The Right Kind of Trouble (8 page)

Pulling out his badge, he raised his voice just loud enough. “Might I remind you people that this is a hospital? You've got sick and injured people here who don't care to listen to the grievances you have with each other.”

Tijuana—at least he assumed it was Tijuana—shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. Yep, it was her. Her previously black hair was now all the colors of the rainbow and her mouth was pursed in a petulant sulk. She'd been a beautiful girl … once. But her light brown complexion showed some scarring—of a particular sort—and he wanted to shake his head. It looked like she'd gone from drinking and marijuana to meth. The kind of scarring she had on her face was pretty commonplace for that kind of drug abuse.

Her dad was in the hospital recovering from an infection that had nearly cost him his leg, and she was most likely here to beg him for money. So she could go out and score. It was a bad cycle for her.

“You are
not
going in there and asking him for money!” Ruth Gilmore crossed her arms over her chest as she glared at Tijuana.

Gideon strode forward as Tijuana lifted a hand tipped with nails that could almost double as daggers. He caught her wrist, noting that Ruth was backing away. That woman wasn't a fool; she was fifty-five and not exactly spry, while Tijuana was whip lean. And when she was jonesing for a hit, she had a meanness to her.

As she spun around, her other fist came up. He was ready for it, shaking his head at her. “Now do you really want to add assaulting an officer to your history, T.?”

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” She glared at him, tears of anger glittering in her eyes. There was something else, though. “I just wanna see my dad. That bitch can't keep me out. I got more of right to see him than she does.”

“They're married,” Gideon said gently.

“And I'm his
daughter
!” She jerked away.

He let her go, keeping his body between the two women. “You take another swing at her, you go in a cell until you cool down. Got me?”

“Kiss my skinny black ass, cop.” She curled her lip at him and then shot Ruth a warning glare. “I'm going to see my dad.”

Ruth opened her mouth.

“She's got a right to see him,” Gideon said. “You two standing out here fighting like this isn't helping him any. He's got heart problems, right?”

Ruth's mouth thinned down into a tight line, but she nodded. “We're barely going to make it through the next few months, him being out of work for as long as he has been. If she goes asking him for money—”

“She won't.” Gideon gave Tijuana a narrow look. “Tijuana, you're not going to do anything that will upset him, you hear?”

“You got no right to tell me what I can and can't say to my own dad, Marshall.” She took up a rapt interest in her nails.

“No.” Folding his arms over his chest, he angled his head at the doctor. Dr. Jacobi had always put him in the mind of a bald, aging mouse—beady eyes, pink face, hands that were never still. But he was sharp as a whip and he took the safety and health of his patients seriously. “That man there, though? He's your dad's doctor, as I'm sure you are aware. If he thinks you might say anything that's likely to upset him, he can decide that your visit would be detrimental to your dad's recovery. If his blood pressure goes too high … well.” Gideon shrugged. “He's already had one heart attack.”

Tijuana's eyes widened, flitting away. She licked her lips and then looked back at Ruth. “When … when did he have a heart attack?”

“Last Christmas. He was trying to carry in a Christmas tree and…” When the older woman's voice hitched, one of the nurses rested a hand on her shoulder. “It was a mild one, but that was when they discovered he'd developed some heart problems. He had to have a bypass. We tried to call, but…”

An awkward silence ensued, and Gideon let the younger woman process the situation. She was twitchy as hell. He'd have to have his people keep an eye on her for as long as she was in town. It could be twenty minutes. It could be ten months. Nobody ever knew with Tijuana.

When she finally stopped staring at everything and nothing, he said her name. She looked up at him. “You understand now?”

“I just want to see my dad,” she said softly. Then she swallowed and bit her lip. “I … I'm pregnant. I wanna come home.”

*   *   *

When Moira heard his voice, firm and commanding, she closed her eyes. Her throat was still raw and sore, but she could manage a few words today. It still
hurt,
but she could do it.

That meant when she called her brother, she could manage to tell him he was an asshole without it being pure hell.

She'd told him she'd wait.

He'd called Gideon anyway.

She shot a look down at herself, grimacing at the sight of her worn and faded T-shirt, the yoga pants. Brannon had obviously packed her clothes, going for the oldest, rattiest things he could find. Neve or Hannah would have picked out something that at least looked like it hadn't been scraped from the bottom of her drawer.

Scooting out of the bed, she disappeared into the bathroom. The one thing she could do was deal with her hair. She had just shut the door behind her when she heard someone come in.

At least he had some sense. He didn't call out her name and expect a response. Instead he came over and knocked on the door. “Make a noise if you're in there.”

She made a face at the door and flipped him off. Then she banged on the door.

“I'm here to take you home.”

She didn't bother attempting a response at that. She just gathered her hair up and twisted it, smoothing it back until it was gathered into a neat chignon. Once that was done, she dug through her travel case until she found her small makeup kit. She didn't spend a lot of time, but she managed to smooth out the dark circles under her eyes and at least give the illusion of color to her cheeks.

The worst was the bruising to the left side of her face and all the discoloration to her neck.

There was nothing that could be done about that.

Sighing, she zipped up the case and slid out of the bathroom to find Gideon standing at the window, staring outside.

They were a matching set, it seemed. His shirt was as rumpled as hers. While he had on jeans instead of yoga pants, they were just as battered and wrinkled as the shirt. He looked like his night hadn't gone much better than hers. Although
he
hadn't spent it in a hospital.

Then he turned to look at her and she saw his bloodshot eyes.

He spent it in a whiskey bottle
, she thought. For some reason, the idea didn't displease her. Maybe he was as miserable as she was. Did that make her terrible, to hope he that maybe he still wanted her? To hope that maybe it wasn't too late?

She opened her mouth to say something.

“Has the doctor discharged you yet?” The words came out clipped and terse.

Instead of saying anything, she just shook her head and gestured to the hall.

His mouth settled into a flat, hard line. “You heard all that.”

“The dead in the morgue probably heard,” she said, her voice raspy. Squeezing the words out was like shoving razor blades through her throat, but she managed to say them without crying.

For a moment, Gideon's face softened. Then his jaw went tight.

She could practically see it in his eyes.
You're not being nice anymore, Gideon.

It made her heart hurt. But most of all, it made her furious … at herself, because she knew she deserved it.

“You should continue to rest your voice.” He moved to the door, looking out into the hall.

It had finally quieted out there, and she hoped that meant Dr. Jacobi would be in soon. She was about two steps away from just going AMA. If Brannon was here, she could probably wheedle him into it—he didn't care about a doctor's signature any more than she did, although she'd hear the sharp side of Ella Sue's tongue if the woman heard she'd left against medical advice.

“He's heading over here.” Gideon looked at her. “So you can stop planning on skipping out.”

He knew her too well.

Sighing, she moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, tugging the dry erase board within easy reach.

*   *   *

From the time Dr. Jacobi walked in to the time the discharge nurse walked out with all her papers neatly signed, it took less than thirty minutes—probably a record for discharges. Moira was under no illusions why. The hospital staff went out of their way to treat her well, and it had nothing to do with
her
as a person and everything to do with the wing that had been named after her parents.

She wished they wouldn't do it … normally. But today she was happy to be out of there so quickly.

“I'm going to go bring my car to the front. They'll have somebody up to transport you in a few minutes. I should be back before then.”

She didn't even look at Gideon, just nodded.

She'd already packed everything up and just wanted out of there.

When she heard footsteps a few moments later, she sighed and eased her sore, aching body up. “That was…” her rasping voice trailed off when it wasn't the volunteer with a wheelchair, but her brother and Hannah.

Hannah was glowing. “We heard the heartbeat again.” She had her hand on her belly.

Brannon's face lightened momentarily with a smile, but then he looked at her. “You ready to go?”

She nodded, confused. “Yes, but—”

“Good, because we have to talk.”

“Okay, but—”

“Stop talking,” Brannon said, exasperated. “You're supposed to rest your voice, remember? Listen … I want to discuss this more at home, but you need to think about what I have to tell you, so…”

He shot a look around as he stepped closer. What, did he think the nurses had elves hiding behind the doors? Mystified, she scowled at him as he lowered his voice.

“Gideon is leaving.”

“What?” she asked, shaking her head. “He just went out—”

“Rest your voice,” Brannon said again, annoyed. “I told you. He's leaving. Moving out of town. He's going to be talking to the city council about hiring a replacement as soon as everything here is settled.”

Dazed, she stumbled back, half-tripping when the backs of her legs hit the bed. She sagged backward onto it and stared up at her brother. “Leaving?” she whispered.

“Rest your—”

“Shut up!” she shouted—or tried. It came out a weird, half-screeching noise that in no way resembled her normal voice. And it
hurt
. Through the tears, she stared at Brannon. “He's
leaving
?”

A sound from outside the door caught their attention before he could answer.

It was the volunteer, finally. Daisy Coulter, one of the local gossips; her eyes were wide and avid as she looked from Moira to Brannon … and then up to Gideon, who was standing at her side.

Gideon stared at Brannon, his gaze flat and hard.

Then he looked at Moira.

She waited for him to tell Brannon he was wrong.

But he didn't say a single word.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gideon stood on the porch, watching as Neil Frasier and his team spread out across the McKay estate like a team of carpenter ants. They were armed with the tools of their trade—security equipment.

“Cameras on the perimeter, at the outbuildings, to start,” Brannon said from behind. “We're definitely doing the dogs.”

“I'm working on it.” Gideon kept his voice neutral, despite the fact that he wanted to turn around and punch his friend. For a long time, Brannon had been like a kid brother and he'd grown into one of Gideon's best friends. As a friend, and as Moira's brother, one would
think
the son of a bitch would have moved with a little more tact than he had earlier.

One would think.

Except Brannon had about as much use for tact as a submarine had for screen doors. Hell, the screen doors might get more use.

The pain he'd seen in her eyes made Gideon want to hit something.

It also made him mad … at her.

If she cared enough that the thought of him leaving hurt her that much, than why wouldn't she …

Stop it.
He cut the line of thought off before it could go any further. He'd spent too many years going down that road, and look where it had led him.

“I can tell you're pissed off. You might as well turn around and look at me. We can have it out here and now.”

Angling his head around until he could see Brannon, he said mildly, “I'm on duty.”

“That doesn't look like your uniform.”

“I'm in charge. If I want to wear jeans and a T-shirt to bring the victim of an attack home, then I can wear jeans and a T-shirt.” He shrugged. Then he went back to watching the security team. Most of them were out of sight now. “I want this all feeding into my station, not just the county sheriff's.”

Brannon blew out a breath. “Moira won't like that.”

“Too bad.” Now he turned to Brannon and crossed his arms over his chest. Brannon echoed his posture and it was pretty clear that Brannon wouldn't mind going to toe to toe.

Brannon was taller and broader than him, probably had forty pounds on him too. But Gideon had done some hard time on the sands of the desert over in the Middle East and he'd spent more than a few rough years as a big-city cop before he'd come back to Treasure. Brannon McKay was a fighter, true. But Gideon was a warrior. There was a difference.

Cocking a brow, he said, “We aren't doing this. Moira's hurt. I don't know why, but she'll get over it and go on with her life. She's done it before.”

“You…” Brannon dragged a hand down his face and then slowly, quietly, said, “You don't know
why
?”