And I do have a reputation with money.”

              His bluntness drew a small grin from Ghost. “Yeah, you do.”

              “I like it, boss,” Mercy spoke up. “It’s the only fool-proof way to keep the developers the hell away from our place. Nothing like being your own neighbor.”

              “Horses can’t be as high-maintenance as dancing girls,” Rottie said, earning several chuckles.

              Ghost still didn’t look convinced. “This would be a
big
purchase. A lot of risk for us. Look into it. Go by and talk to Richards, tour the place, see what you make of it. Then we’ll vote.”

Four

“Dad, please go home.” Emmie pressed the phone close to her ear and dropped her voice to a whisper, not wanting anyone in the barn to overhear her. “I can’t pick you up tonight; I have evening lessons. Please, please just pay your tab and go home.”

              There was a long pause on Karl’s end, the sound of his labored breath rushing across the receiver.

              “Where’s Maryann?” Emmie asked quietly. “She was supposed to be home today.”

              “Well, she ain’t.”

              “Dad. Go home–”

              There was a loud throat-clearing behind her and she jumped. “I gotta go,” she told her dad. “I’ll call you later, and you better be at home.” She disconnected knowing that he’d be a puddle on the floor of Bell Bar in a few hours, feeling helpless as hell and sick to death of it.

              Fred stood behind her, looking apologetic. “Someone asking about the farm,
chica
. Wants to talk to you.”

              She took a deep breath that didn’t do much to fortify her. “Where is he?”

              “At the tables. I told him you were busy, said he might need to wait.”

              “I’ve got lessons later, so might as well get it over with.” Another breath. “Thanks, Fred.”

              The “tables” were the picnic tables around the side of the barn, in the shade of the roof’s overhang, with a nice view of both arenas and whatever was happening in them. A man sat at the nearest, sitting with his back to the tabletop, elbows braced back against it, watching Melissa Harper put her horse through its paces. He was blonde, that rich wheat color that always seemed to come with a really thick headful of hair. He wore a faded chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, jeans, and an impressive pair of scuffed black boots. He reached to scratch at his bristly chin and Emmie caught the flash of metal on his hand: heavy masculine rings, one on each finger.

              His head turned toward her as she approached, and her step faltered.

              His
eyes
. She’d never seen such wintry blue eyes, almost colorless, and luminous though he had them narrowed. She would have said his face was sharp and foxy, and it would have been a compliment.

              “Hi,” she greeted, recovering, stepping up to the table. “My groom said you wanted to talk about the farm.”

              He nodded, and something about the set of his mouth looked like he was about to smile. His eyes raked over her, top-down and then back up. “That’s right.”

              The voice!

              There was no mistaking it. This was the guy from the other night, who’d unlocked the gate for her. The mystery Englishman neighbor.

              Thrown by the realization, wanting to squirm under his scrutiny, she kicked her chin up and said, “You really need to talk to Mr. Richards. I’m just the barn manager.”

              “Right.” His gaze lingered a moment on her breasts then came finally back to her face. “I’ll get to that. I wanna see the place first. If you’ve got time for a tour.”

              “I…” She did, but he’d set all her nerves on edge.

              He stood, hands going in his pockets, and she saw he wasn’t much taller than her. Five-six at the most. A compact little guy, but well-built. She liked how casual and very un-developer-like he seemed, standing in front of her with patient expectation.

              “Can I ask why you’re interested in the farm?” she asked.

              He shrugged and glanced down toward the arena, giving her a look at the precise stamp of his profile against the barn wall. He was very cute, in a scruffy, weathered sort of way. “I like horses; been wanting a place of my own for a while now.”

              It felt like she’d touched an electric fence, the jolt that went through her. “You’d keep it a farm, then?”

              He nodded, turning back to her with a wry half-smile. “Be looking for someone to run it, too, if you know of anybody who does that sort of thing.”

              She didn’t want it to, but a bright spot of warmth bloomed to life in her chest. “I’m Emmie Johansen,” she said, extending a hand toward him. “Barn manager and trainer.”

              His other hand was loaded with rings, too, and the metal was warm and smooth against her palm as he accepted her shake. “Walsh.”

~*~

He was impressed. With the farm, yes, because it was gorgeous and leagues beyond the places where he’d ridden in a past life. But with little miss Emmie Johansen, too.

              She was a tiny thing, prettier in the face than he’d guessed, with the full hips, ass, and breasts that made someone her size ultrafeminine. She was dressed for riding: black breeches with suede on the ass and inner thighs, tank top, boots that had seen lots of use. Her hair was a rich honey-shot gold, and though it was pulled back in a knot at the back of her head, he could see that it was wildly curly, little stray corkscrews loose around her summer-flushed face.

              Older than she looked, he decided, because there was nothing young, dumb, or kid about the way she showed him around her barn. That’s what it was – it didn’t matter if someone else owned the place; this was her domain.

              “We did away with the manure pile about three years ago,” she said, gesturing to the spreader and tractor rig parked on a concrete pad beside the round pen. “Best decision we ever made. It cut way down on the flies, and there’s no smell; Fred fertilizes the pastures on a rotation, so the grass doesn’t get burned.”

              “Hmm,” he murmured. The only answer he’d given thus far. He was mentally calculating all of it, running figures…trying not to stare at her ass when she had her back to him.

              Emmie folded her arms loosely, gaze landing on him, expression closing up. Cautious, not sure what sort of game he was playing, but clearly in love with the idea of the farm staying a farm. “That’s pretty much it. If there’s anything else you want to know–”

              “How much is board?”

              She blinked, but didn’t miss a beat. “Seven-hundred just to board; eight-fifty for board plus weekly lessons; nine-fifty to have your horse in full training.”

              “Moneyed customers, then.”

              Her grin was wry. “A broke girl’s gotta eat somehow.”

              “Wouldn’t want you getting too skinny now.”

              She started to retort, thought better of it, and her cheeks darkened with an embarrassed blush. “It’s competitive pricing,” she defended.

              “A better bargain than Hawkshill,” he said of a farm about thirty miles east of Briar Hall. “And rumor has it you run a tighter ship than them.”

              This time, the blush was pleased. “I do my best.”

              He nodded. “Call your boss-man, love. I want a word with him.”

~*~

“Okay, who is that, and is he really going to buy the place?” Becca asked when Emmie joined her in the tack room.

              Through the window, Davis and Walsh were visible down the driveway a hundred feet or so, sitting in Davis’s red golf cart, red Solo cups in hand. If the old man was having a drink with this guy, then talks must be going well.

              “He’s some kinda weirdo perv, I think,” Emmie said, frowning to herself. During their tour, the man had seemed both removed, and overly interested, a strange juxtaposition of energy coming from him. “But he’s talking like he wants the place, yeah.”

              “My God,” Becca breathed. “You think he’ll really buy it? And let us keep working here?”

              Emmie swallowed down her hope, trying to keep it contained. “Maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

~*~

Of all her roles at Briar Hall, teaching was by far her favorite. To let go of all the mundane problems of operations, get out in the arena and focus on nothing but student and horse, the dance, the knowledge that she could impart – that was the best part. That was why she mucked stalls and administered wormer and fielded a million questions a day.

              She taught three lessons, and then checked her voicemail. Joan again. Daddy was falling off his stool at Bell Bar and needed to be picked up.

              Emmie called her stepmother, got voicemail, and with a resolute groan went upstairs to change.

              Forty-five minutes later, she was in jeans and a t-shirt, nosing her F-250 into a parking place in front of Bell Bar. She stared at the darkened windows and their cheery neon a long moment, gathering the resolve she’d need to go in there and walk her stumbling father back out to the truck.

              It was a sticky night, and the sidewalk smelled like greasy bar food. Of all the bars in the city, this one was a hybrid of dive and gentleman’s retreat, populated by blue collar types and tired suburbanite fathers. The college kids tended to go for the flashier haunts. And because it was usually a thirty-and-over crowd, this was the one public spot where the Lean Dogs MC seemed to congregate on a regular basis. There always seemed to be a black Harley or two out front, and tonight was no exception.

              Telling herself that bikers only broke bottles over people’s heads in post-apocalyptic eighties movies, she entered and went straight to the bar against the back wall, her father’s slumped shape unmistakable on his stool.

              Matt was behind the bar, and greeted her with a nod. “I’ll tell Joan you showed up,” he said of the owner’s wife.

              “Thanks.” She sent him a tired smile, then turned her attention to her father. “Dad.” His head swiveled precariously around when she touched his arm. “Come on, it’s time to go home.”

              Karl Johansen had been a handsome man. Once. Medium height, thinly built, the only child of Scandinavian immigrants, he was the source of her blonde hair and blue eyes. He’d been happy. Once. He’d had a crackling laugh that startled anyone else in the room with its sharpness.

              But what life the divorce hadn’t stomped out of him, Emmie’s mother’s second marriage had crushed to dust. He was a shell of a man, and nothing seemed to matter to him anymore save filling himself to the brim with gin.

              He searched her face a long, uncomprehending moment, his red eyes moving sluggishly. “Em,” he finally said. “What are
you
doing here?”

              The same thing she’d done the last two nights. “I’m taking you home. Can you stand? Here, I’ll help you.”

              “But I don’t want to go home,” he protested, sliding down off the stool and nearly collapsing as his knees buckled.

              “That’s the only place that’ll admit you, I’m afraid. You’re about one more sip from being a fire hazard.” She kept her tone light, even as her chest clenched tight. He was a sad sight, swaying and leaning into her, fighting to keep his balance. “Slow and steady, Dad,” she cautioned, putting an insubstantial arm around his waist. “One foot in front of the other.”

              “But I wanted another drink. Em, hold on now – wait just a minute!”

              “No, Dad.” She squeezed his arm, praying he’d quiet down and keep moving forward. She could feel the eyes of patrons, their open stares. “You can have something at home,” she lied. She’d thrown out his home stash weeks ago.

              “Are there waitresses in hotpants at home? No,” he said, much too loudly. “I gotta have something to look at while I drink.”

              “Oh, Jesus,” she whispered.

              Someone off to her right laughed. A waitress in said hotpants sent a glare their direction.

              “Let him stay,” a voice called, and someone else said, “Don’t take away a man’s hotpants.”

              This was a freaking nightmare.

              “Dad, please, try to think beyond the gin-fog,” she whispered. “We need to leave.”

              “Don’t tell me what to–”

              “Mr. Johansen,” a familiar voice said, and Emmie snapped her head up.

              The Englishman, Walsh, stood in their path, hands in his jeans pockets, head cocked at a curious angle. His expression was carefully blank.

              Surprised to see him, Emmie didn’t have a chance to respond to his quick glance before he focused on her father.

              “Mr. Johansen,” he repeated, “what were you drinking? Gin?” He gestured to the door and lowered his voice. “The gin in this place is nothin’ but piss, yeah? Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll get you some of the good stuff.”

              Emmie opened her mouth to protest…and Walsh shot her a covert wink.

              “Who are you?” Karl asked rudely.

              “Friend of Emmie’s.” Walsh stepped to the man’s other side and took a solid hold across his shoulders. “Here we go. Let’s walk.”

              A hot flood of shame washed through Emmie. She wanted to crawl behind the bar, latch onto a bottle of anything, and try to wipe this embarrassing moment from her memory. Just perfect – the man who might be her new boss was seeing her dirty family secret in the flesh. Not even Davis and Amy knew about Karl’s drinking problem. What a
perfect
impression she was making on this guy.