She couldn’t speak more than a croak. She knew, because she’d tried when the nurse came in.
They’d given her a board to write things down on when she needed something, but she doubted the Spanish Inquisition had taken place via a dry erase board.
And Brannon had his head back, mouth slightly open, slow, steady breaths escaping him as he dozed on, not a care in the world. Aggravated, Moira grabbed a pen from the bedside table and threw it at him.
It missed by a mile and she would have growled, except she knew it would hurt like hell.
“You still can’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
The sound of that voice made her stiffen.
Slowly she turned her head, and the sight of the man standing in the doorway made her heart flutter. For a few seconds, the pain faded away. For a few seconds, she let herself pretend she hadn’t almost died, that she hadn’t chased him away. That maybe, just maybe, they could have another chance.
Then the ache in her throat grew too huge and she had to swallow, and that resulted in so much pain, she had to blink back tears.
“Bad, huh?”
In response, she flung her arm over her eyes.
If life was fair, Gideon Marshall would use that excellent brain of his and realize that she just wasn’t up for talking, or company—particularly his, unless he was there to tell her that he had dumped Maris, decided he couldn’t live without her, and was going to make her see sense. She’d be glad to see sense now. Especially after last night.
But none of that was likely.
When the room remained silent, she slowly lowered her arm.
He was sitting down on the stool next to her bed. He’d gotten the pen she’d thrown.
Picking it up, she sighed. Then, frowning, she grabbed the dry erase board and scrawled out two words.
Go away.
Gideon cocked a brow and then held out a hand.
She rolled her eyes and turned it over. He wrote something and flipped the board around.
No.
Snatching it back, she scrawled out her response, but she wrote too large and had to start all over again. This was going to get tedious. She needed her tablet.
Once she’d finished, she shoved the board back at Gideon.
I feel lousy. I didn’t sleep. My head hurts, my throat hurts, my everything hurts. I want to rest.
Gideon nodded and passed the board back over to her. “I imagine you do. But I want to find out who did this to you … and why.”
She closed her eyes, told herself that she wasn’t going to cry. Really, why should she? It was over and done. She was alive. She would get a better security system, do some upgrades. She’d thought she had a pretty decent one, but then again, how much good could it do if she was out of the house?
Maybe she should get a dog.
Yeah … She grabbed the cloth attached to the board and erased her last message, writing out another one.
Can you help me get a dog? For security?
Gideon lifted a brow, then after a moment, he nodded. “You want a dog, huh? I might be able to help. I know a guy who raises German Shepherds—trains them. They cost a pretty penny … well. In my book. You could buy a kennel full of them and not blink.”
She made a face at him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
Heat exploded inside her chest as he dragged his eyes back to hers. Her heart raced.
Then he looked back at her message. Taking exaggerated care, he erased the words. “I’ll get in touch with him, see if he might be able to help you out.”
“I want one for Hannah.”
The sound of Brannon’s voice had Moira yelping. Then she shuddered as pain rolled through her. Touching a hand to her abused throat, she closed her eyes.
“Sorry, sis.” Brannon brushed his hand down her hair, and she opened her eyes to meet his. He was bent over the bed now, watching her with concern written all over his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She managed a weak smile.
“Want me to call the nurse?”
Shaking her head, she shifted in the bed and cast a furtive look at Gideon. But he didn’t look like he was in any rush to leave. In fact, as he crossed his arms over his chest and focused on Brannon, she thought just maybe he was settling in for the long haul.
Shit.
* * *
Gideon watched the cloud of sleep leave Brannon’s eyes as he bounced around a few different ways to approach this. There were a few subtle ways he could try, and maybe he should. After all, Moira did look rough and she’d had a hell of a night. He could sympathize, although what he really wanted to do was grab her out of that bed and hold her, run his hands over her to make sure she was okay. He wanted to kiss the bruises, each and every one, then he wanted to yell at her—for a lot of reasons, for putting him into this shape again, for scaring him, for being her, for making him love her no matter what, for not wanting him enough … and for being hurt.
None of it was her fault, even the fact that she didn’t want him enough, but he couldn’t help the fact that he hurt for her, all over again.
He also wanted to hunt down the son of a bitch who had put those marks on her.
Hunt him down and kill him.
Slowly.
In order to do that, he needed to understand what was going on. He turned away and shut the door, then grabbed a chair and dragged it over to the side of Moira’s bed. That done, he pulled out his notepad and braced it on his knee.
“I talked to Hoyt and he gave me the information you were able to give him,” Gideon said, looking first at Moira. When she went to grab her board, he snatched it out of her reach. “I don’t want to hear that you aren’t up for this right now. I’ll make it easy on you and recount the details he gave me—which isn’t procedure—and you can nod if that’s accurate and write down anything else you might have remembered. But I need to get my head around this before I can go any further.”
Her eyes snapped and flashed, the elegant line of her jaw clenching as she glared at him. Then she shoved out her hand, lifting her chin imperiously. Treasure’s reigning queen, he thought. He gave her the board.
Why are you handling this? You were supposed to be taking a few days off.
He read it with a scowl, trying to ignore the miserable sensation in the pit of his belly, one that twisted and filled him with shame and guilt. I’m not guilty of shit.
When he handed the board back to her, she studiously avoided his gaze.
“Too much weird shit has happened in my town, Moira. Hoyt called me because he knew I’d want to know. I’ll have a hand in this until I know it’s settled, until you’re safe.”
Because you take your job seriously. I know that. But you don’t have to put your life on hold.
“I’m…” not.
He stared at her, filled with the knowledge that there was no life, not without her. He’d been fooling himself, and how easily he’d left Maris was just proof of it. She’d understood. She was a cop. But while he’d feigned frustration over it, the truth of it was that he hadn’t given a damn that their weekend had been interrupted. Worse, some part of him had come alive at the thought of seeing Moira again.
The word died in his throat and he stopped, looking back down at his notepad. “The job’s the job, Moira. Now let’s get this done.” He recounted the events that Hoyt had told him, glancing up from time to time to see Moira nodding. She held up a hand near the end and scrawled out a note.
He touched me. My face. It was weird.
Brannon had gotten up to come around and stand beside Gideon, and he shot his sister a look. “The son of a bitch attacks you, half-strangles you. and the thing that strikes you as weird is how he touched your face?” he demanded.
Gideon said, “Shut up, Brannon. Weird, how?” He passed the board back to her.
She gave him an exasperated look and lifted her shoulders, irritation stamped on her features. She scrawled something else on the board and passed it back ove
r.
Weird. It was gentle. He slams me to the ground, hurts me and then all but pets me.
Gideon made a note, nodding, tucking it in the back of his mind. He’d think on it later. There might be something to it, there might not be.
“Okay. We’ll go over it again when you can talk, but for now…” He gestured for Brannon to sit back down, waiting until he’d did so. Brannon slumped in the chair, his hair rumpled, the stubble darkening his jaw. “Now, I’ve got questions and one of you is going to talk.” He narrowed his eyes on Brannon. “Since Moira’s sort of not able to do that right now, I guess it will be you.”
“I don’t know how much I can help you out.” Brannon folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “I’m afraid I wasn’t in the area when some piece of shit attacked my sister. If I had been, you’d already have him … in the morgue.”
“Not what I need to talk about.” Leaning forward, Gideon braced his elbows on his knees, focusing completely on Brannon. “Tell me about the treasure.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Moira stared at him, those words echoing in her head. If she could have laughed, she would have.
Instead, she looked over at Brannon.
He was staring at Gideon with irritation. “What treasure?”
“Don’t.” Gideon held up a hand, cutting off a story he’d already heard a hundred times. “There are a hundred different crazy stories spread about old Paddy McKay, and I know that as well as anybody. But all three of us know that those myths all have a kernel of truth in them.”
He finally looked over at Moira, and she had the sensation that he didn’t want to do that.
She thought of all the times she’d caught him staring at her, how she wished he’d stop because of all the memories it brought up. Now it was the opposite. She found herself searching the streets for a glimpse of him, had even ended up in the police station for no legitimate reason and had ended writing out a check for the local shop-with-a-cop thing they did in December, all because she’d wanted to see him.
Because it was easier, she focused on the question he’d asked instead. She just rolled her eyes and held out her hand for the board. It was closer to him and she couldn’t reach it. Temper snapped in his eyes. He had a high threshold, but once the fuse was lit … well, she had a better of idea of just how hot that temper burned than most.
Narrowing her eyes, she snapped her fingers and then pointed at the board.
“For fuck’s sake,” Brannon muttered. He grabbed the board and shoved it into her hand. Then he focused on the grim face of the cop in front of them. “Gideon, man, it’s a legend. The man’s been dead for well over a century. Shit, it’s more than a hundred fifty years now. People have crawled all over Ferry looking for a treasure. Hell, that’s why Grandpa put the wall up around the perimeter. We’re lucky it wasn’t a mile high stone wall. We had so many dumbasses coming out with shovels and buckets…” He stopped then, laughing abruptly. “Of course, we all did the same thing.”
Moira made a face and scrawled on her board.
You and Neve did it. I just laughed at you.
“Whatever.” He waved it aside and focused back on Gideon. “So many people went looking for some mythical treasure, but you still think we’re hiding some hidden cache of jewels? For what reason? In case of a rainy day?”
Gideon didn’t look amused. “No, I don’t think there’s some pirate’s chest of jewels and gold buried out at Ferry. But…” He eyed them, brow winging up. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied each of them with cool, slow deliberation. “But I do think there’s something going on … something else that you all know about, something that lies at the core of all these legends that might be fueling a lunatic.”
He braced a hand and leaned over the bed, reaching out and catching Moira’s chin.
Her breath hitched and she fought her body’s natural instinct to gasp. For one moment, their gazes locked and she stared at him. His gaze was magnetic. She could hardly stand to tear her eyes away, but if she was wise, that was what she’d do. That was what she needed to do, what she should do.
But then, he lifted her chin. He was gentle, but the movement still hurt and a weak protest of pain escaped her.
His free hand rested on her forearm, stroking gently. “Somebody was driven to do this to you, Moira. And whoever it was, he had been watching you enough to know that you had developed the habit of going outside at night, walking.” He paused, waiting for her to argue that point. She didn’t, though. It was in the report that she’d started taking walks at night—had been doing it for a few weeks, at least. “This somebody is determined and possibly obsessed.” He withdrew his hands—both of them—and there were no lingering caresses, nothing she’d come to associate with Gideon.
She missed them, wanted to grab his hand and draw it back to her face.
“Now.” He shoved both hands into the back pockets of his jeans and strode across the room, staring outside the window into the gray morning. “Now, the two of you want to insist there’s nothing but rumors to all these legends, fine. But there’s at least one person who is willing to go to desperate lengths to prove otherwise.”
Moira clenched her jaw and then looked down at her board, erasing what she’d written and starting over.
For all you know, this is just some idiot who
was passing through. Or he read about Patrick
on Wikipedia. Aren’t you overreacting?
Gideon read it. Then he held out a hand.
She glared at him and erased her message, starting over.
You can talk, jerk.
He just continued to wait, patiently. Like the Rock of Gibraltar.
Snarling at him, she threw it at him. He caught it easily and turned it around.
He took exaggerated care as he erased her message and wrote his own.
Three attacks.
Shayla.
Hannah.
You.
I refuse to believe they aren’t connected.
She rolled her eyes and then passed it over to Brannon, mouthing, He’s an idiot.
Brannon frowned, but she suspected he got the general idea. “Look, Gideon … I can see the attack on Shayla and Hannah being connected—and you didn’t mention Roger’s murder.”
“That’s because he’s connected to Shayla.” Gideon turned back to look at them. “But there’s a bigger, underlying picture here and we’re just not seeing it. This attack on Moira is the first time anything has actually pointed at something.”
“Yeah.” Brannon’s voice was thick with sarcasm and Moira threw up her hands, dropping back onto the pillow in defeat. “It’s pointing to a dead end—and to my sister.”
“Trust me, I’m aware.” His voice was hard, tight. He shifted his attention back to Moira and asked, “You always talked about a legacy. I want to know what it is.”
Brannon snorted, but when he started to talk, she rapped the board on the bedrail. He looked over at her and she shook her head. She scrawled a quick note on the board and showed it to him, then erased it before Gideon could see.
“Moira,” Gideon said, his voice heavy with warning.
She wrote another note and showed it to him.
We’re the legacy, Gideon. I’m pretty sure we’re not buried in the dirt somewhere.
He noted that she’d underlined the we.
Then she threw the board down and grabbed the call light, pushing it. Turning her eyes to her brother, she beckoned for him to come closer. Ignoring the pain, she spoke this time, “Make him”—she had to pause a moment and wait for the razor blades that had lined her throat to ease up—“leave.”
She was almost crying by the time she’d said those three simple words.
Brannon caught her hand and squeezed it, nodding.
* * *
Gideon heard the words, saw the pain it caused her to speak, and he blew out a breath.
Even before Brannon turned to look at him, he was making his way to the door. As pale green e
yes locked on him, he lifted a hand. “I’m going,” he said, voice flat. “But listen…”
Moira wouldn’t look at him. She was staring out the window. The sight of her, looking battered and bruised, tore a hole straight through his heart. The beeps and noises of the hospital seemed terribly loud, and he was crucially aware of everything, from the way the hospital gown fell off one pale, smoothly rounded shoulder to the smudge of dirt still visible on the curve of her jaw to the way she kept kneading and twisting the sheets covering her legs. “I’m not done,” he said softly. “My gut tells me I’m right. All the trouble we’re looking at? It’s all connected to y’all, and I know it. I feel it right to my bones. So whether you like or not, you’re going to work with me and help me figure it out.”
Brannon’s jaw bunched tight.
Moira’s eyes closed.
Neither of them made any attempt to respond.
He gave them a terse nod. “I’ll be in touch about the dog.”
Walking away from her caused an almost visceral pain, but then again, it always had.
He stopped once he rounded the corner and leaned back against the wall, staring hard at the vending machines a few feet in front of him. Slowly, he lifted his eyes upward, as though he could see clear through the concrete and steel and plaster, straight up into the heavens. “God, why are you doing this to me?”
He felt like he had a damn hook inside his mouth—or maybe in his heart. His soul. He’d finally done the one thing he didn’t think he’d ever do. He’d pulled himself away from Moira, dragged himself out of her orbit, and had even done what he could to form a relationship with another woman. He liked Maris. She was attractive and fun. He had serious things in common with her and when he was with her, he was able to forget about Moira … for a time.
But when you’re not with Maris, you don’t think about her. You don’t find yourself waking up hot and sweaty with your fist around your dick, about to come just because you were dreaming about her.
He couldn’t say the same about Moira.
The brutal truth was that he could be sleeping in bed with Maris and wake up dreaming about Moira.
Dragging a hand up and down his face, he tossed a frustrated look down the hallway.
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 4
