The Right Kind of Trouble

by Shiloh Walker

  He dropped down into the seat next to Moira, his round face redder than normal. It got that way in the summer and when he was drinking. As it was coming up on December, Moira suspected the clear liquid in his glass wasn’t water.

  He leaned closer. “I always knew Trouble would turn out okay.” He said it a conspiratorial tone, but it was ruined by his overly loud voice. His ability to vocalize had served him well in court up until his retirement a few years back, but he either didn’t realize how loud he was or he was just way drunker than he thought. “Neve had to come in front of me a time or two, you know, Moira.”

  “Yes, Rudy.” She sighed and looked around for his wife. “I was her guardian, if you recall.”

  He blinked and then smiled. “Well, I’ll be. That’s right.” He glanced around and then lifted a hand, waggled it. “I see Brannon got it—your mama’s rock. Still doing that … passing it down. How long has that rock been in the family?”

  “That rock? You mean Hannah’s ring?” She smiled coolly. “Oh, that old thing? Just a few generations, give or take.”

  Rudy chuckled. “A few generations. That old thing. Then there is Neve’s ring.” He swayed and leaned closer. “I hear there’s a fortune in stuff the old captain left, and that’s not even considering the treasure. How much is there … really?”

  Moira rolled her eyes. “Rudy, can I offer some advice?”

  “Sure, sure.” He nodded and smiled affably.

  “Find a cup of coffee, your wife, and the door.”

  She slid out the other end of the booth and gave Charles a tight smile. “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning? We’ll finalize plans for the barbecue we’re doing this spring.”

  Rudy stared after her. “Hey … but what about the…” He went to get up, wobbled, then went down with a crash.

  The pub went quiet.

  Charles, sighing, climbed out and helped him get up. “You, old man, are stinking drunk.”

  * * *

  Rudy Rutledge was still grumbling about Moira—who was now a mean old cow—and the treasure when one of the officers came to escort him to his brother’s house. As it turned out, the reason he was hitting the bottle harder than normal was because his wife had asked him for some space. Reasons hadn’t been given.

  So Rudy was sleeping in his brother’s spare bedroom and drowning his sorrows at the pub—and hassling people. As a lifetime resident of McKay’s Treasure, he knew all the town’s secrets, so he had a lot of material to use for hassling.

  “What treasure is that stupid git nattering on about?” Ian asked Charles as the deputy’s car pulled away.

  Charles lifted his shoulders.

  “You two haven’t heard?” Griffin Parker, a member of the city’s small police force, chuckled. “There were rumors that sometime before he disappeared on the mission that got him killed, ol’ Patrick McKay had a great treasure. He split it up—left half of it with his wife Madeleine, then buried the other half.”

  “It’s rubbish.” Charles shrugged it off. “I’ve heard of it, some, but why would anybody have a treasure and bury it?”

  “Well, a half-crazy Scot might.” Ian grinned as he said it.

  Griffin chuckled at Ian’s comment. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any. But it’s just a story. McKay was already stinking rich, you know. He didn’t need to bury his money anywhere. His wife had money and he had money and everything he touched turned to gold.” He shrugged. “There were stories … Hannah’s mom used to tell them, back…”

  His voice trailed off, an unspoken before there. Before Lily Parker lost her husband, before she married an abusive bastard, before she forgot how to laugh. Before. She’d been Griffin’s aunt and he still missed those times before.

  “Anyway.” Griffin shrugged. “She used to tell them. It’s just part of the town’s folklore. But Patrick McKay’s legend was … well, big. Crazy big. He’d talk about his treasure and people would ask him about it and he’d laugh. I heard he killed a few men who came after him looking to find whatever he supposedly had.”

  “If he was a man willing to kill over it, who knows? Maybe there’s some truth to it.” Charles looked more speculative now.

  “Or he was a man who would fight back when attacked.” Ian didn’t look convinced.

  “Either way.” Griffin tugged off his ball cap and rubbed his head. He’d been off duty when Rutledge had decided to liven up the night, and now he looked ready to get back to his free time. “Half the urban legends in this state can probably be tied to McKay or his friend Jonathan Steele or that bastard Whitehall.”

  “Who’s Whitehall?” Ian frowned.

  “He’s the one who turned Patrick McKay in.” Griffin gestured to the building where the police station now stood. “Went up to what served as a magistrate’s office—it was there. Claimed he had proof that Patrick had gone from his mission of privateering to being a river pirate … and then he brought in the men he’d bribed into acting as witnesses against McKay. Within three weeks, Patrick was brought in and tried and within another week, he was dead.”

  Griffin shrugged and turned back to go to the pub. “Stories about some mythical treasure have gone on around here for ages. Talk to Neve or Brannon … I hear Neve used to go digging for it.”

  * * *

  “Did you really dig for treasure?”

  Neve looked up from the documents spread out in front of her.

  Under the intense gaze of her fiancé, she could feel her face heating. And he wasn’t the only one watching her, either. Shooting a look down the bar, she saw a couple of others eying her, although as soon as they saw her looking, they busied themselves doing something else … like studying the bottom of an empty pilsner.

  “You been listening to gossip, Ian?” She studied him with an arched brow, putting her pencil down and bracing her elbows on the family tree she’d been trying to construct. Most of their history was pretty well documented, but she wanted something concrete and she wanted it printed out and she wanted information from before the time Patrick McKay started his own little dynasty.

  “Gossip?” Ian bobbed his head back and forth like he was pondering the word. “That sounds so tawdry, love.”

  He bent down and placed his elbows on the bar, grinning at her. “But, aye. If it’s got to do with you, then I’ll listen. I’m seeing you as a darlin’ little lass, running around Ferry with a bucket in one hand and a shovel in the other, digging for gold. So … did you dig for treasure?”

  She sniffed. “For the record, Paddy McKay didn’t bury gold anywhere.”

  “Okay.” Ian propped his chin on his fist and waited. “So what did ya dig for?”

  “Jewels.” She blew out a breath, her face heating. “Not that there’s any buried there, but still. What jewels the family has are locked up. You saw Hannah’s rock. Moira has her locket. There are a few things that he bought for Madeleine, and what is still in the family is kept locked up in the family vault at the bank.”

  “But you still went digging?”

  “I didn’t know about vaults and banks.” She rolled her eyes and reached out, tugging lightly on his beard. “I was a kid. And the stories my family has…”

  She shrugged. “I’ll tell the same ones to our kids. And you’ll see them hit the ground running when we take them out to Ferry and they’ll do the same thing.”

  “What stories?” He caught her hand, kissed it.

  Her heart hitched, her blood heated, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. Then, as he started to rub his thumb over the middle of her palm, pressing and digging into the muscles there, she forced the trapped air out and shrugged. “Just family stories. About how he came over from Scotland with hardly anything, then made it rich … won his first thousand gambling. Then he made even more. He met Madeleine and it was love at first sight. She was an heiress, so she had family money. They came down here and bought land. He was in love with her and with the water.” She looked up, her gaze seeking out the river even though she couldn�
�t see it. “He got into shipping, hired rough guys to work for him and they managed to stay afloat when river pirates would take others down. Got to where even the pirates wouldn’t mess with Paddy McKay.”

  She slid him a smile. “Once they set a trap for him, planned to kill him. People would say that the river talked to him, you know that? Somehow he knew, knew where they were going to be, and he went ashore a little ways down the river, took half his men. Trapped them instead—and every one of them had a price on their heads.”

  “And so goes the McKay fortune … and the legend.”

  “Pretty much.” She shrugged. “And he wasn’t opposed to keeping whatever money and goods he found with them. Patrick was a businessman, you know.”

  “Absolutely.” Ian leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. “You admire him.”

  “Yeah.” Shrugging, she looked out the window at Main Street. “He gave his life to the river for almost twenty years. He was nearly fifty and ready to settle down, spend the rest of his life with Maddie. But the river pirates were getting worse and people from the town approached him, asked him to give them two years, help train some men to help clean things up. He agrees and ends up running into some dirty bastards who were actually paying the pirates. That’s why he died. They were paying the pirates and he found proof. So they killed him. If he’d been willing to recant the report, say he’d been mistaken…” Neve shrugged. “But he wouldn’t.”

  “That’s a Scot for you. Stubborn as the day is long.” He tugged on her hair. “And here’s what he has to show for it. His family still thrives, generations later. You just can’t wait for me to knock you up so you can tell our babes about how there’s treasure buried out at Ferry, can ya?”

  She grinned at him. “Well, I’m sure there are other reasons to have your babies, Ian.”

  He leaned in and pressed a hot, hungry kiss to her mouth.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The house seemed too big and too quiet.

  Moira paced the halls, unable to sleep.

  Neve was spending the night with Ian. She did that more and more, and the other day she’d mentioned they were looking to find some land, build a home.

  Moira had told her they could live at the house—they should live at the house. Ferry needed a family in it.

  But Neve hadn’t wanted to hear it.

  The oldest stays at Ferry, Moira.

  The oldest.

  She stopped in front of a mirror hanging in the hall and stared at her reflection. She might be the oldest, but she didn’t need to cling to this place because of that.

  Brannon already had a place, but Neve and Ian?

  Why shouldn’t they be here?

  It wasn’t like she was ever going to have a family here.

  Not after—

  She spun away from the mirror, unable to face her reflection anymore. But she could still see herself. See her face, still see the aching emptiness in her eyes.

  She looked like a ghost, face pale, eyes dark and haunted. She could just picture herself doing this very thing in ten years, twenty … thirty. Pacing the halls alone.

  Feeling like the walls were going to swallow her, she went into her room and dressed, throwing off the white nightshirt and tugging on whatever came to hand. The longer it took, the more desperate she felt.

  Suffocating. She was suffocating.

  By the time she hit the kitchen, she was almost panting. Her fingers fumbled over the codes for the alarm system and when she finally had it disarmed, she stumbled outside onto the deck and still, she couldn’t breathe.

  Cold air flooded her lungs as she bolted down the steps to one of the paths. Landscaping lights lit up clear to the tree line.

  It was dark beyond those trees and there was nobody here. Ella Sue had officially retired and her granddaughter had taken over, but neither of them had ever lived at Ferry.

  Moira should go back, she knew it.

  But the idea of being alone inside that house just then was more than she could handle. When she hit the tree line, she slowed. Her eyes adjusted and she could see the moonlight filtering through the trees, many of them stripped bare by winter.

  The river rolled on off in the distance. She could smell it. But she didn’t follow the path. She just staggered over to the bench and sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest and clutching them. Clad in a fleece hoodie and leggings, she stared into the darkness and listened to the muted silence of the winter night.

  The chill sank into her bones, but she couldn’t bring herself to go back inside.

  To go back in there where she felt so terribly empty … and alone.

  Tipping her head back, she stared up at the sky. “What have I done?” she asked softly.

  Her breath formed foggy puffs in the night.

  There was no other answer than that, but it wasn’t like she needed one. She’d spent the past twenty years punishing herself—and although he didn’t realize it, she’d been punishing Gideon, too. Because she’d blamed herself and him.

  It was only in the past few months that she’d realized how stupid she was being, how wrong … but now, it was too late.

  Closing her eyes, she fought against the tears that tried to rise.

  She wasn’t going to cry.

  She was alone and it was her own damn fault, after all.

  * * *

  It was terribly easy to fall into a pattern, even a bad one. Maybe most especially a bad one.

  It was midnight and again Moira was walking along the path, her breath coming out in frosty little puffs as the chill of the night air wrapped around her.

  She was warmer tonight at least.

  After three nights of freezing her ass off when she left the house for just a minute, she’d acknowledged she wasn’t leaving simply to sit on the porch. She all but ran away from her home every night and couldn’t sleep until she somehow managed to calm her thoughts.

  Sometimes it took an hour or two.

  Tonight, it was going on three hours and she still couldn’t sleep.

  Nothing stayed secret in a town the size of McKay’s Treasure, and earlier in the day she’d heard the latest gossip while she sat in the chair at Bellina’s Boutique and Salon. While Bellina—born Christabel Lowery—had scrubbed and massaged Moira’s scalp, she’d chattered on and on about every last thing … including the fact that Maris Cordell had ended up renting a cabin down in Biloxi.

  “The two of them are so sweet together.” Bellina had sighed. “The cutest couple.”

  Even now, Moira could hear the shrieking in her head—shrieks of pain, denial, jealousy.

  Gideon wasn’t sweet. The idea of him being called cute was laughable.

  Gideon Marshall was a lot of things, but cute wasn’t one of them.

  He was …

  “Not mine,” she reminded herself. She’d walked away. She hadn’t just walked, either—she’d practically shoved him out the door and given him a few kicks in the ass for good measure.

  Not mine. “Not mine.” Her eyes itched with fatigue and she looked across the lawn at the house.

  She thought maybe she’d sleep a little now.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  “You’re not sleeping.”

  “I’m fine.” Moira gave Neve a distracted smile as they flipped through a bridal magazine. Neve wanted ideas on how to decorate. Hannah had told her to have at it.

  They were indeed having a double wedding—and soon.

  On her other side, Hannah said, “You look like you’ve lost weight.” With one hand on the high, hard mound of her belly, she grimaced. “I think I found it for you, if you want it back.”

  “You’re having a baby.” Moira patted Hannah’s belly, which was nowhere near as big as Hannah seemed to think. She was almost six months along and absolutely gorgeous. “You’re supposed to put on some weight. What have you gained, ten pounds?”

  “Twelve,” Hannah said morosely.

  “Oh, the horror.” Neve rolled her eyes and pluc
ked up a chocolate chip cookie.

  “Watch it.” Hannah mimed throwing a book at her. “Women who don’t gain weight aren’t allowed to comment.”

  “I gain weight.” Neve lifted her arm and flexed it. “I’ll have you know I actually put on ten pounds. But I was trying to.”

  Hannah cocked a brow.

  Neve shrugged. “I’m tired of looking like a waif. I wanted to look healthy in my wedding pictures. I’m good now.”

  “The day I try to put on weight…” Hannah shook her head. But she understood. She’d struggled with her weight as a kid. Neve had the opposite problem—she was naturally skinny and stress made her appetite disappear. More than once, she’d been called anorexic. Neve had needed to gain the weight. But what good were girlfriends if you couldn’t tease them?

  Moira, though …

  Feeling the intensity, the watchfulness of their gazes, Moira debated between addressing it and ignoring it. But Neve tackled the bull by the horns.

  “You should talk to him.”

  She sighed and put the magazine down. “He’s involved with somebody, Neve. It’s too late.”

  But if she’d thought that would dissuade her baby sister, she was way off base. Eyes gleaming, Neve leaned forward. “So it is Gideon. The hot chief of police is the reason you look like hell.”

  “No.” Shoving back from the table, she moved to the sidebar and splashed some Glenlivet into a glass. Then, because her mood was foul, she added some more. Tossing it back, she gave Neve a dark look over her shoulder. “I am the reason I look like hell. What can I say … you were right. I should have called him. I should have and I didn’t. Now it’s too late.”

  Hannah made a ttttthhhpptttt sound with her lips as she continued to peruse a catalog. “It’s not like they’re married, Moira. Call him.”

  “I can’t.” She clutched the glass, turning her head to stare outside. “I’ve…”

  Her throat knotted around the words and she had to force them out. “I’ve hurt him too much. The past few weeks…? I’ve got an idea what I’ve done to him and I’m done. He’s found somebody he can be with. He’s moved on. I’m happy for him.”