Free The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) by Lauren Gilley Page B

off our hands.”
                  “But…”
                  But what about Walsh? What about keeping it a farm? What about…
                  A little fucking emotional understanding, damn it?!
                  Emmie felt her face settling into a cold mask. “You aren’t going to be upset when they turn your farm into a retirement village?”
                  Amy shrugged. “It’s just a place, Em.”
     
    ~*~
     
    He knew he shouldn’t, but Walsh just had to stop down at the barn on his way out. Something about Emmie’s authenticity – that non-club realism that knew nothing of flirting and flashing skin – the way she took her job seriously: that called to him the way strippers drew the attention of his brothers. He’d had whores; he was done with them.
                  He wanted something…more than that.
                  He found her mucking a stall the old fashioned way, pitching the manure into a wheelbarrow parked at the door. Quick, efficient movements with the rake as she sifted through the shavings. She’d done this a lot. Could do it in her sleep. The easy way he handled his guns.
                  Walsh propped a shoulder against the tongue-and-groove, fancy-ass stall paneling and watched her a moment. She was agitated, the tension in her arms speaking to more than hard work. She was dressed as she had been on his last visit: black breeches, a tank top – this one pale green and tight.
                  “Where’s your tractor?” he asked, and she spooked, bad as one of the horses she cared for.
                  With a gasp, Emmie spun toward him, stall fork lifting in an automatic blocking maneuver. Like maybe she’d bash someone over the head with it, if she needed to. Defensive. He liked it.
                  She calmed when she recognized him, but then her lips thinned in an unhappy way.
                  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he offered.
                  “You startled me, is all.”
                  He snorted. “Tractor busted?”
                  She made a face, nose wrinkling. “No. It’s not here.” She scowled and stabbed at a horse apple with the rake tines. “Brett has it.”
                  “And Brett is…?”
                  “Davis’s grandson. He’s offered to till up a patch of his girlfriend’s yard for a garden, and so he took the farm tractor to do it.”
                  “Ah. Spoiled rotten little tosser, is he?”
                  A surprised smile split her face, turned it sunny and beautiful. She coughed a small laugh. “Exactly. The one thing I won’t miss about this place.”
                  “Miss?” He folded his arms across his chest. “You planning on quitting on me?”
                  Her smile collapsed fast, and her gaze came up to meet his. “You aren’t going to get the farm. Brett talked his grandfather into selling to the developers, apparently. You’re standing on the future site of Briar Hall Retirement Village.”
     

Six
     
    “Everything’s all set,” Walsh assured.
                  On the other end of the cellphone conversation, Ghost said, “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
                  The line disconnected with a click.
                  Walsh set the phone on the plastic patio table at his elbow and picked up his beer. The fridge in his little cottage ran about five degrees too cold, and there was a crusting of ice on the Newcastle bottle, the ale itself frigid on his tongue.
                  Beyond the screens of the porch, insects, frogs, and nightbirds filled the black night with music. Dolly lay at his feet, half-asleep, one speckled ear cocked for threatening noises.
                  It was a perfect, tranquil