The Right Kind of Trouble (3 page)

“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 plucked 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.”

“Bullshit.”

The word came from Neve, low and hard.

It spiked the temper Moira had been struggling to hold on to.

Slamming the glass down, she spun around and glared at her sister. “Enough!” she shouted. “You don't get it! Okay? You just don't get it.”

“Then why don't you tell me?” Neve shoved back and stormed around the table, her temper clearly up now.

Hannah leaned back, brows arched as she sat back to watch the show.

“Tell me, Moira, why you're going to settle back to be miserable, and why you think Gideon should
settle,
and why in the hell you think Maris will be happy knowing she came in second place?” Neve drew herself up to her full height, nearly six willowy feet, and glared down at her sister.

But Moira was used to be the smaller one. Thirty-eight years old and five foot four in her bare feet, she was the head of a family dynasty with a net worth in the billions. She regularly had men tower over her in an attempt to intimidate her. It didn't work with them—it sure as hell wouldn't work with Neve. Curling her lip, she crossed her arms. “Don't loom over me, honey. I changed your diapers, remember?”

Neve propped her hands on her hips. “I'm out of diapers, Moira. And don't try to distract me.”

Moira flicked her hand. “As if anybody
could
. Neve…” She blew out a breath. “It's
over
. He waited. For eighteen
years
, he waited. Even after I dumped him right—” She stopped, because that was one thing she'd never shared. Gideon had been about ready to propose when she pushed him away. Her twentieth birthday, him on bent knee, and she'd been eaten up with guilt for too long. She hadn't been able to handle it—the ring he'd talked about, the promises they'd made each other, all of that stretching out. But her reality was locked in McKay's Ferry, her whole world, and all of it was mired in guilt.

“I pushed him away. I never gave him a reason to…”

Her words trailed off and the ache inside her swelled, and in that moment she thought it might choke her.

“You wanted him to wait.”