Atonement (7 page)

The twenty-five-year-old beamed. “Love it. Can't thank your mom enough for hiring me.” He hurried out to the dining room floor to deliver his load.

Fresh out of college, Patrick had showed up in Eider driving a beat-up Ford and parked in the Killdeer Pub lot, where his truck promptly died for good. Defeated, he dragged into the pub, ordered a coffee, and proceeded to nurse it for three hours. Maura took pity on the kid and offered him a job and a place to stay until he could get back on his feet. She had a soft spot for anyone of Irish descent, and Patrick fit the bill.

The kid lived in the apartment above the pub that Con's sister, Farran, had been using for storage. He worked every day in the pub, except Sunday when he took off for some “alone” time, as he called it.

A slap on Con's shoulder startled him. He jerked around.

“Don't just stand there. Help,” Farran barked and thrust a tall soda-pop canister in his direction.

Quickly setting down his beer, Con caught the canister and rolled the heavy thing to an open spot under the counter. Once he got it hooked up to the fountain hoses, he reclaimed his bottle and leaned on the bar while Farran finished connecting her container.

“What's the special for tonight?”

She straightened, wiping her hands on a bar towel. “Bacon burger with a spicy cheese sauce and cheesy fries with bits of bacon. Or you can have what you always eat, steak with a loaded spud and carrots and parsnips.”

“Special sounds good. I need me something greasy and artery-clogging.”

She swatted his backside with the towel as she passed. “I don't make food that clogs the arteries.”

“Ha!” Con followed her into the kitchen. “It's still greasy.”

“Can't argue that.” Farran coiled her brown hair into a loose bun then positioned herself at the grill to slap a thick patty onto the flat griddle. The meat sizzled and steamed. “You don't normally come in during the middle of the week.”

“It's been a hell of a week so far.” Con finished the Guinness and tossed the empty bottle into the recycling bin next to the exit door. “Haven't you watched the news?”

“Don't have time.” Farran flipped the patty. “Though I heard something about a police-involved shooting yesterday on the radio. That wasn't you, was it?”

“Sheriff's department actually, but I was brought in.”

“Con, did you leave Cadno cooped up in your house?” At the thick, female Irish brogue, he turned in time to receive a kiss to his cheek.

“Nay, Mam. He got a good run of the yard before it started storming.”

Maura O'Hanlon pinched his cheek then gave it a light slap. “I still t'ink he should come stay with me.”

Con rolled his eyes. His mam would spoil that dog rotten, and Cadno wasn't used to pampering. The former military working dog responded better to men. He'd gone through two tours in Iraq with one handler until the man was killed by an insurgent's bullet. After a year, Cadno had been reassigned to a new handler, and together they served two tours in Afghanistan. Then the U.S. Army decided to retire Cadno and put him up for adoption, while his second handler moved on to a new MWD.

Through a stroke of luck and a strong interest, Con managed to be paired with Cadno. The rest, as they say, was history.

“Mam, he wouldn't listen to you even if you were covered in bloody steaks.”

“T'at's because he's a male.” Mam gathered a stack of pre-wrapped silverware. “Could you take a look at the light fixture in the men's restroom? It's been flickering off at odd times.”

“I'll check it now.”

With a nod of her head, Mam disappeared through the main room door. Con was about to follow when a hand on his arm made him pause.

Concern etched Farran's smooth features. The weariness that lined her hazel eyes belonged to someone much older in age than his sister's twenty-six years. She should have been enjoying herself at college or trekking all over some far-off country with friends to find her place in the world. Instead, she remained in Eider with Mam to run Killdeer and continue creating her unusual pottery that sold well every summer and fall during the craft festivals the surrounding villages and towns held.

“Con, something is eating Mam. She won't talk about it.”

The tension that had been locked into his muscles from the moment he got off of Nic's sofa this morning tightened painfully. Farran spent most of her day around their mother, and she could read her well.

“What day is it?”

Farran ticked something off on her fingers then her face paled. “September twenty-eighth.”

They had both forgotten. So many years had passed, and they had new lives. It made it easy, but not for Maura.

“Seamus's birthday.” Their oldest brother who was killed, along with their father, in a bombing in Ireland when they were younger. Con swallowed. “Best keep her busy tonight.”

“That's easy while the pub is open. What do we do after we've closed up? Memories are worst in the dark.”

Perhaps he should think of letting Cadno stay with his mam for tonight. The dog had an uncanny sense of compassion when there was need for it. Last night's incident with Nic Rivers proved that much.

“I'll worry about that when the time comes.” He gripped Farran's shoulder and squeezed. “We've had enough years of learning how to deal with these days. One day it won't stop her like it does now.”

“Let's hope so.” Farran gave him a weak smile and then returned to her station at the grill. “If you're checking on that light, you better hurry. Food's almost ready.”

“Gotcha. I'll take it in the dining room.”

“Patrick will bring it out.”

Con shoved through the door and made a beeline for the restrooms at the back of the pub. Before tackling his duties as the man of the family, he fed the jukebox a few quarters and punched in several different song selections. The first song—one of his favorites by Nickelback—piped through the sound system. Tonight he needed to keep a flow of upbeat songs for Mam's sake. For his sanity.

Hell, for everyone's sakes.

Tragedy two days in a row for this little town was two too many. Tonight would be about the living.

• • •

The lid on Nic's temper blew. She couldn't stomach the evasive answers and thick silence. Whatever Cassy had plotted would not be sprung on her like a surprise party. Nic abandoned the meal halfway through and took off in her truck, heading for town in a downpour.

Engaging her ingrained training, Nic let her mind go numb as she drove. The music blaring from the radio, along with the steady thrum of rain and the wipers against the windshield, created the white noise she desperately sought. Anything to keep her from thinking or feeling.

When she turned her truck into the Killdeer Pub parking lot, the blank veil fell from Nic's consciousness. She parked at the end of the long line of vehicles and cut the engine. With her hands gripping the top of the steering wheel, she settled her chin on her knuckles and stared at the brightly lit building. Fat drops smeared the windshield, turning red and blue with the lights from the Killdeer's neon sign.

Why am I here?

O'Hanlon's family owned this place. Many of Eider's residents visited the pub for Farran O'Hanlon's cooking. If Nic passed through those doors, she was certain she'd be accosted for her part in Dusty Walker's death.

She should start the truck and back out of here. Go somewhere else. Or back home.

She sniffed. Going home with Cassy there was out of the question. Where else could she go? The only other decent eating place in Eider—the diner—was closed for the night. And she didn't dare set foot in one of the handful of bars in this town. What the hell. She would have to face these fools and their prejudices at some point. Might as well get it over with.

Palming the keys, she bailed from the truck cab, slapping the door lock, and ran through the curtain of rain, not bothering to miss the puddles. Nic paused under the awning to shake the water from her jacket and her hair, then pushed inside the pub. The bass-heavy sounds blasted her. For a pub owned by an Irish family, rock music pumping through the speakers was odd.

Nic scanned the well-lit interior. “Shit,” she said under her breath.

Just her luck that tonight the place would be full. All the seats that kept her back to a wall were taken. There were a few open spots at the bar, but her muscles seized at the thought of having all those eyes glaring at her backside. Her choices were to take a position at the bar and use the mirror behind the liquor racks to keep an eye on the floor or sit with her back against the bar.

Or just get the hell out of here and go home.

Nope. Better to face a room full of hateful people than to get into a standoff with her stubborn sister. Nic could hang here for a few hours, then go home. Hopefully by that time Cassy would be asleep, or long gone. Yeah, that was wishful thinking on the leaving part.

Steeling herself for the first confrontation, she strode to the nearest open seat at the bar, making it there without being accosted. Nic settled on the stool and braced her arms on the polished wood bar. The butt of her Glock pinched her right side; she wasn't unprotected. But she was living in a state that allowed concealed carry, and any number of these people could be armed.

A sardonic smile played across her mouth. Who in their right mind would level down with her after she took out a man with a sniper shot?

The flash of a white bar towel caught Nic's attention, and she lifted her head. Patrick Keegan's expectant expression asked what he didn't voice.

“Hi, Patrick. I'll just have a ginger ale.”

“You look like you could use some food, Nic.” Patrick reached under the counter to open a small fridge.

“Maybe here in a bit.” The small amount of the enchilada she'd eaten was making her already tense stomach hurt more.

He poured the ginger ale in a glass. “Want to start a tab?”

“That's fine.” Nic took the offered glass and napkin. “Thanks.”

Gripping the edge of the bar, Patrick tilted his head to the side and gazed at her. “Lots of people are talking about what you had to do yesterday.”

“They can shove where it don't shine, too.” Nic saluted him with her glass and gulped the fizzy soda.

“I don't think I've heard you sound so bitter before.”

“You barely know me. How would you know when I sound bitter or not?”

He leaned forward, a secretive smile gracing his full, pink lips. “I might be young, but people say I have an old soul. When you come in here, you're usually in good spirits, and not once tonight have you teased me about my ‘pretty boy' hairstyle.”

His smile was infectious. Nic scratched her forehead, trying to control her twitching lips and not grin. Someone at the other end of the bar called for Patrick.

He glanced that way, then placed a hand on her arm. “Ignore the busybodies and the old biddies who just want to make themselves feel better about themselves. We do what we have to do for the greater good.” He gave her a wink and went to serve the waiting patron.

She stared at her haggard reflection in the mirror, then sipped more of the soft drink. God, a smooth whiskey would taste good right now. But she'd promised herself it had to end. No more liquor. She closed her eyes as she gulped more ginger ale. She couldn't take Aiden's path. The glass thunked against the bar. Nic opened her eyes and stared into the pale yellow liquid. He'd failed. She wouldn't.

“Well, shit. Patrick, I didn't know you allowed trigger-happy killers in here.”

Nic's grip around the glass tightened, making a squeak. Clenching her jaw, she slid her gaze toward Doug Walker. He stood with his hands on his hips, his right hand hooked over his off-duty pistol. Right behind him was another cousin of his and Dusty's. They both looked lit and ready to cause hell.

“Shove off, Walker.”

Her coworker slapped a hand on the bar next to her. Nic expected it, tensed her body in anticipation of it, but she still flinched at the crack of flesh against wood. Every nerve in her body screamed to grab her gun and put him down. Protect herself and the innocents.

“I've lived in this town all my life.” Walker's soured breath rolled over her. “My family helped build this place out of nothing.” He leaned closer. “You're the outsider, Rivers. You shove off.”

He was drunk and slow. And that worked in her favor.

Nic rotated on the barstool to face Walker. Her gaze flicked behind him to his cousin, who was unsteady on his feet. If she got into it with another deputy off-duty, the town council would have Hamilton's head and force him to sack Nic.

And she didn't give a damn.

“Last warning,” she said.

A twisted grin appeared. “Or you'll do what?”

From the opposite side of the bar, someone's hand grabbed a fistful of Walker's hair and slammed his head down on the bar. Nic jerked back, startled that the deed she'd planned wasn't done by her own hand. She looked to her left and inwardly groaned at the sight of O'Hanlon holding Walker's head against the bar.

He barked at the other man to leave, and Walker's cousin bolted for the door as fast as his inebriated body could move.

Nic became aware of the lack of voices in the pub. She glanced at the mirror, glimpsing the piercing gazes. Irritation clawed at her nerves. How dare they eavesdrop. This was going to be all over town by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, and if there was repeat with the gossipmongers from past experiences, Nic would be painted as the instigator in this situation. That thought inflamed her anger.

“Doug, I warned you after your fourth beer that if you stirred up trouble in my mam's place, you'd have me to deal with.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“Yet. Be glad it was me who slammed your face into the bar and not Nic.”