The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3)

by Gilley, Lauren

  But she wasn’t programmed that way. She always obliged, always did the polite thing.

  Which was exactly why she’d never moved on from this farm and was now embroiled in an illegal, heartbreaking mess.

  “Sure,” she said, motioning for Ava to follow her. “I’ve got Sherman and Champ in one of the small paddocks back here.”

  She was surprised to hear the click of boots heels, and glanced over her shoulder to catch the blunt black toes of a pair of boots beneath the swirling hem of Ava’s dress. Biker’s wife, she reminded herself, and led the girl down the aisle and out the back doors.

  “This is a very nice place,” Ava said, and she sounded sincere.

  So had Walsh, though. And he’d been sleeping with her out of pure manipulation.

  “When I think about a barn,” Ava continued, “I don’t think about it being this fancy.”

  “There are barns much fancier than this,” Emmie assured her. “This is a moderate, local level farm. You should see the stuff around Lexington.”

  Those gorgeous Kentucky equine palaces where Amy had moved her horses, after abandoning Briar Hall.

  God, she was just full to the brim with bitterness today.

  “You should see the craphole barns I’m used to,” Ava said with an easy laugh.

  Emmie didn’t trust any of it. Why was this woman bringing a child this small to see horses he wouldn’t remember? Why was she being polite?

  Sherman and Champ were cropping grass in their paddock, tails swishing slowly at flies.

  “Remy, look.” Ava hoisted the boy up higher as they approached the paddock. “See the horses? Aren’t they pretty? They’re beautiful,” she said to Emmie. “Yours?”

  “They belong to the farm.” Emmie wiggled her fingers and clucked, and both geldings lifted their heads and ambled over.

  “Oh,” Ava said. “So yeah, they’re yours now.”

  Emmie glanced over, startled, and found the other woman smiling at her.

  “Walsh said you two were getting married.” Again, there was a knowing, ageless light in her eyes that left Emmie unsettled. “Congratulations. I think.”

  “Um…” Sherman nudged her, looking for a treat, and she pressed a hand to his velvet muzzle.

  Ava glanced away, steered Remy’s small hand toward Champ’s nose and helped him pet it. Champ blew air through his nostrils and the child giggled in delight.

  “What a nice horsey,” Ava said to the boy. Her face was soft with maternal warmth when she glanced over at Emmie again. And sympathy, too. There was an understanding in the slow curve of her lips. “We’re not all that scary, once you get to know us.”

  Emmie frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Emmie swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “Look, I don’t know what Walsh told you, but–”

  “His exact words were, ‘She’s a special one, yeah?’” She did a decent job imitating the accent. “And the thing I know about Walsh is that he doesn’t throw the word special around. Ever.”

  Flustered, Emmie glanced away. “He hasn’t known me that long.”

  “It doesn’t take that long to know something like that.”

  She snorted. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “You ought to.”

  ~*~

  “The girls’ll show her the ropes,” Mercy said, leaning back in his chair, crossing his long legs and propping his boots up on the porch rail in front of him. Walsh couldn’t have reached that far with his feet if his life had depended on it. “They’ll tell her how it all works, give her the whole old lady initiation speech or whatever the hell it is they do.”

  “There’s a speech?”

  “No idea. But if there is, Mags and Ava can handle that.” He sipped his beer and glanced over toward Walsh. “But you, my English friend, have got some work to do.”

  Walsh lifted his brows, inviting explanation.

  “Brother,” Mercy chuckled, “she’s a brave little thing, I’ll give her that, the way she held up the other night, but you jumped on her, and there’s no way it was her idea to get hitched.”

  Walsh frowned, and Mercy shook his head.

  “Hand to God, I ain’t gonna tell that to Ghost. He ever asks me, she’s got nothing but mad love for you. But just between us, she’s gotta be freaked. And she’ll go along with this plan for a little while to keep herself safe. But in the long haul, being loyal to the club – that’s gotta come from you. We’re committed to the club because it’s our club. Our girls are committed to the club because they’re committed to us. It’s like a chain, bro.”

  He sighed and nodded. “Shit. Yeah. I know. And she…hates me right now.”

  “You give her a reason to?”

  Let’s see: tackled her, threatened her, proposed to her. “Yeah.”

  “But if she hates you, that means she gives some kinda damn. And that’s better than nothing.”

  Or so people said.

  Mercy took another long sip of beer and sank down lower in his rocking chair, looking good and comfy. Ava had said she’d text when they were done looking at the horses, and clearly, Merc was content to wait.

  “It’s not totally selfless though, is it?” he asked thoughtfully. “Making her yours officially. You’re hoping it’ll turn real.”

  Walsh wouldn’t admit to that. It felt too unlikely and stupid a hope.

  ~*~

  “Thanks,” Ava said as they walked back through the barn. “Sorry we took up your time.”

  “It’s fine,” Emmie said, voice hollow. She felt a little shell-shocked. Yeah, Walsh had said she would join the family, but she hadn’t thought that would start so soon. Why, she didn’t know – Walsh had walked right in and taken over her entire life. Why would the rest of his crew be any different?

  “Hey,” Ava said as they reached the doors, voice going quiet and serious. “Walsh is a good guy.” Her eyes were wide and imploring. “Probably the best of this bunch, really. Just…don’t think too badly of him, okay?”

  “Sure,” Emmie said, arms folding across her middle. Because she couldn’t shake her Southern manners, she said, “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You too.” Ava flashed her a wide smile and then walked off, boots clicking.

  She was driving a truck, Emmie saw, as she went across the parking pad to a black Ford. Another unexpected point in her favor.

  She didn’t quite know what to make of the woman, but she wasn’t a ditz, and she wasn’t easy to read. Both good signs…

  In this world of badness into which she’d been thrust.

  She sighed and went back to her saddle.

  Twenty-Three

  It was her wedding day.

  It had taken three days to procure a marriage license, and now it was time.

  She’d never held any ridiculous expectations when it came to weddings, but she’d envisioned a dress, a small bouquet, a modest cake. The gentle background murmurings of happy guests.

  None of her girlish dreams had involved a threat to her life, a biker who’d lied to her, a courthouse ceremony, and a new family of outlaws.

  Emmie dressed in jeans and flats, a pale pink sleeveless linen shirt. No dress; she would make no further mockery of this marriage by clothing herself appropriately for it. She twisted her hair up and pinned it to the back of her head, wore light makeup and simple studs in her ears. She looked like she was going shopping.

  The horses were already out and Fred and Becca were busy mucking stalls, so when she went down the steps to the barn aisle, she was alone. Thankfully. Her fellow employees had been openly shocked and dismayed to hear her news. Becca had started to protest, but Fred had silenced her with a gentle touch on the shoulder. His eyes said that he knew this wasn’t what she wanted. That she had to do it, for reasons he didn’t want to understand.

  Emmie propped a shoulder against the doorframe and waited for her groom, sliding the toe of her shoe throu
gh a stray clump of shavings until the black suede was dusty.

  Wrong, wrong, all of it so very wrong.

  She didn’t hear him approach and suddenly his voice was right in front of her, startling her.

  “Hi.”

  She glanced up with a jerk, no chance to hide the devastation on her face.

  And then she took real notice of him.

  Walsh’s hair was still wet, and he’d tried hard to tame the thick spikes, though they were rebelling as they dried. His face was faintly pink from a close shave and the cologne smell reached her from a foot away. His shirt was plain black, clean, pressed, fastened at the cuffs instead of rolled, as usual. Dark jeans. His boots had been polished. The rings on his fingers shone from a thorough cleaning.

  He wasn’t dressed like a man on his way to a wedding, but the effort he’d taken was obvious. He’d tried to look nice for her, and she felt a reluctant stirring of tenderness deep in her chest.

  No, she thought. Don’t be fooled by him anymore. He’s nothing but a pretty liar.

  A pretty liar who was holding something matte, black, round, and head-sized in one hand.

  “What’s that?” she asked, but she already knew. She wore one every day, after all, even if the styling was different.

  He extended the helmet toward her, and when he did, she saw the faint white detailing along the edge, little flowers with swirling leaves. “I got you your own,” he told her, and almost sounded hesitant. Like Jack Cooper asking her out that time in the tenth grade. “I looked at your hardhat for size.”

  “That was…thoughtful.” It was, it really was.

  She took the helmet from him, turned it over in her palms, smelled the new plastic stink of it. Lifted her eyes to his. “But I don’t care about riding on the back of your bike.”

  He might have looked less affronted if she’d slapped him.

  His jaw tightened. “If you’re my old lady – my real old lady – they’ll expect you to be behind me some of the time. Might as well start things off right now,” he said firmly. “Get it over with.”

  “The bike part? Or the married part?”

  He made a face. “Both.” He pulled his shades from the neck of his shirt and turned toward the bike. “Let’s go, love. We’re doing this.” A gentle one, but a command none the less.

  She hated him.

  And her feet propelled her forward and she popped the snug helmet down onto her head, wincing as it pressed the hair pins into her scalp.

  She faltered when she reached the black Harley, taking one deep breath after another as she watched him swing aboard and don his own helmet. She was still standing there when he turned to her, and she watched his gold brows drop down behind his sunglasses.

  “What?”

  “I–” She wanted to say something clever, but the truth came tumbling out. “I’m scared,” she admitted in a small voice. “I’ve never been on one of these and…”

  His grin was startling and wide, flashing two bottom teeth that were just a little crooked. “Are you really?”

  “Yes.” She folded her arms, scowled at him. “Everybody ought to be. They’re freaking dangerous.”

  “And that giant horse of yours isn’t?”

  “Not to me, no.”

  His smile was infuriating…and adorable. “Every day you get on those animals, but this – with no brain of its own, which I’m controlling – scares you. Pet, you don’t have to do anything. Just hold on and trust me.”

  “That’s the scariest part,” she said. “Trusting you.”

  His smile dimmed. He glanced away from her, cleared his throat. “Yeah, well…”

  Time stalled out, and the jarring awkwardness filled the small space between them.

  He wasn’t going to force her, she realized, the longer she stood there. He knew she had to do this, that she had no other option, but he could have been an ass about it. Barked orders. Instead he waited. She didn’t want to give him credit for that, she really didn’t, but she had to.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, an apology on her tongue, and Walsh said, “I know you don’t want this, and you don’t want me, and it’s awful for you. If it makes it any easier, I don’t want it either.”

  Ah, there it was, finally – the truth. He didn’t want to be saddled with her. He’d only ever been playing a game, and dipping his pen in the company ink had led him here, to some loveless sham of a marriage they both had to feign at the risk of her death.

  She nodded. “Right.” And swung onto the tiny bump seat behind him, feet finding the pegs.

  “Em–” he started to say, twisting around.

  “Let’s just go, okay? I have lessons later.”

  He frowned. “You’re gonna have to hold on.”

  She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. The contact kicked off a mental slideshow of memories, those two tumbled nights, the strain of his back beneath her hands, the sounds he made in her ear.

  She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the sudden flood of heat.

  The bike came to life with a sharp snort, shaking between her legs.

  ~*~

  It made more sense now, why men gave their lives up to the road. A half mile from the farm, all her fear evaporated, pushed out by sheer exhilaration. It wasn’t possible to be frightened with the wind in her face and the sun warming her back. With Walsh’s solid strength in front of her, between her tightly clasped arms. Looking over his shoulder, it was impossible to tell where the front tire left off and the pavement began. The cars they passed seemed to be standing still.

  If she was honest with herself, it was a wonderful shock to be pressed against him like this. When it came to the men in her life, it had only ever been sex and a few awkward dinners. There had never been this kind of touching, this occupying of the same space. And deep down, she wanted to be held, to link hands, to lean against one another. She wanted cuddling and all the sappy things that entailed. But she would never ask for it, because those were things men didn’t want to give to her.

  Reality returned when they reached the courthouse. Like a slap, her circumstances made themselves known, and she scrambled off the bike the moment she could, taking a few steps away, putting some distance between herself and yet another man who had used her.

  He gave her a long moment, as she stared at the shining tops of the cars around them and caught her breath. But finally, it was time. “You ready?”

  Emmie closed her eyes, pressed her fingertips to the corners. “Yeah. I’m coming.” When she joined him, she was confident her tears were gone.

  ~*~

  It was a perfunctory ceremony, the judge reciting the vows in disinterested tones, she and Walsh staring at the short-napped carpet, not touching. No rings. The kiss was a fleeting, emotionless thing, and he pulled back before she did. Figured. This was just as painful for him, only he’d never had any real sentiment involved, the way she had, so the ruse was becoming harder and harder to keep up.

  Bastard.

  It was unreal, the walk back to the parking lot, the weightless feeling in the pit of her stomach. Married. Emmaline Nadia Walsh, wife of Kingston Rutherford.

  She couldn’t breathe. They were all the way to the bike when she realized that the emptiness inside was a lack of oxygen, that her lungs had seized up, and she was gasping.

  Her skin was full of needles, her eyes full of tears, and she couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t form any words in her throat.

  Married, married, married.

  To a criminal.

  To someone who didn’t love her.

  She saw it all unfold, her future, like a soggy Chinese takeout box coming apart. The loneliness, the desperation, the drinking. No children, no laughter, no life at all…

  Strong hands latched onto her arms. “Hey.” Walsh leaned down and put his face into hers, his eyes unusually wide, and bluer than the washed out summer sky above them. “Are you – yeah, shit.” One hand moved to the back of her neck. “Head between your knees.
”

  She obeyed because she had to, because if she didn’t take a real breath soon, she’d pass out. His hand stayed at her neck, and on the pavement, their shadows linked to form some strange four-legged monster.

  “Easy,” he said, thumb rubbing a soothing little circle against her nape. “Just breathe. Nice and slow. It’ll pass. You’re alright, love. Easy.”

  The delicate vein of gentleness in his voice moved across her skin, made her shiver, brought up a memory of a darkened room and his hands on her in a different context – and her lungs opened, the breath pouring down into her with an awful gasping sound.

  “That’s right. Just take it slow,” Walsh said above her, and it was like his voice commanded the oxygen, sending it where it needed to go.

  Just like he was in command of her now, wasn’t he? Because bikers owned their women.

  “I can’t do this.” It was a whisper that became a chant. “I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”

  This wasn’t supposed to be her life. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, right here in the courthouse parking lot.

  His hand moved to her back, between her shoulder blades.

  She couldn’t let him see her like this. She couldn’t seek succor from the source of her pain.

  She jerked upright, stumbling a step back, breathing erratic, but at least happening.

  Walsh’s expression was wretched, full of sympathy and sadness. I’m sorry, it said.

  She cleared her throat, wiped at her face, and said, “I should get back.”

  “Yeah.” He handed her helmet over.

  ~*~

  Walsh couldn’t remember ever feeling like such an asshole. When your bride had a full-on panic attack ten minutes after the wedding? Yeah, that pushed him into asshole territory.

  He was mad as hell she was doing this to him, laying on all the despair.

  And he couldn’t blame her, because in her eyes, he was this manipulative liar who’d wrecked her life.

  It was all fucked up, and he had no idea how to fix it.