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Bending The Rules: Stewart Island Book 10

Page 19

by Tracey Alvarez


  “Mate,” Wade said. “You have a beautiful woman in your bedroom wearing only your shirt. Do you really need to think about it?”

  Good point. He grabbed one of the plates he’d set aside and shoved it at his brother. “Here. Knock yourself out.”

  “And Dad?”

  Noah got a sudden crystal-clear image in his head of his father’s expression in the cold dawn light the morning after the callout that changed everything. Someone had contacted him and he’d come in, waiting patiently until after the first debrief for them to speak. He’d intercepted Noah on the way out of Central, heading toward his car, numb, shaken to the core, wondering if he should’ve accepted a ride home. He hadn’t known what he’d expected from his dad—a sympathetic clap on the shoulder, maybe? An acknowledgement that it was an incredibly difficult thing to take another human being’s life, even if it was justifiable. Or some understanding of the fear gripping Noah’s icy heart that a more positive outcome could’ve been achieved if he’d reacted differently. Instead Detective Inspector Bruce Daniels, a good two inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Noah, had wrapped his arms around him and squeezed hard enough to make Noah’s ribs creak.

  “You did what you had to, son,” he’d said.

  When Noah had searched his gaze as they pulled apart, he could’ve sworn there was both pride and sadness in his father’s eyes.

  He shook the memory off and faced his brother. “I can give you a solid maybe.”

  Something in his tone must’ve sent a warning to Wade as he gave a small shrug and began to load up the plate with bacon strips. “Good enough. Go take care of business and I’ll see myself out.”

  Noah compartmentalized his family issues into crap to continue ignoring, and headed out of the kitchen. One type of business he looked forward to taking care of was Tilly in only his shirt.

  Kids galore gathered in Oban’s primary school grounds for the annual Easter egg hunt, along with their parents, and a few others who enjoyed seeing the kids hyped up on sugar and bugging said parents. Noah had allowed Tilly to drag him along with her.

  “Research,” she’d told him.

  What precisely she was researching was a mystery, unless it was some sort of undertaking to figure out why rational adults would run around with their offspring pretending to spot the elusive Easter Bunny. Insane. But he had to admit, it was kinda something to see Tilly with a giggling toddler on her hip as they looked for eggs.

  Tilly was going to make a hell of a mother someday. Something he shouldn’t be thinking about, but was.

  After the last chocolate egg was found, Noah, along with Tilly and Wade, had been strong-armed by Glenna into joining the Harland family for a roast lamb lunch. The distraction of a houseful of noisy family—the three Harland siblings, Ben, Piper, Shaye, and their partners and kids—was just what he needed to keep his mind from straying into dangerous territory again.

  Then his phone rang. He glanced down at the caller’s name and answered it.

  “Erin?” He didn’t get any other words out before she interrupted.

  “You’d better get over here before someone gets hurt.”

  Noah was on his feet and mouthing “Emergency” to Piper and Tilly before Erin finished speaking. The switch from off-duty to on happened so quickly it was barely a thing, since he very rarely felt off duty. “Where are you?”

  “Home. I just got here to see Pete arguing with a guy on his front lawn. I can’t see who it is but it looks like it’s about to turn nasty.”

  “I’m leaving now.” He disconnected and his gaze encompassed both women. “Sorry. There’s a disturbance at the Reynoldses’. Hopefully I won’t be long.”

  Piper shook her head, her mouth twisting down. “Pete’s on a bender again, I guess.”

  “I should come with you,” Tilly said. “He likes me—I could probably get him to calm down.”

  Tilly anywhere near the unpredictable Pete Reynolds, and with an unknown male on the scene? Not bloody likely.

  “No. Stay here.” He didn’t have time to soften the order, even though Tilly’s forehead crumpled and she folded her arms tightly across her chest.

  He glanced up at Wade, who’d paused talking Ben’s ear off about dog breeds. His brother arched an eyebrow. Need backup?

  Noah gave a subtle head shake and with a quick apology to Glenna, who was setting out dessert plates—dammit—ran to his ute. The drive from Glenna’s house along the winding beachside road to where Erin’s little cottage was situated next door to the larger Reynolds residence didn’t take long. Driving anywhere in the tiny town of Oban didn’t take long since there were hardly any roads.

  But a lot could happen in a few minutes. An argument could escalate into violence in the time it took for the brain to signal the fist to swing.

  Or a finger to gently squeeze a trigger.

  He flicked on the flashing lights and siren in the hope that the sight and sound of it as he sped along the last stretch of road might shock Pete out of whatever red-hazed temper he’d worked himself into.

  Pete and the second man—younger, taller, broader from what he could see—were facing off in the front yard as Erin had reported. Pete continued to wave his arms around, veins popping out in his neck. Noah killed the lights and siren and pulled over to the road verge. At least the old fella wasn’t brandishing a chunk of firewood from his woodshed in a threatening manner. He climbed out of his vehicle, now able to hear Pete’s ranting, spittle-infused monologue.

  “Call the cops did you? You ungrateful, cowardly whelp. You’re the one the pig’ll drag off in pretty metal bracelets, trespassing on my private property.”

  The second man remained stoic in the middle of Pete’s outburst, only turning slightly toward him when Noah’s boots crunched across the driveway. A piercing gaze, hard as the gravel under his feet, met his. Challenge and tension lined the man’s set jaw and rigid shoulders. His boots were planted hip-distance apart, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, his knuckles a bumpy ridge pushing against the battered leather.

  It took him a beat or two, but he recognized the man as Seth Reynolds, Pete’s only remaining son.

  “Seth, isn’t it?” Noah extended his hand, keeping his voice pitched low and nonconfrontational. “We met briefly at your brother’s funeral.”

  “Yeah.” The man’s brow furrowed, but he pulled his right hand from his pocket and shook Noah’s with a firm grip. It didn’t look as if anything was concealed in his jacket, but Noah wouldn’t be letting down his guard until he was certain.

  “What’s going on, Pete?” Noah positioned himself as the third point of the triangle, ready to push the two men apart if necessary.

  A new audience was all Pete needed to climb back on his self-righteous soapbox. Noah endured the next few spittle-laden minutes listening to Pete’s colorful descriptions of his uncaring spawn who never bothered to call, never deigned to visit his poor old dad, and had the audacity to show up unannounced and expect a prodigal-son welcome.

  During Pete’s rant, Seth remained silent. Noah had heard the gossip about Seth and Gavin’s childhood, and the strained relationship between Seth and his father, well before Gavin had drowned. He had been conspicuously absent from Oban over the past three years, but since Pete was no longer in any state to run his and Gavin’s tour boats solo, someone was keeping the old man in better finances than his retirement allowance warranted.

  An approaching vehicle’s downshifting gears and squeak of brakes as it parked in front of Noah’s ute pulled his gaze momentarily away from the two men. It wouldn’t have remained on the car except he glimpsed Tilly in the passenger seat. His gaze slid past her to the driver, who was none other than his brother, and not West, who owned the car.

  “I’m here because you need help. Your drinking is way out of control,” Seth said.

  Tilly wrenched open the car door and scrambled out. Concern for him was etched across her beautiful face, her eyes wide and worried, her mouth a thin, pinched l
ine. He wanted to yell out, demand she get back into the car. He wanted to erase the fear for him off her face, because, dammit, he knew how to deal with this sort of drama in his sleep.

  Then—explosive movement to his left.

  Pete lunged forward and shoved his son. Since Seth was bigger and heavier, Pete only managed to shift him back a step. Noah forced himself between the two of them, a braced elbow on Seth’s chest, a hand on Pete’s shoulder.

  “Don’t need your kind of help, you little bastard,” Pete roared.

  He tried to shrug off Noah’s hand, but since Noah was bigger, heavier, and determined to settle this crap down, he stood his ground.

  “That’s enough.” He kept his voice pitched to a low register, and caught hold of Pete’s flailing right hand.

  “You’re a drunk, old man,” Seth said from behind him.

  The contempt in Seth’s voice must’ve penetrated Pete’s whiskey-hazed brain and flicked a trigger. At the same instant Noah spotted the telltale I’m gonna punch your lights out gleam in Pete’s eyes, Tilly called his name. It wasn’t loud, it probably wasn’t even meant for him to hear—but it took his focus from Pete long enough for him to swing his left fist in a sloppy roundhouse punch.

  Likely he was aiming for his son somewhere behind Noah, but the end result was the same when Noah moved to block. Fist met cheekbone with a solid thwack. For an old fella his muscles weren’t too wasted, and Noah rocked back on his heels, molten pain flashing from ear to nose where Pete’s chunky ring had clipped him.

  Son of a…

  Seth moved into his peripheral view, his mouth thin, his gaze hot with fury—but aimed at his father.

  “Don’t move, junior.” Noah dialed his tone to go ahead and make my day, once again putting himself between father and son. “Pete, inside the house now before I arrest your skinny butt.”

  The older Reynolds, whose self-preserving awareness that he’d just assaulted a police officer kicked in, glanced guiltily at his slipper-covered feet. “Sorry about that. Was aiming for the mouthy prick behind you.”

  “I gathered that. Go inside.” Noah softened his voice a fraction at the defeated stoop of Pete’s shoulders.

  He shuffled into the house, looking every one of his seventy-plus years.

  Noah cut a warning glance toward Seth, but the other man had turned away from his father and was eyeing up Tilly and Wade, who stood protectively in front of her. The smirk on his brother’s face meant Wade thought his brother getting a clocked by an old fella was hilarious. Tilly, her cheeks drained of color, didn’t look anywhere near as amused. He’d sort the two of them out later.

  “Are you going to arrest him?” Seth asked in a tone that suggested he didn’t care either way.

  Noah touched a finger to his cheekbone and winced. That was gonna leave a mark. He sighed, glancing toward the house and Pete who was hovering at the living room windows, trying to see what was going on. “No. But he and I are going to have a come-to-Jesus chat.” He tipped his chin at the duffel bag dumped by Pete’s front door. “I suggest you find somewhere else to stay.”

  “On Easter Sunday?” Seth raked his fingernails down his jaw. “That’ll be easy.”

  “You can stay at my place tonight,” Tilly said.

  Three pairs of eyes, including his own, zipped toward her.

  On her pale cheeks, blotchy spots of pink appeared. “What? I meant at Southern Seas. There are two empty rooms, so he may as well have one.”

  Seth frowned. “You’ve taken over Southern Seas?”

  “I’m Mary’s great-niece,” Tilly said. “Did you know Mary?”

  “Yeah.” And for the first time, Seth’s stoic face softened into a sad smile. “I was sorry to hear about her passing. She was a good sort.”

  All touchy-feeliness aside, Seth wasn’t going anywhere near Tilly until he could run a background check on him.

  “He can stay with me,” Noah said.

  “On your bloody uncomfortable couch?” Wade said. “Generous.”

  Seth shot Noah a cool glance. “Unless you’re planning to detain me, I’ll stick with a B&B room.” Then he half turned toward Tilly, but not far enough that Noah couldn’t see a crescent of a smile on his face. “I’ll pay for two nights and make other arrangements on Tuesday when it’s not a public holiday.”

  “You’re staying longer than the weekend?” Noah asked.

  Seth’s face gave no clue as to his plans. “Maybe. That’s up to how cooperative Pete’s feeling.”

  Right. Because Pete was known for his cooperation. “Wade, can you take Tilly and Seth back to the B&B? Give her a hand with whatever she needs to get a room ready, okay?”

  “No worries. I’ll handle it.”

  In Wade’s gaze was the assurance he had Noah’s back. Seth Reynolds would have his own off-duty police escort.

  Tilly crossed the lawn toward him. “Are you all right? Your eye.”

  Was starting to swell, yeah, he knew. It wasn’t his first black eye and wouldn’t be his last. “It’s fine.” He took an exaggerated step away from her before she reached him.

  “But you’re hurt. You could’ve been really hurt.” She almost skidded to a halt on the damp grass. She didn’t need to verbalize how shaken the confrontation had left her—it was as clear as a kick in the guts. Which he would’ve preferred than seeing her fearful gaze skimming over his body, as if checking him for bullet holes.

  You could’ve been hurt. You could’ve been the one shot and left on the street bleeding out while I waited at home not knowing if I’d ever see you again. I hate feeling so sick and helpless. Were those his mother’s words? Or Hayley’s? His gut churned déjà-vu-laden icicles while his core temperature notched up into the red zone. Did she really think he couldn’t handle himself?

  “I’m just doing my job,” Noah said.

  Tilly’s eyes narrowed for a moment before she stalked back across the lawn to West’s car. Something told him mind-reading abilities could be added to her many personal qualities that threw him off guard.

  Tough. He’d handle it in due course. He had work to do.

  Chapter 16

  From Mary Duncan’s secret journal:

  June 5th, 1966

  I’m numb. Broken. Shattered. Ground into dust. I just went to Jim’s place and his cousin Colin told me he’d gone.

  “Gone where?” I asked.

  I thought to myself that perhaps he’d forgotten we were meant to be having an indoor picnic this afternoon. We’d taken to spending more and more time at his place or mine, without the cold stares and whispers behind cupped hands.

  “Home,” Colin said.

  For a moment I blanked, my fingers tightening on the small paper bag of Jim’s favorite delicacies. “But this is his home.”

  I’ll never forget the look on Colin’s face. Sympathy, pity, and a weary frustration that this silly young girl in front of him had no clue of how the world really worked. “Home with his whānau on Stewart Island.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “He’s not.” Colin pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “He left this for you.”

  I didn’t need to read the note to know what it said. But I thanked him, my politeness ingrained, and walked home. I’m hiding in my room, reading and rereading Jim’s note. There’s not much to read; he never was one for flowery words. In fact, I can copy it here from memory.

  * * *

  Dear Mary,

  I’m sorry, but I can’t do this. We can’t be together without everyone judging us, including your folks. That’s not fair on you and I don’t want you to have a half a life where you’d grow to resent me. I know you say it doesn’t matter that your skin is white and mine is brown, but it’s not that simple. You keep saying we can fight for us, that you want to fight for us. But, my love, I don’t want to anymore. I’m going home to work with my whānau on the fishing boats. They need me, and you’re going to do just fine without me. Please don’t make this any harder by co
ming over here to try and change my mind, because I won’t. When all is said and done, I love you, Mary. But not enough, I guess.

  Have a good life.

  Jim.

  * * *

  So I guess that’s the end of that. Sorry for the blurry spots, dear journal. I can’t seem to stop crying.

  * * *

  Tilly wiped a streak of wetness off her cheek and plucked out another tissue to dab under her nose. Oh, forget dabbing. She honked into the tissue then set it on the dining table among the growing pile of scrunched-up soggy tissues.

  “Spineless son of a jellyfish.” She snapped Mary’s journal shut and stood, the chair screeching on the floor. She grimaced, wondering if the sound would’ve disturbed her newest guest who she hadn’t heard a peep out of since she and her impromptu bodyguard, Wade, had dropped off fresh towels and linen hours ago.

  Tilly managed a few hours’ work on her sample script for Tuesday’s face-to-face meeting—her last before she was due to return to Auckland permanently—and she was pretty sure she’d nailed it. In her coffee break she’d pried open Mary’s journal and continued to read. Up until the last entry, everything had seemed to be going swimmingly for her great-aunt and Jim.

  Kinda like everything had been going swimmingly for her and Noah the past couple of days. Tilly’s nose crinkled and a flush of heat crawled up her neck. Until he’d started acting like Officer Big-Fat-Jerk.

  A knock sounded on the front door. The sound only served to irritate her that she could now identify Noah’s knock from other people’s. She was tempted to ignore it, but she wouldn’t put it past him to retrieve the spare key he’d had cut for her and waltz on in.

  The big fat jerk.

  So she dumped her soggy tissues into the trash and opened the front door. She forced herself not to wince at the shiny redness surrounding his eye or the scrape on his cheek since her concern was somehow correlated to a direct hit to his precious masculinity. He didn’t want her to care that he’d been attacked and was in pain?

 

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