The Trouble with Temptation (23 page)

There will always be people being robbed and people will always die. You had a job and you did it. You earned your money. Let others get back to earning theirs
.

Foolish words to say to a sharp man.

They’d been said after a few too many drinks and perhaps it was assumed that since McKay had more than bit of whisky himself, he wouldn’t think much on it. He’d just been paid, and handsomely, too.

But those words bothered Patrick.

It took months, but he unearthed information that painted an unpleasant picture.

He shared that information with two men, his best friend Jonathan Steele, and then a shrewd Englishman he’d met a few years earlier, a man by the name of George Whitehall. Neither knew that he’d told the other, because while Patrick was a good friend, he trusted very few people.

Because he trusted so few, he left the small, bustling town that was growing around his small, bustling plantation to hand deliver the information into the hands of the people he felt could best pursue it.

Before he left, he kissed his wife and his two sons. He told Madeleine that the youngest would be the girl she’d so hoped for and Madeleine had laughed. “It is you that hopes for a daughter to dote on. I only pray the child is healthy, Paddy.”

He’d laughed and turned to go.

The next time she saw him, he was behind bars.

She was given the chance to kiss him good-bye and only that. If she fought, she was told she’d hang along beside him.

Tragedy struck Ferry that time because a man tried to do the right thing and wouldn’t lie when he was faced with the choice to lie and live.

George, the man who’d claimed to be his friend, had strutted up to knock on the door of Patrick’s widow, already planning what he’d do with this land. Patrick McKay had actually
paid
colored people to work. He’d had the best property around and he’d wasted resources. He’d had a beautiful wife and he’d let her lead him around by the nose.

He’d knocked on the door, tapping his thumb against the written
confession
he would show to the world. He’d written the confession, of course, just as he’d forged Paddy’s signature. He’d always been good at that, copying another man’s signature.

The world would see Patrick as a thief.

Madeleine McKay could convince him otherwise, of course.

It wasn’t Madeleine who answered.

It was a big, hulking brute with fists like iron—George never even got a word out before Jonathon Steele dragged him inside and threw him across the foyer.

George had played his game well, but he hadn’t counted on Jonathon also knowing the truth. Jonathon, sadly, had been called out of town the very night he’d heard the story and he hadn’t returned in time to save his friend.

He could save his friend’s family, though.

George was in a fine mess. While he could do away with a Scot, Jonathon Steele was more of a problem and George knew it. He’d had enough trouble buying and blackmailing the people he’d needed to get McKay thrown in jail and his neck stretched without much more than a hurried, laughable mockery of a trial.

His wife had but one chance to see him and she’d cried, sobbed, and begged.

There was no way he could play such games with Jonathon. The man’s uncle was the governor. His mother’s family was one of the richest in the country.

George was staring into the eyes of death and he knew it.

Save for Madeleine.

She intervened. She abhorred violence, even in the name of vengeance. But Jonathon found a way to get a bit of it anyway. George didn’t even recall leaving the McKay house—everything just went black and he found himself on a miserable excuse of a ship, bound for England. All he had with him was his valise, packed with his journal and pitiful few clothes.

He took ill on the journey and although he recovered, he was never quite the man he’d been.

He married and he made the woman quite miserable.

When he died four years later, leaving behind two heirs, nobody truly missed him.

Jonathan Steele, the man who’d uncovered the truth after months and months, had married Madeleine and raised Paddy McKay’s children as if they were his own, and indeed, they’d been the only children he
would
have, because Madeleine was never able to conceive after the birth of the third child … a girl, as Paddy had hoped. The Steele family lived on through his brothers and he was quite happy to raise the children of his best friend, but he would have no children of his own.

Now, as Moira stood in the museum, studying the paintings of Patrick McKay, Madeleine McKay Steele, and Jonathon Steele, she rubbed her thumb across her locket.

She rarely wore it.

The chain had been replaced a hundred times—well, maybe not
that
often.

The locket itself had been carefully repaired several times over, although it looked the same as it had when Patrick McKay had given it to his beloved Maddy.

“How did you do it?” she asked the silent portrait of her many-times great-grandmother.

There was no answer, but Moira couldn’t stop herself from moving a step closer and asking again. “When it was so dark and awful, Paddy gone and Jonathon out there running down the men who’d taken him from you, how did you handle everything? Raising your children, dealing with everything? How do you deal with it when things seem like they’d never be happy again?”

The sound of the door opening had her spinning around and she pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to calm.

Brannon stood there, Hannah at his side.

Hannah wore a simple dress of deep blue, the sleeves short, the hemline coming just to her knee. Moira could just barely make out the swell of her belly.

A baby.

Longing swam through her and she had to force it aside. Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of a family.

Once.

But she’d come to accept it wouldn’t happen. Not for her.

So she’d lavish all the love she had on her brother’s baby … and probably her sister’s, in another year or so.

“Are you ready?” Brannon asked, his expression unreadable.

He’d been guarded and tense for days, ever since the body—

No. Alison. Her name was Alison
.

And somebody had killed her.

Guilt haunted her and she looked away, swallowing the knot that rose in her throat. “Yes,” she said, her voice husky.

They were having a memorial service out at the winery. It had been Alison’s favorite place. Not many people had gotten to know her in the short time she’d been here, but it hadn’t seemed right to not do anything.

A few minutes later, they were seated in Moira’s car, pulling out down Main and heading out of town. They weren’t the only car heading east down the highway and Moira suspected more than a few were going to show up just to gawk, get free food and wine, and gossip.

Such was life in small-town America.

Funerals and the like made for great small talk.

“Have the cops found anything?” she asked softly.

“No.” Brannon’s voice was grim. After a moment, he slid her a look. “They think it was a professional hit.”

“The senator, then.”

“That’s my guess.” From where she sat in the backseat, she could see his hands tighten on the steering wheel. She’d had to argue to make Hannah take the front seat and in the end, she’d said if she didn’t take the front seat, she’d insist on driving and Hannah would be sorry, because Moira was a lousy driver.

She’d lied. Moira actually preferred
her
driving over her brother’s but she wasn’t about to have her brother’s pregnant … girlfriend? What was she? But regardless, Hannah was family now and she was pregnant. Moira could damn well sit in the back.

“Has Gideon talked to Roberts?”

Brannon’s eyes came to meet hers. “I was actually going to see if you’d talk to Gideon, ask him that very question.”

“I…” She paused and then looked away. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Brannon snorted. “Because he’s more likely to tell you. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.”

She bristled but remained quiet. She was well aware of what people in town said. She was also well aware that it was bullshit. There was nothing left between her and Gideon. Even if part of her still wished there was. Even if she still dreamed about him.

“I’ll ask him but don’t expect him to tell me anything,” she said.

*   *   *

“I can’t tell you.”

Moira stared into the soft red wine and snorted. “Of course you can’t.”

Looking up, she gave Gideon what she knew was a lousy attempt at a smile. Too bad. She was in a bitch of a mood and manners could, for once, take a flying leap. “Thank you, Chief. You have a nice day now, ya hear?”

With that parting comment, she turned on her heel.

She didn’t even manage two steps before he caught her arm.

“Why don’t you say what you really mean, Moira?”

She took a long, deep drink of the wine instead, staring out at the crowd that had gathered on her brother’s property. Had any of them even known Alison?

Moira had, casually.

She’d liked her.

But she’d be willing to bet a case of her brother’s best wine—not that it was costing
her
anything, but that wasn’t the point—that most of these people hadn’t known Alison.

Maybe they were just here to show support.

Maybe they were just here because, like her, they were frustrated with all the bad things happening in Treasure lately.

She didn’t know.

When Gideon’s fingers didn’t fall away from her arm, she dropped a look at his hand. “Care to let go, Chief?”

“Care to tell me what’s eating you, Mac?”

The nickname from long ago, another time, another
life
, made an ache rip through her.

Carefully, she put her wine glass down.

“Don’t call me that,” she said quietly.

Twisting out of his reach, she walked away, quickly.

He called her name, but she didn’t dare stop.

A few months ago, Neve had told her that she didn’t think Moira had ever gotten over Gideon.

The bitch of it was, Neve had been right.

She sniffed. Reaching inside her purse, she drew out a handkerchief.

She was going to find one of the benches in the private area back behind the winery and sit down. In a while, she’d leave and …

“Oh. Hello, Marc.”

Marc lifted his face from his hands and blinked at her.

Tears streamed unceasingly down his face and Moira looked at the handkerchief she held and then, without thinking, held it out. “It’s clean,” she said.

He eyed it for a moment and then took it. “Thank you.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“Yeah.… no.” He shrugged. “The hell if I know.”

Slowly, she sat on the surface of the table next to him. “I’m really sorry about Alison. Brannon told me you were … close.”

A heavy silence fell and then he looked over at her. “I think I was falling in love with her.”

Oh …

Uncertain what to say, she reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He started to cry, soft, quiet sobs that tore at her heart.

“I’m so sorry, Marc.”

*   *   *

He could handle her walking away from him.

Gideon was used to that after all this time.

He handled standing at the corner, unseen by either of them, as she comforted a grieving Marc. His Moira had always had a soft heart, hidden under a prickly exterior and lots of steel.

It got harder later, though.

She’d moved out of the public area into the areas marked
private
, taking one of the paths that led out behind the big building made of reclaimed timbers into the trees.

Gideon wouldn’t have followed if he hadn’t seen Charles Hurst separate himself from the trees and go after her.

He shouldn’t have followed even then, but everything about Hurst got his back up.

From the fact that Moira had actually
accepted
his love to the fact that … well, she’d accepted his love.

While she’d rejected Gideon’s.

After so many years, you’d think he would have resigned himself to it.

But after so many years, it still hurt as much now as it did then and he knew, as sure as he stood there, that he’d never get over her.

He should just stop trying.

The path led deep into the dark, heavy growth of trees and when he heard their voices, he paused to listen.

“I’m
fine
, Charles. I just wanted to be alone.”

“Is now really the best time to be alone, darling? So many strange things are happening…”

“Yes, well, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

There was a pause and Gideon moved in closer.

The next murmurs were harder to hear.

“… miss you…”

“Odd that you didn’t think about that when you were busy
shagging
my admin, huh?”

Gideon grinned at the blade that edged Moira’s words as he rounded the last curve in the trail. He watched where he stepped, automatically falling back on the lessons he’d learned both as a youth hunting these woods and when he’d hunted a different kind of prey back when he’d served in the Army.

“It was a mistake. I’m sorry for it … Moira. I
miss
you. I miss
us
.”

Hot male jealousy burst through him as he stepped into the small clearing by the banks of the river. Moira stood on the old wooden dock and Charles held her by the arms, caught up against him, his mouth on hers.

It lasted for just a second and then Moira jerked away. “I
don’t
miss us, Charles. We’re…”

Her gaze slid away.

Gideon arched a brow as she caught sight of him.

“Spying on me now, Gideon?”

“Just out taking a walk,” he said, lifting a shoulder.

As Charles’ gaze came his way, he gave the other man a sharp smile. “Charles, I think your attentions are unwelcome.”

“Gideon, I think your assistance is unnecessary.” But Charles pulled back and smoothed his tie down. He gave Moira a terse nod and left, striding past Gideon without another word.