by Elise Noble
Not so long ago, we’d been eating a late supper at Lone Oak Farm, a cosy affair with Harriet, her father, and Stéphane, who seemed to be practically family. Barkley was curled up on the old horse blanket, waiting for scraps. And everything had been going fine. Irvine appeared reasonably lucid, and he’d laughed along with the others at my expression when Stéphane informed me we were having a three-way for dinner. Luckily, that turned out to be three-way Cincinnati chilli—spaghetti with spiced meat sauce and shredded cheddar cheese—rather than an adventurous sexual experience. Although secretly, I’d always been kind of curious about the other type of three-way too, just perhaps not with Harriet and Stéphane plus the senator watching.
Then, as Stéphane was explaining a four-way—a three-way plus chopped onions—and a five-way (add kidney beans), Irvine’s face started drooping on one side. He tried to excuse himself from the table, but when he gripped the edge to stand up, he lost his balance and fell over.
“Oh, shit,” Harriet whispered. “It’s another stroke.”
Stéphane fumbled for his phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
I’d never seen anyone have a stroke before, although I had wished it on Piers several times. The worst part was the helplessness. Irvine was still breathing, and every so often he mumbled something unintelligible, but all I could do was support Harriet while she comforted her father. Stéphane went out to the road with a torch to wave down the ambulance.
And now we were at the hospital. Harriet was squashed into the corner, curled against Stéphane’s side, alternately sobbing and staring blankly at the wall. It didn’t look good.
What was in these forms? I could manage the name and address, but I didn’t have a clue about Irvine’s social security number or medical history.
“Hey.”
Oh, thank goodness. I threw myself into Alaric’s arms without thinking, then realised what I’d done and tried to extricate myself. But he held on tight.
“I thought you wouldn’t be back until much later. Weren’t you at Riverley?”
“Nick flew me here in Emmy’s jet. How’s Irvine doing?”
“Nobody’ll tell us. Whenever I ask, the receptionist just says to wait here. Sorry I kept calling—I didn’t know what else to do.”
I was more or less alone in an unfamiliar country with an unfolding crisis on my hands. Stéphane, usually the model of efficiency, seemed shell-shocked too. After the doctors had wheeled Irvine away, he’d whispered that this looked a lot worse than last time.
“You did exactly the right thing.”
“Some pushy woman brought these forms. I can’t ask Harriet or Stéphane to fill them in, not now, but what if the hospital won’t treat Irvine otherwise?”
“They’ll treat him. We can deal with the paperwork later. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“How are you really holding up?”
I buried my head against Alaric’s shoulder so he wouldn’t see my tears. Did Sirius do regular staff appraisals? I sincerely hoped not because I was the worst employee in the history of the world.
“It was just such a shock. Irvine fell down, and then the ambulance took forever to get there.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Isn’t that meant to be my line?”
“Not today, Beth. We’re a team, remember?”
He kissed my hair, and I took a deep inhale, his cashmere sweater soft against my cheek. Alaric smelled of man and laundry soap, two of the most comforting things imaginable at that moment.
“Could you try asking again if there’s any news? You’re more authoritative than me.”
Alaric glanced across to the desk in the far corner. The old battleaxe was still there, guarding the entrance to the kingdom while she played solitaire on her computer. I’d caught a glimpse of her screen the last time I ventured over there.
“Sure. Give me a minute.”
I expected him to prepare for a fight with the receptionist, but as he neared the desk, he straightened, squared his shoulders, paused to say a few words, and then strode right on past. What the hell? No buzzers went off. No sirens sounded. The woman just returned to her game as if nothing had happened.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. At twenty-five, worry morphed into full-on fear, and I was soon shaking worse than Harriet. She was sobbing now, full of remorse for not spending enough time with her father, even though she’d needed to keep the farm going. Had Alaric been arrested for trespassing? Half an hour later, a doctor dressed in scrubs walked towards us, a stethoscope around his neck. Finally we might get some news, but I felt too sick to concentrate on anything but my missing boss.
Wait. Why was he heading towards me rather than Harriet? He peeled the paper mask away from his face, and I almost slapped him.
“What are you doing?” I hissed at Alaric.
“Getting information?”
“By imper—” I realised I was speaking too loudly. “By impersonating a doctor?”
He even had a bloody name badge. Dr. Patterson, Consultant Dermatologist. And one of those little paper caps too.
“You said you wanted information.”
“I meant to ask the receptionist!”
“I’ve seen her type before—more backbone than a hardened terrorist. She’ll never talk.”
A nurse walked past. “Doctor, do you know where Mrs. Montell went?”
“Sure, she’s in cubicle seven.”
The nurse walked off, and I narrowed my eyes.
“Is that true?”
“Of course. Cubicle seven’s right next to the nurses’ station. Mrs. Montell and I had a nice chat while I waited to use the computer.” Alaric’s face turned serious. “I should talk to Harriet.”
“You have news?”
He nodded, and I knew from his expression that it wasn’t good. Stéphane already had his arm around Harriet’s shoulders, and I squeezed one hand as Alaric crouched in front of her and took the other.
“Harriet, your father’s had a massive brain haemorrhage. They’re investigating possible treatment options at the moment, but it doesn’t look as if there’s much they can do. I’m so sorry.”
Well, Alaric certainly passed the test for bedside manner, although that didn’t make the revelation much easier to take. All the colour drained out of Harriet’s cheeks.
“There’s nothing? What about surgery?”
“With the size of the bleed, there’s likely to be too much damage for surgery to be viable.”
“I-I-I don’t know what to do.”
“He’s on life support. I expect they’ll let you see him soon.”
“To say goodbye? We may not have seen eye to eye some of the time—well, most of the time—but I still love him. I can’t… I can’t…”
“You’ll be able to take all the time you need.”
“Time? I don’t have time.” She checked her watch, a utilitarian digital with a chewed strap courtesy of one of the yearlings. “It’s six o’clock. The horses…”
“We can take care of the horses.” Alaric gave me a slightly worried glance. “Right?”
“Right,” I said. “And I can bring you some personal items if you need to stay here. Or I could swap with Stéphane later if he needs to go back to the farm?”
“Best that Stéphane sticks around too,” Alaric said. “And I should go before someone decides to ask me a medical question I can’t answer.”
Stéphane nodded his agreement. “I’ll take care of Harriet.”
“Coffee first?” Alaric suggested.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
I knew my way around the kitchen at Lone Oak Farm now, so I put the drip machine on to brew. Sunday meant that Rusty would be working but Rodrigo had the day off. Rusty didn’t ride, and he wasn’t as knowledgeable as Rodrigo, but I could ask him to check the cattle and the horses in the paddocks at least.
That left Alaric and me to do the barn. Nine horses to muck out and feed, plus three to rid
e—the two stallions and a youngster who always had too much energy. I was running on empty by the time we finished.
“Breakfast?” Alaric asked.
With Stéphane providing moral support at the hospital, there was no spread waiting for us when we staggered into the house, and the thought of opening the fridge made me groan.
“I don’t have the strength.”
“When did you last eat?”
“A few mouthfuls at dinner last night.”
“I’ll make toast.” Alaric waved at the old sofa in the corner. “Put your feet up.”
“But I’m supposed to be your assistant.”
“In that case, I’m ordering you to sit down. Does Harriet really do all this herself every day? With just one other guy?”
“Yes. Stéphane looks after the house and the senator. I’m not sure how she’s going to cope when he leaves.”
“He won’t leave.”
“But he’s Irvine’s assistant. And Harriet can’t afford to pay him anymore.”
“Stéphane’s not here for the money. He’s in love with Harriet.”
“What?”
“You don’t see it?”
“No! I mean, I always thought Stéphane was gay.”
“He’s not gay,” Alaric said mildly. “I’m good at spotting that sort of thing.”
Because it takes one to know one? Once again, I felt a pang of sadness. The good guys were always unavailable, one way or another.
“That’s, uh, I guess that’s good news. But she’s still going to struggle for money.”
“Don’t forget Red After Dark’s through there in the bedroom, and there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar reward. Without wanting to sound callous, Irvine isn’t going to need Dominique anymore. In fact, it makes me twitchy to think of a painting that valuable hanging on the wall in this house.”
“Nobody knows it’s here but us.”
“Correction: nobody but us and the bad guys. It’s served its purpose now—I wouldn’t put it past them to take it back.”
“You think we should move it?”
“For now, I’ll put it somewhere more discreet than Irvine’s bedroom wall, but I think the sooner it’s back in the Becker Museum, the better for everyone. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Never mind. What do you want on your toast?”
“Anything but Marmite.”
“You’re safe—not so many people eat that over here.”
How long did bread take to toast? One minute? Two? Whatever, it didn’t matter. I was asleep in thirty seconds.
CHAPTER 30 - ALARIC
A MONTH AGO, Alaric would have left Red After Dark on the bedroom wall. Enigmatic Dominique—the perfect lure. If the thieves took the bait, Sirius and Blackwood could reel them in.
But that was then, and this was now. Alaric wouldn’t put Beth or Harriet in harm’s way, not even for Emerald herself. Perhaps Black was right—that was painful to admit—and Alaric needed to stop living in the past? They’d retrieved one painting, and as soon as he worked out how to return it without tarnishing Irvine Carnes’s name, Harriet would get fifty thousand dollars of reward money. If she needed more, he had some savings he could lend her. Nice though it was to have a cushion of cash to fall back on, he didn’t need a fortune to be happy.
The toast was cold now. Dominique was hidden. Alaric scooped Beth up in his arms and carried her to the guest bedroom. Tempting though it was to lie down beside her and close his eyes, he made himself back out into the hallway. He’d be fine on the couch.
But damn, he loved that woman. The only problem was, how did he tell her?
“I’m sorry I fell asleep.”
Alaric turned to see Beth in the living room doorway, wearing a bathrobe with her damp blonde hair hanging past her shoulders. Usually she tied it back. He’d just finished speaking to the sheriff from Devane’s hometown about the young redhead who’d led them to Piper Simms. The man had promised to look into the situation. Discreetly. Her father was a well-known asshole, and the sheriff felt it was only a matter of time before he violated his parole.
“Not a problem.”
He could get used to seeing Beth like that every morning. A little tug on the end of that belt…
“Do you want coffee? I’m just going to make some, and then I need to feed the horses again.”
“With hay? I already did that.”
“But how did you know…?”
“I used to help Emmy with her horse occasionally. Breakfast and dinner in a bucket, hay four times a day or he kicks the door. Did I get it right?”
Beth nodded. “You and Emmy are close, huh?”
“We’ve known each other for a long time.”
The TV on the wall caught Beth’s attention. Not surprising—Alaric had been watching the news for the last half hour, and apart from the rumours of Carnes’s ill health, it had been remarkably entertaining.
“Is that…?”
“David Biggs? Yes.” The Republican candidate.
“Who’s that chasing him?”
“His wife.”
From what the reporters had pieced together, it appeared the pair had gone out for dinner on Saturday night, to some Italian place in Frankfort. The restaurant had been promoting a special offer—write a review and get ten percent off the bill. Mrs. Biggs liked to save pennies, it seemed, because she’d hopped online to earn her discount, only to read the review above hers first. Glowing, five stars, and the reviewer had even included a photo of her and her friends enjoying their meal. And in the background of that photo was David Biggs, and the woman he was enjoying a cosy meal with was… Well, that was still under discussion, but she definitely wasn’t Mrs. Biggs. The argument had been something to behold. Cell phone footage from several angles showed Mrs. Biggs throwing dessert at her husband, then whacking him over the head with her purse.
And it didn’t end there. When the cops arrived, a drunk Biggs had waved a gun at them before cussing out half a dozen officers and getting arrested.
Not bad for a man who’d run on a platform of family values and respect for law enforcement. The irony was strong with that one. All they needed was a genuine O’Shaughnessy scandal before polling day and they’d have the full trifecta.
“My gosh,” Beth said.
“We’ve played our part now. Forget the election. It’s time to focus on the future.”
“Is there any word on Irvine? Did you speak to Harriet?”
“I spoke to Stéphane. Irvine’s on life support, and Harriet’s going to spend as much time as she can with him while they run some final tests. I volunteered your services to help out for a few days. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course. You don’t mind?”
“We’ve agreed it’s sensible for me to return the painting in the near future, and I can do that alone.”
“You won’t get arrested, will you?”
“Definitely not.” Beth still looked worried, so Alaric reached for her hand. “Trust me?”
“I trust you.”
Alaric couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Despite everything they’d achieved—taking out Devane, bringing down Ridley, solving Piper’s murder, and finding Red After Dark—Beth’s words and the concern behind them were the highlight of his month.
CHAPTER 31 - SKY
“OH. YOU’RE BACK.” The words just slipped out.
Emmy sat up on the weight bench and wiped the sweat off her face. “You sound disappointed. Worried you might have to do some work now?”
“I’ve been doing work.”
“With Rafael, apparently. What exactly happened to Alex?”
Rafael hadn’t given her the low-down? I thought he’d have recounted my failings in excruciating detail. Or had he, and Emmy just wanted to see if my story matched up?
“Uh, Alex was kind of…sitting on me, and Rafael thought I didn’t look too comfortable, so he hauled Alex off and threw him against the wall.”
“So it was Rafael who broke Al
ex’s ribs? I thought it was you. Now I’m disappointed.”
Chances of me damaging Alex myself? Zero. The guy was built like a tank.
“It was an accident,” I mumbled. A King Kong versus Godzilla accident. Please, don’t ask any more questions. “How was your trip? Did you get the paintings back?”
“We sort of got one of the paintings back.”
“Sort of?”
“We know where it is, but Alaric promised we wouldn’t return it until the person died.”
“Is it with that senator?”
“Yup.”
“I saw the news this morning. They said he’s dead.”
“Not quite, but he hasn’t got long left.”
“So I guess the painting can go back soon?”
“It can.”
“What about the other one?”
“The investigation stalled again. I expect we’ll let the dust settle for a day or two and then take another look.”
“What dust?”
“You said you were watching the news—did you see Kyla Devane died?”
“Some crazy employee kidnapped her and shot her.”
“Yeah, well, long story but he thought she was me. It’s been an interesting week. But it’s done now, so we can get back on track. How’s it been going with Rafael?”
“I can’t wait for Alex to come back.”
Emmy barked out a laugh. “That bad?”
“Alex is brutal. Rafael is more…sneaky.”
“In what way?”
“Last week, he made me go running. And after we’d slogged through the woods for about ten miles, he just vanished. Poof. Gone. I had to find my way back by myself. Hey, it’s not funny.”
“I’m laughing because Black did exactly the same thing to me. And you found your way home, didn’t you?”
Home. Hearing Emmy say the word hit deep. This was my home, more so than any of the squats in London, and it certainly beat the time I’d spent with my father and my years in foster care. The question was, how long would I be able to stay?
“Yeah, I got here.”
Took me a few hours, a bunch of wrong turns, and a twisted ankle. I’d jumped into a truck for the last couple of miles. The driver didn’t know—I just climbed on board when he stopped to move the branch I’d dragged into the road. Getting off was a bit dicey, but I’d managed to tuck and roll onto a grassy verge when he slowed for a corner.
