Keeper's Reach (27 page)

32

The Cotswolds,
England
Saturday, 9:00 p.m., BST

Finian could see that Emma was exhausted. Sam Padgett had declined an invitation to stay at the York farm, and he only shook his head and sighed when Emma told him she would stay. He left in time to make a late flight back to Boston. “I’ll take the car,” he told her. “You don’t need to be driving. The air’s out of your tires, Emma. Take a few days. Mop up here. Work with the locals. They like you.”

Finian poured Yellow Spot, one of the few Irish whiskeys Oliver had on hand. He had three glasses—for Emma, Oliver and himself.

“Only a little for me,” Emma said.

“I’ll have a dram,” Oliver said. “Or a
táoscan
, I suppose, since it’s Irish whiskey.”

A welcome diversion to serious matters.

A fire crackled, burning hot in the front room fireplace. Martin Hambly had retreated to his cottage for a nap. The police questions and the certain knowledge, now, of his close call had taken their toll. But he’d promised he would be “right as rain” in the morning.

Ruthie Burns had brought a tray of fruit, cheese, nuts, honey and biscuits.

Oliver helped himself to a bit of Cotswolds cheese. He’d unearthed a small watercolor painting and set it on a chair across from him, as if it were an invited guest. It was a moody landscape depicting three crosses on Shepherd’s Head in the tiny village of Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast. Storm clouds swirled overhead and stirred up the Celtic Sea. Finian’s reaction was visceral and immediate—an unbidden, unexpected stirring of nostalgia and homesickness, of faith and hope and inexplicable, timeless love. He was a simple whiskey man and priest. To elicit such emotions was for poets and artists—for a brilliant painter like Aoife O’Byrne.

The painting was unsigned, but this was her work, he knew.

It was one of three paintings Oliver had stolen on his first heist a decade ago, when he’d slipped into the O’Byrnes’ run-down seaside house in Declan’s Cross. He’d returned the two Jack Butler Yeats landscapes in November. Anonymously, of course.

“I’m convinced it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne,” Oliver said. “I can’t say for certain where I got it. But it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Emma made no comment. Finian handed her a glass of whiskey, then one to Oliver.

“I need to go back to Declan’s Cross,” Oliver said, not taking his eyes from the landscape. “One last time.”

“Yes, you do,” Emma said.

Oliver stared into his whiskey. He made no secret that he was deeply unsettled by the recent events here on his farm and in Maine. Finian understood. Martin Hambly could have been killed. Oliver’s alternate life as an art thief could have been more broadly exposed.

“This Buddy Whidmore didn’t want Martin to see him,” Oliver said. “He didn’t care if Martin lived or died. He hit him to protect himself. Then he lay in wait at the rectory for the package—and for you, Emma.”

She seemed to make an effort to smile. “All’s well that ends well.”

“A simple package. Sheepskins and a handcrafted cross. Look what happened.” Oliver shifted to Finian. “Life’s uncertainties, eh, Father Bracken? Is that why you and Declan went into the whiskey business? To cope with the unknown, or to embrace it?”

“Perhaps both,” Finian said.

“Well, then. On to the next challenge.” Oliver raised his glass. “It’s good to have friends in the priesthood and the FBI. Cheers, my friends.”

Finian wasn’t positive Emma returned the toast, but she did drink some of her Yellow Spot.

* * *

In his chair by the fire, Martin swore he ached more now than he had in the first hours after Buddy Whidmore, computer genius and master manipulator, had attacked him. At least it was quiet now. No FBI agents, no local police, no curious villagers. No Ruthie. He’d shooed her out for what he hoped was the last time an hour ago. “I’m
fine
,” he’d told her emphatically.

When a knock came at the door, he considered pretending he was dead.

“Hambly,” came Oliver’s voice. “Open up.”

Martin struggled out of his chair. He opened the door.

“You look ghastly,” Oliver said, stepping into the cottage. “Shall I phone for an ambulance or just bring whiskey?”

“A good night’s sleep will do the trick.”

“Good. Emma and Finian are discussing her upcoming wedding. I’ll give them a few minutes and then engage them in an intellectual discussion of Saint Brigid and the Celtic goddess Brigid.”

“I’ll be dead to the world by then, I hope,” Martin said. “What can I do for you?”

“I miss those two old dogs we lost in December.”

“I do, too, but couldn’t this wait—”

“A puppy will aid in your recovery. I’m putting you on the search. I’m not fussy about breed, but I know you probably are—which is fine, because you’ll do most of the training.”

“You’ve been into the whiskey cabinet, haven’t you?”

“Finian found the one bottle of Irish. Good stuff. But it doesn’t affect anything. A farm needs a dog.” He took in a breath. “A puppy will help me, too, Martin. In my recovery. If it’s not too late.”

“It’s never too late.”

Oliver’s pale green eyes caught the light from the fire. “Have you always known?”

“I suspected. Vaguely. Then more than vaguely.”

“I’m so ashamed.”

“As well you should be. You’ve returned the art in good order. That’s a start.”

“Only a start, alas.” Oliver pulled his gaze from the fire, any melancholy—real or feigned—gone now. “MI5 will come calling any day. They think I might know something about stolen Middle Eastern antiquities.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I suggest you walk in the countryside and enjoy whiskey and do extra push-ups. I’ve amends to make, my friend.”

“You’ve a country to serve with your unique capabilities, insights and contacts.”

“That, too. A puppy, Martin?”

“A brilliant idea. I’ll get on it straightaway.”

“Good man,” Oliver said, then disappeared back out into the night.

Martin shut the door, latched it and returned to his chair. As stiff and miserable as he felt, he smiled as he shut his eyes. Yes. It was time again for a puppy on the farm.

33

Rock Point,
Maine
Sunday, 10:00 a.m., EST

Mike was surprised when Naomi asked him to crack the window so she could hear the ocean. He’d picked her up from the hospital and brought her to his parents’ inn, getting her settled in the room at the top of the stairs. It would be a week, at least, before she was cleared to fly. The drive to the Bold Coast was almost as bad, ruling out his cabin, at least for now. Reed had brought her things from the Plum Tree. He was returning to Nashville as soon as possible.

“The perfect room to recover from a knife wound,” Naomi said, bandaged, tucked under her comforter. “I swear I can smell the ocean.”

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Mike said. “Then I’ll take you home to Nashville.”

“We can have barbecue and bourbon at my favorite hangout.”

“We can,” he said with a smile.

“I’m not going to let that bastard Buddy ruin it for me. Damn, Mike. He stabbed me. His eyes...” She fingered the comforter. “I bet we’re going to find out he killed those guys in Afghanistan himself.”

“The FBI can find out.” Mike turned from the window. Her color was decent, but she looked worn-out, emotionally spent if still her indomitable Naomi self. He’d never met anyone tougher. “Anything else you need?”

“You next to me? Or would your parents flip?”

“They’re leaving for Florida in the morning. Visiting friends.”

“How convenient.” Naomi smiled, but her eyes were sunken, her wound and the strain of the past twenty-four hours taking their toll. “Will they leave a pie?”

Mike winked. “Apple. And my father is making muffins.”

“Retired cops make the best breakfasts. It’s a rule or something.”

But tears formed in her eyes, and as much as she tried to fight them, they spilled out and down her cheeks. Mike sat on the bed next to her. “Cry all you want, Naomi.”

“Your kindness isn’t hard to take.” She sniffled, touching his hand. “And it’s not unexpected.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “Get some rest. We have time.”

“Don’t you have work waiting for you on the Bold Coast?”

“Nothing that can’t keep waiting.”

“You live in the real world. You’re not hiding. But you never planned to live that far down east forever, did you?” She glanced around the pretty room. “This is home. Rock Point. Where your family is. You can keep your cabin as a cabin—as the refuge it was always meant to be.” She was silent a moment. “Am I babbling? I’m still on pain meds.”

“You’re doing fine,” Mike said, not moving from her side.

“Reed could use you with my volunteer doctors.”

“He can find someone else. Right now I’m here with you.”

“It’ll be a few months before they deploy,” she said. “I’ll be back to dancing on tables well before then.”

“Have you ever danced on a table?”

“I could go snowshoeing again, or you could take me out into the wilderness to see a moose. There’s a reason
wilderness
is in your job description, isn’t there?”

He smiled. “There is.”

She yawned, closing her eyes but still awake. “My mother offered to fly up here. I told her it’s okay, I’m in good hands. She does great with my sister. They’re more alike.” Another yawn. “My sister sews.”

Naomi dozed. Mike didn’t move. He felt the cold air, tasted the ocean in it.

“Maine’s growing on me,” Naomi said, not opening her eyes. “I could get into life here. I think I’ll like Emma. She sounds very centered. I’m not that centered.”

“You’ll like Julianne, too. She’s not that centered, either.”

“The marine biologist. I can’t tell a porpoise from a dolphin.”

“A lot of people can’t.”

“Mike...” She licked her lips, opening her eyes now. “I was dreaming about you when the rooster woke me in the Cotswolds.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Naomi.”

“I am a magnet for trouble, though. You were right about that. Seriously. Last time I saw you, I was in a stretcher. Then yesterday...another stretcher.”

“You’re a woman with a tough job that needs to be done.”

“And I trusted Buddy Whidmore,” she said.

Mike squeezed her hand gently. “Get some rest. I’ll come up and check on you in a little while.”

“Is Reed still here?”

“I think so.”

“He can take care of my doctors while I recover. I’ve done most of the heavy lifting already. He just has to follow the plan and do his thing.”

“You’re the brains.”

“Damn straight. I’m going to laze around here and read about puffins and wild blueberries. Maybe your mother has a sewing machine I can use. I know how to sew. I’m just not as good as my mother and sister.” She seemed to make an effort to smile. “I can make you a lumberjack shirt.”

“You can show me the plans for your volunteer doctors first.”

A light came into her eyes. “Mike...”

He kissed her softly on the lips. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Naomi.” He stood up from the bed. “Heal well, okay?”

She smiled. “I’m highly motivated.”

He laughed, remembering their nights together. Every one of them.

She caught her fingertips into his, then sank deep into her pillow, fast asleep.

Mike went downstairs. Reed had coffee made and muffins warmed on a plate. “Do we talk about Cooper Global Security, or do we talk about painting canoes?”

“We can do both.”

34

Declan’s Cross, the South Irish
Coast
Sunday, 8:00 p.m., IST

The bar at the O’Byrne House Hotel was overflowing with Brackens. Declan was there with his wife and their three young children, and Finian, alone. The three Bracken sisters had decided to join their older brothers. Two were married and came with their husbands and a total of five more small children. The youngest sibling, Mary, who worked for Bracken Distillers, came on her own. Emma had met Declan before but not the Bracken sisters. Their laughter, ready wit and good cheer were the perfect antidote to a very long few days.

Black-haired, blue-eyed Kitty O’Byrne, Aoife’s sister and the proprietress of the upscale boutique hotel, had pulled a bottle of Bracken 15 Year Old from her whiskey cabinet. Whoops of appreciation came from the Bracken crowd.

As Kitty poured glasses, Emma received a text from her grandfather in Dublin. The two Dutch landscapes had been returned without fanfare and now were hanging in the museum gallery where they’d hung for decades.

One last escapade for our thief.

Emma slid her phone back into her jacket.
How
had Oliver pulled that one off?

She and Finian had flown into Cork that morning. Oliver promised to join them in the evening.

There was time—if not a lot of time—to pop over to Amsterdam from England, return the paintings and then fly to Cork and drive an hour east to Declan’s Cross.

Oliver must have had the operation planned well in advance, Emma thought. All he’d been waiting for was a reason to execute the plan.

She managed one sip of Bracken 15 before Oliver walked into the bar.

If Kitty and the rest of the Brackens knew he was the thief who’d broken in here ten years ago, they gave no sign of it. Finian welcomed his English friend and introduced him.

More Bracken 15 flowed.

Emma stayed on her bar stool by the window. Others would figure out that Oliver York and Oliver Fairbairn were the same person. He didn’t hide it but he didn’t publicize it, either. He and MI5 might have to deal with persistent rumors that he was a serial art thief, but they were up to the challenge. Not everyone was a Naomi MacBride or Buddy Whidmore.

Aoife O’Byrne came in through French doors that opened onto the patio and dark Irish night. Emma noticed the Irish artist’s eyes scan the crowded room, and then her smile as two of the children ran up to her. The Brackens were singing and laughing, telling stories. Kitty had abandoned her whiskey pouring and now was arguing with Sean Murphy, her Irish detective love—who knew as well as Emma did that Oliver York was the thief who’d slipped into the O’Byrne house ten years ago.

Finian looked at Emma and smiled, a lightness about him that was unmistakable.

Aoife spun off from the little ones and flirted with the Brackens’ master distiller, a good-looking Irishman who obviously had no idea she was an artist—which seemed to please her.

Oliver plopped onto the bar stool next to Emma. “Perhaps there’s a sexy MI5 agent in my future.”

“Maybe she’ll speak Dutch.”

“Ah. You heard about the mysterious return of the landscapes. Wendell texted me earlier. The Heineken must be flowing in Amsterdam. By the way, your grandfather has invited me to the open house of the new Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices in Heron’s Cove. I wouldn’t miss it. He says you and Colin have a guest room.” Oliver smiled. “Why do you think I sent you three sheepskins? One for the guest room. I hate cold feet.”

He spun off with a glass and the Bracken 15 before Emma could tell him he wasn’t staying in her guest room. Finian joined him by the fire. His friendship with Colin had already been established when he and Emma met, and he’d been friends with Sean Murphy since the garda detective had investigated the tragic deaths of Sally Bracken and her two small daughters.

Perhaps, Emma thought, Oliver was another dangerous man Father Bracken counseled.

Aoife slipped away from her whiskey man and sat on the stool Oliver had vacated. “I heard you’ve had a difficult few days, Emma. I thought you should know that I went to London last week because I knew Declan and Finian were there, and I wanted to see Oliver.” She smiled. “I think I’m a bit obsessed with those two. But not in the way I was last fall. They’re friends.”

“I’m glad,” Emma said.

She lasted a few more minutes before she left the party and slipped out of the lounge to head up to her room. She and Colin had stayed in the same room in November. She remembered making love in front of the fire. A few days later, he’d proposed to her in Dublin.

She pressed her engagement ring to her lips, as if it brought him closer to her.

Aoife was right, Emma thought. She had definitely had a difficult few days. She decided to indulge herself and take a luxurious bath in her quiet room.

When she got out of the tub and wrapped herself in a thick robe, she saw she had a text message from Colin
. I’m about to get on a plane to Ireland.

Perfect.

See you soon, babe. We’ll have a few days to ourselves.

And then what? Mina Van Buren, Yank, the Washington meetings...

All that could wait. In a few hours, Colin would be here, and they would once again make love by the fire.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
HARBOR ISLAND
by Carla Neggers.