He was flanked by two dogs, and both canine and human watched her.
“I take it that’s Zeke.” She ran her tongue across her teeth. “Okay, let me run this through from the top. You wanted to bring me out here, but didn’t he say he wasn’t selling a dog to no damn McKay?”
“Well…” Gideon drew that word out, making the single syllable into three as Neve shot him a look.
Prevaricating just wasn’t Gideon’s style, and when he wouldn’t look at her, she narrowed her eyes. “What’s up, Gideon?”
“Zeke isn’t exactly expecting us.” He pinned her with a direct look. “I want to see you work that infamous charm of yours. Get him to sell you a dog, Trouble. One for you, Moira and Hannah.”
“A…” Her mouth fell open and she went back to staring toward the house. It was the largest of the buildings and stood in the middle of a series of fenced-in areas, while off to the back was a garage.
The fenced-in areas held a strange hodge-podge of items. It almost looked like a child’s playground with its assortment of tunnels, teeter-totters, and slides. Then there were the dogs. Big, watchful dogs.
The dogs, six of them, all sat by the fence, ears pricked and eyes watchful.
“They look like they’re deciding on which one of us would taste better,” she said.
“Nah. I’m too old and mean and you’re too skinny.” Gideon reached over and tugged on her hair.
“Very funny. I’ll have you know, I’ve put on ten pounds since I came home.”
He snorted. “Only ten? With Ella Sue’s cooking, it should be double that.”
A cold wind whipped her hair into her eyes and she shivered, watching as the old man on the steps descended and started their way.
Lips pursed, Neve shifted her attention from Zeke to the dogs. The one on the end cocked his head, studying her.
The guy called out to the animals and one by one, they all turned away. Save for that dog on the end. He was still staring at Neve, and now he was wagging his tail.
She found herself smiling at the dog, and the tail beat harder.
The man saw it, too and gave the dog an exasperated look.
“So he doesn’t want to sell to us and you want me to use my charm to … what exactly?”
Gideon shrugged. “Make him change his mind.”
“We do business.” She made a face. “Mostly Moira does business. But the McKays are in business to make money. Sometimes people’s toes get stepped on, but that’s life. Just how did we step on the toes of a guy who trains dogs?”
“That’s why you’re here.” Gideon gestured toward the fenced-in areas and the man who’d moved to the fence watching them with suspicion. “See, you’re the charming one, Neve. If anybody can get him to sell you the dogs, it’s you. Once she realizes he’s holding a grudge, Moira will shut him down. Brannon will tell him to kiss ass. You, though … well…” Gideon shrugged, that faint smile still on his face. “All you have to do is talk to him for a few minutes, Neve. You’ll have him eating out of your hand.”
“So you brought me here to flirt with him?” Dismayed, she glanced over at the heavy clang of metal crashing into metal.
“No.” Gideon shook his head, watching as Zeke finished shutting the gate. “He wouldn’t fall for that. But Neve, you just being you is enough. Trust me, I know Zeke.”
“What brings you down here, Marshall?” Zeke’s voice called out, preventing Neve from asking anything else.
She gave Gideon one more look and then turned, watching as Zeke came their way, along with one of the dogs. A grin burst across her face when she saw which one it was. The curious one. At her smile, the dog’s tail started to wag.
The dog’s ears perked, and she watched as the animal shot a hopeful look up at the man. The man blew out a hard sigh. “Torch, you’re a pitiful mess, you know that? Sit down.”
The dog obediently lowered his rump but started to whine low in his throat, shifting his gaze to stare at Neve forlornly.
Going with her gut, Neve gave Zeke a hopeful smile. “Can I pet him?”
“Torch is a girl. But yeah, you can pet her. Come over here and let me introduce you.” He held out a hand, sliding Gideon a shrewd glance before looking at her. “Which one are you?”
She arched her brows. “I’m sorry?”
“Which one of the McKays?”
“Ah…” Rocking back on her heels, she glanced between him and Gideon.
“Don’t try to bullshit me, kid.” He continued to stand there, waiting. “I know Gideon Marshall too well. He nagged me for three days straight and then just up and stopped calling. There’s a method to his madness, always. You’re the method. I shoulda expected.”
Slowly, Neve put her hand in Zeke’s and felt the ridges of a lifetime of callouses. “I’m Neve.” Shrugging, she added, “The youngest.”
Zeke just nodded. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Torch.”
“But you won’t sell her to me.”
He shrugged. “I already made my position clear to Marshall.”
“Then maybe I shouldn’t get my hopes up.” She tugged her hand free and gazed at the dog. Something akin to longing burned inside her. She wondered if it was possible to feel some sort of instant kinship with an animal. The dog stared at her in a way that was almost wistful when she didn’t come any closer. Neve thought she heard the dog sigh and she knew she saw Torch look over at Zeke, her canine gaze baleful.
Zeke planted his hands on his hips, staring at the dog. “Don’t you look at me like that.”
“Come on, Gideon.” Neve turned back to the other man who’d been silent throughout. “I’m not going to go through this, get my hopes up, only to have them crash. I’ve had enough of crashing in my life.”
There was a snort behind her, dry and withering, and it had her turning.
Zeke watched her, his expression scornful. “Rich girl like you, what do you know about having your hopes crashed?”
“Having money doesn’t guarantee you’re going to be happy, Mr.…?”
“Zeke’ll do.”
“I’m sorry.” She jammed her hands into her pockets. “I tend to save first names for people I’m friendly with. No matter, though. We’ll get out of your hair.”
But again, before she could turn back to Gideon, Zeke grumbled under his breath.
“Spare me the stories about the poor little rich girl.”
“Poor little rich girl?” Fury started to burn inside and she advanced on him. Torch looked curious now, while the dogs in the fenced-in yard started to take more interest. Neve barely noticed. “I have no idea just where to start with how wrong you are with that label.”
Zeke glared at her. “Labels get used for a reason, seems like.”
“Well. Let me point out how wrong you are.” Neve gave him a thin smile. “I guess I should start back when I was a kid. I guess you’re not from around here … otherwise you probably would have heard about me at some point. I’m that Neve … you know the girl who was trapped in the car with her parents when she just a little girl? I saw my mother bleed to death in front of me. I was only eight.”
Zeke shot Gideon a look.
But Gideon was focused on her. He reached out to touch her shoulder. “Come on, Nevie,” he said, his voice gentle.
She shrugged him off.
With a withering look, she continued, “If you haven’t heard about that, I guess you didn’t hear about how my father was in the car too and ended up all but beheaded—I was covered in his blood for hours because nobody saw the wreck. Not that I remember, though. I blocked it all out. It’s been twenty years and I still don’t sleep through the night well.” She bared her teeth at the older man when he went to say something. “We could talk about how I got I tired of being poor little Neve, tired of being the screwup so I ran off and ended up with a man who beat me, and when I tried to run, he put me in the hospital!”
“Neve.” Gideon rested a hand on her arm, but she threw him off.
She didn’t
know where this fury had come from.
“And even that wasn’t enough because when the bastard got out of jail, he came after me! Again! Came after me and my sister Moira, and he’d still be trying to come after me if I hadn’t killed him.”
She took another step toward him.
Torch got between them and barked.
Neve jumped at the sound.
Zeke slashed a hand through the air. “Enough!”
Neve stared at him, the adrenaline that had crashed into her suddenly starting to drain out. It did it so fast, she felt more than a little sick. “Shit.” She turned away, pressing a hand to her stomach. She swayed, her eyes going dim on her.
Behind her, she heard the old man mumble something.
Something cool and wet nudged at her hand and she looked down, saw the beautiful dog sitting there, nudging at her and waiting for Neve to pet her.
“Just pet the damn dog already, girl,” Zeke said from behind, his voice hoarse.
Neve shot him an ugly glare before she dropped to the ground, disregarding the cold grass. Torch half-crawled into her lap, plopping her big head on Neve’s shoulder.
“A lot of my dogs end up going to some of the troops who suffer from PTSD,” Zeke said. “I teach them to recognize the signs. She’s … ah. Well. She’s responding to what she perceives as your triggers, Ms. McKay.”
Neve sniffed as she fisted a hand in the dog’s thick fur.
Torch nuzzled her neck.
After a moment the dog drew back and Neve had the impression she was being analyzed.
She must have passed because the dog dropped her head to settle on Neve’s thigh.
“You should pet her. Tell her she was a good girl,” Zeke advised.
“I’m not doing anything that might get me more attached.” Neve curled her hands into fists before she looked up to stare at Zeke. “Not until you tell me just what in the world my family supposedly did to you.”
* * *
Moira sipped the tea sweetened with honey and laced with lemon, while she reviewed the files Baxter had pulled up.
The people from the IRS were late.
It figured.
She’d busted her ass to get here and now she was killing time and twiddling her fingers while she waited. Her voice was a lot better since she’d spent most of yesterday resting it, but she had a feeling she’d end up scratchy again within a couple of hours. She’d done the tax man dance before. It never came without lots of talking, lots of looking for information, and everything else.
The door to her office opened and she lifted her head, barely keeping her look of annoyance hidden—which was good because Baxter Lindenbower was there, along with two people clad in suits—well, of a sort. One was in his mid-fifties and everything about him screamed IRS, from his drab navy suit and bland, blocky shoes to his wire-rimmed glasses. The other, however, was a woman whom Moira couldn’t see being past twenty-five. She wore a lime green pencil skirt and a summer-weight sweater the color of strawberry ice cream. It had green accents at the neck, and her shoes—completely adorable shoes—had both colors. Pink heels with ankle straps of lime green.
“I want your shoes.”
The words popped past Moira’s lips before she even realized she was going to say them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes.
The woman started laughing. “I know, right? Aren’t they awesome?”
Her partner cleared his throat.
Moira opened her eyes in time to see him shooting the younger woman a narrow look.
She looked unfazed as she came toward Moira, hand outstretched. “Hello. I’m Megan Calloway, with the IRS—we’re with the exemptions division.”
Moira filed that away as she accepted Megan’s hand. After a quick squeeze, she looked to the man, but he stood by the wall, studying some of the framed prints.
“My grandfather and great-grandfather,” Moira said softly.
He nodded. “The McKay family has quite a history here in Mississippi.”
“Yes.”
He adjusted his glasses as he came closer. “Pardon me, Ms. McKay. I didn’t introduce myself. Sam Adams.” He paused and glanced down at his shoes. “I’m afraid I don’t have the lovely footwear my partner has, so feel free to make a jest at the name.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Moira couldn’t help smile a little. “I’m told the IRS has no sense of humor.”
“Of course not. It’s surgically removed the day we join up.” Sam tugged a pair of glasses from his jacket and slid them on. Then he blinked, a startled looking on his face. “Whatever happened to your neck, Ms. McKay?”
Reaching, she touched the raw skin. It didn’t hurt like it had, but the wounds were still ugly, still red against her pale skin. “It’s … complicated.”
Megan’s eyes lingered on her neck and she looked shaken. “It looks like—”
“Megan.” Adams simply said her name.
The woman lapsed into silence.
Moira was grateful. She didn’t want to beat around the bush, nor did she want to explain.
Adams nodded at the seats in front of the desk. “Might we sit down?”
“Of course. I wasn’t sure what this was regarding. I have some information on hand, but as you can imagine…”
She trailed off as Megan bypassed the chair to place something on her desk.
“What’s this?” She reached for the folder and picked it up, flipping it open.
Nobody answered, so she started to read.
Ten seconds later, she lowered it and looked up at the two IRS investigators.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Sam smoothed a hand down his tie. “No, ma’am. That’s the report in its entirety as we received it.”
Moira groaned. “Okay, surely you’ve seen the taxes filed yearly by McKay enterprises—and by me personally, as well as my siblings. You’ve seen the kind of figures we play with. Yet you think we’re running out burying gold doubloons or something in our yard?”
The moment she said it, she sucked in a breath and her hand flew to her throat.
Blood started to roar in her ears.
Stumbling upright, she staggered over to the window. Air. She needed air.
But the windows didn’t open.
“Where is it?”
Pain … his hand smashing into her skull, grinding her into the dirt. “I’ve got … money … in the house…”
“I don’t want money.”
“What … do…”
“He left a treasure here. Patrick McKay. Where is it?”
“Ms. McKay?”
She turned on shaky legs to look at the federal employees for a moment, then looked at Baxter. “Could you get me some water please?”
He looked hesitant, then smiled. “I’ll get you some tea. You sound like you need that more.” She smiled at him. As he slid out of the office, she sank into her chair and met the gazes of the other two. “When, exactly, did you receive this report, if I might ask?”
When they hesitated, she touched her throat. “If it helps, the answer could be relevant. I’ll explain why I’m asking.” She laughed, the sound shaky and desperate. “I can even have a police report sent over.”
* * *
An hour later, the dynamic duo from the IRS had left with promises to follow up.
They had a copy of the report from the police department with them. Gideon wasn’t back. She was more than a little thankful of that because this wasn’t the sort of conversation somebody had over the phone. Now she had a few hours at least to figure out how to explain things to him. As long as nobody mentioned she’d called requesting a copy of the report.
She’d tell him once she saw him. For now, she had other things to worry about—like this bullshit report. The IRS had gotten the call two days ago, well after her attack. She commented on the speedy follow-up and Calloway sheepishly admitted that she’d been the one to take the report and it had seemed so out of the ordinary, she’d shown it to
her partner.
Moira had a feeling the young woman was still in training, but Adams had let her take the lead on this. A good teacher. She had no idea how things in the IRS worked, but it seemed that something like this should get followed up on—even if it was proving to be a pain in her ass.
As she explained what had happened, what her attacker had said, they had looked more and more grim.
Although they didn’t voice anything, she had a feeling they were smart enough to see what she saw.
They didn’t even have the whole picture, either.
Somebody was looking to make trouble for her family, and it was pissing her off.
The musical ring from her phone nudged her out of her daze and she picked it up without thinking. If she had taken even a second to think, she might have ignored it.
She didn’t want to talk to anybody.
Two seconds into the conversation, she was really, really wishing she hadn’t answered, because she had no idea what was going on.
“Neve … I don’t know what … would you start over, please?”
She could hear her little sister take a deep breath—and practically grit her teeth.
“Moira … did we … buy property … in Louisiana?” Neve asked, her voice almost falsely sweet and the pauses between words deliberate—and annoying.
“Neve … we buy … property … all over … the fricking country.” She rubbed her throat and got up to get the tea Baxter had brought her earlier. It had cooled off, but she didn’t care. He’d laced it with whiskey—Baxter had been raised by his grandmother, a sweet lady who believed in the value of a real hot toddy for “what ails you.”
Granted, Baxter hit his toddy even when he stubbed his toe, but right now, she could kiss him.
Neve made a growling sound under her throat. “Utilize those resources you were always bragging about ten years ago. Narrow it down. I need to know if we bought a piece of land—specifically a house—about an hour north of Baton Rouge … what was the county?”
Moira frowned as Neve called to somebody and there was a low, familiar voice that offered a response.
Moira recognized the county name. “I know where it is—who is there with you?”
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 13
