Chasing River
Page 58

She twists her mouth, hesitating for a moment before saying, “I fell for your brother the very first night I met him. I had an affair with him. A guy whom I should have stayed away from, but I didn’t. I couldn’t stay away from him. Our connection was so instantaneous, so deep. And Jesse was working for my husband, who happened to be a serious criminal. A man I was terrified of angering.”
I stifle my gasp, because she’ll think I’m judging her. I knew about the affair, but I had no idea that Jesse had been working for her husband. Seriously, Jesse?
“So, does that make me a bad person?” she asks softly. “Does that make me weak?”
“You’re the strongest, kindest person I’ve ever met,” I whisper truthfully. “But your circumstances were unique. They don’t compare to this.”
“I don’t know, Amber . . . I’d say the circumstances surrounding you and this River guy sound pretty unique. And that other stuff is in his past.”
“Not entirely. His brother is IRA.”
“No one’s without fault if you’re judging them based on their connections. For God’s sake, Jesse’s best friend is a criminal!” Alex rarely raises her voice, so to hear it now is jarring. “You know that black car of Jesse’s out there? Parked in front of the barn every day?”
Jesse’s Barracuda. His child. I nod.
“It’s stolen.”
This time I do gasp. “What? He actually stole that car?” I remember joking about that once, but I never thought he’d actually stoop that low.
“No, he didn’t. But it’s not hard to figure out who did. Turning it in is more risky than it’s worth, though, so your father told him to keep it.”
My jaw hangs open for a long moment. “The Sheriff knows about that, too?”
“There isn’t anything that your dad doesn’t know, Amber. Jesse doesn’t keep secrets from him anymore. My point to all this is that nobody’s without fault, and some of that fault can get pretty ugly. But you shouldn’t hold it against someone if it’s in his past. Jesse made his mistakes, but he learned from them. It sounds like this River guy did, too, if what he has told you is the truth.”
It would seem like it. River talked nonstop last night, answering all of my questions, offering information without my pushing. And every time I stole a glance at his face, and his eyes, I saw only honesty there.
But none of that really matters, in the grand scheme of things. “What do I do, Alex? I need someone to tell me what to do.”
“What do you see your options being?”
There aren’t many. “I can either say goodbye to him today or say goodbye to him on Sunday. Either way, it’s goodbye.” He’ll never hop on a plane and surprise me at the ranch. He’ll never see what my world looks like.
“Would you consider turning him in to the police?”
“No,” I admit, laughing bitterly. “And yet all I can keep hearing is my dad telling me to do exactly that. Even if it might get me into trouble.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him,” she begins. “Then again, your dad may surprise you.”
“I doubt that. Not about this. You know him. It’s black-and-white when it comes to the law.”
“Not always, Amber. Your dad has gotten to know the gray area pretty well.” A decision flashes in her eyes. “I think it’s your turn to keep some secrets.”
TWENTY-FIVE
River
If I close my eyes to rest, I can’t say for sure that she won’t try to kill me.
At least, that’s the vibe that Ivy’s giving off from her little spot on the couch, her tiny all-in-black body coiled for an attack. Her dark, unforgiving eyes shifting back and forth between the TV, me, and Rowen, who’s made himself comfortable on the couch with the bottle of whiskey and an annoying leg twitch.
Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . .
“Stop that!” Ivy finally snaps.
Rowen stills his leg.
“Why don’t you get some sleep upstairs? I thought you were exhausted,” I suggest.
“Like I could sleep now.” With a groan, he pours himself another shot of whiskey. “This was the last bottle.”
“Whatever. We don’t go through much.” I jut my chin toward Ivy. “Unless she’s there, of course.”
She merely glares at me in response. Everything about her drips with suspicion. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Amber had told her.
“Right. You want more?” Rowen doesn’t wait for her answer, climbing out of his seat to top her glass up.
“Don’t think I’m getting drunk again,” she mutters, but she accepts the drink. She has yet to ask what’s going on, why Rowen is here and wired. Why he pushed through the door like a man being chased. He’s not, of course. If Beznick put a call out for Aengus’s head, it’s for Aengus’s head. Even murderers don’t like to add unnecessary body counts to their résumé. Not because they’re particularly moral; it just makes things worse for them if they ever get caught.
But that doesn’t mean Rowen or I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. That happens often enough. A guy with a target on him, taking a walk down a street in midday with his buddies, starts taking gunfire from somewhere unseen. His friends are as likely to get hit by a stray bullet as the ones intended for their mark.
As long as we stay the hell away from Aengus—and don’t get mistaken for him—we should be fine.
I think.
My gaze drifts to the stairs. Amber has been up there for a while now. Hiding. Talking to “home.” What does “home” mean? Her parents? I’ve put her through a lot. Is it more than she can handle?
I can only imagine what this sheriff father of hers could convince her to do.
“Where are you going?” Ivy’s sharp tone snaps me out of my thoughts, and I suddenly find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m just going to check on—”
“No you’re not. She’s talking to her sister-in-law, who has her own pile of shit to deal with. Leave them alone.” She says it so simply. As if she could stop me from climbing those stairs if she had to. “Amber will be down when she’s ready to come down. Don’t be that guy.”
“Ouch,” Rowen mutters, but excitement dances in his eyes. He likes the sharp-tongued birds.
I didn’t even know Amber had a sister-in-law, which I guess just proves that I should listen to Ivy. With another glance upstairs, I wander back to stare at the telly.
“You still want that ink?” She stares at me with her eyebrows raised in question.
“What. Now? Here?”
She shrugs. “I have my kit in the car.”
Seriously? “You always travel with it?”
She darts past me, throwing an “of course I do, you idiot” look on her way by and out the door, before I can tell her no. I don’t even have the sketch with me.
“Have you called Fern yet?” I ask.
Fern MacGrath is an eighty-nine-year-old woman and the resident neighborhood watch. She was our nanny’s best friend. She despises Aengus, avoids me, and adores Rowen. The woman will sit in her front room with her knitting needles and her glasses on until after midnight each night, spying on all the comings and goings on the street.