Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Three weeks had passed, and Moira was antsy as hell. She was not one to enjoy down-time even when she was one-hundred percent, but laying around when she couldn’t alleviate the boredom by exercising or reaping the high of an op, sucked exponentially.

Dammit. She couldn’t even work on Welker’s stable of old cars, or dance to the 70’s tunes she insisted on blasting to mitigate the dead-quiet in the house while Welker was at work.

And yes, he was at work. After taking the first week of her recovery period off, he’d been driving her crazy with his over-the-top attentiveness, so she’d forced him to get back to the BPD, threatening to leave and stay at her father’s house if he didn’t.

Right. And there also was that. What the hell was going on with her old man? Was he growing a heart after all these years, or had it been something Bette had said?

At the hospital, after Margaret had shamed Tom into leaving the room, Bette had walked him out, and had remained absent for an interestingly long time. When she’d finally come back, she’d looked smug, but had subsequently executed one of those lip-zip gestures when they’d asked her what was up.

Now, her father was not only calling every day to inquire after her health, but he’d offered to let her recuperate at his home. That proposition, however, had come with an interesting side-bar. Apparently, it was Sheriff Gladstone who had contacted Tom, and insisted Moira needed to be under her father’s roof to receive adequate care in order to get back to work sooner.

The whole thing had seemed odd at the time, made stranger by what Hayden had heard from the sheriff one day earlier when her superior had been on the phone, and she’d lurked in the hallway.

Gladstone’s conversation had included telling the people on the other end that he didn’t care if the security was as tight as his asshole, they needed to grow some balls and take care of “the problem”, so that business as usual could recommence. Then he’d snarled and said he’d make a call to try to take care of it in a different way, but that didn’t mean they could drop things on their end, and to make sure when they did “fix things” that the incident looked like an accident.

A situation in “fucked-up-flux” is what Gladstone had called it before smashing his desk phone down on the hook.

Of course, that interaction, in and of itself, didn’t implicate the sheriff in anything, but if one read between the lines—especially after Moira’s father had mentioned his strange call with Gladstone—it sure sounded like the sheriff was telling the latest MC-LT, Mick, that if Moira couldn’t be compromised at Welker’s, Gladstone would attempt to get her moved to a less secure site, i.e. her father’s house.

Welker—not to mention Mason and the other squad leaders who’d been apprised of the development—had certainly taken the conversation as a direct threat, and Hayden had gone on high alert for any additional intel that Gladstone was pulling MC strings.

Tex, the genius-behind-the-computer whom Hayden had enlisted, had been in touch several times, since. Once updated, he revealed that he’d run across a few interesting tidbits in his digging, and might be close to finding info that would be incriminating so they could shut the whole thing Gladstone had going, down.

That had been two days ago, and they were all on pins and needles, waiting.

Moira mixed batter until the ingredients were just wet, then tested the waffle iron to see if it was hot enough. She’d found the ancient appliance in one of her forays into cabinet-cleaning; a task Welker had approved of and agreed she could perform if she promised not to pick up anything that weighed more than two pounds. She’d readily complied, because one could only sit on the back deck, reading and watching the birds for just so long.

Now, she was attempting to make her first meal since her injury. Not because she’d had any doubts that she could have been doing it a week ago, but because Welker had cajoled her into waiting. As much as she loved him, she was done with that.

Moira hummed and tapped her foot as she toiled, wondering when her man would arise. Welker was sleeping in on this rainy Saturday morning, but Moira had been up with the overcast dawn, because…it seemed she’d had enough sleep in the past three weeks to last her for the next ten years.

Moira checked the bacon, which she was cooking on an electric griddle long and slowly so that it wouldn’t toughen up. She glanced at the coffee pot which had finally dripped to a satisfying stop. How long would Welk be able to ignore the aroma of bacon and coffee that wafted throughout the house, and get his lovely tushy out of bed?

Moira sighed.

Uh, huh. Lovely it was. Along with the rest of him. Indeed, in the nearly two months she’d been in residence, there hadn’t been much about Welker that she didn’t adore, and that included him leaving his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, and using up all the hot water—in his supposedly bottomless system—every time he took a shower. Because other than those small flaws—which made him human—the man was pretty near perfect, and Moira was still pinching herself that he’d chosen her over all the woman he’d romanced during his adult years.

Of course, Welker had never used the term “romanced”. He’d said “bedded”, but Moira had Welk’s number now, and knew he was, down deep, a man who wanted a family, so he’d been trying for the former, and ending up with the latter. He’d simply gone through a lot of women to try and find the right one…which had, most of the time, included fucking. Moira didn’t hold his overly-active penis against him. As a matter of fact, his vast experience buoyed her up. Welker had sampled a large swath of the female sex, and picked her.

Score.

“Are you making bacon?”

Welker yawned, shuffling into the kitchen wearing only a pair of sweats which left his gloriously ripped chest and abs on display. Not to mention it also let Moira ogle the blond love-trail that disappeared tantalizingly beneath his low-riding waistband.

“Yup. And waffles,” Moira told him as he came up behind her, swept her hair to the side and proceeded to kiss the hell out of the back of her neck.

“Welker,” Moira groaned, tipping her head sideways to give him more access. Damn. He could do that forever, and she’d be ecstatic, but… “Unless you want me to go rogue on the doctor’s orders, you’d better stop,” she said after a long minute.

“You smell so good, though,” he rasped. Welker gave a long-suffering sigh and let her hair swing back into place. “But you’re right. I have to be good and look ahead. It’s only three more weeks before we can have sex again.”

He groaned. “ Only .”

Yeah , it sucked. Moira was beyond frustrated, too. Waking up next to Welker every day. Watching him dress. Smelling his pheromones all over the place; even when he was at work his manliness clung to the bed, the couch…everything. It was killing her.

She speculated. “We could just?—”

“No.” Welker shut her down with a wag of his finger. “No strenuous exercises, and nothing that will have you breathing hard,” he reminded her needlessly. “But I can gently hug you.”

He wrapped his arms around her from the rear and carefully squeezed while she turned the bacon and chuckled. “Umm, if you want waffles, you’re going to have to let me go. The iron and batter are on the counter behind us. But as a consolation, the coffee is ready over by the fridge.”

Welker stepped back and raised both arms in the air in a gesture of defeat. “Fine. You had me at waffles.” He strode toward the hot, black brew. “And coffee, of course.” He poured the black liquid into a large mug that Moira had already taken out of the cupboard for him.

“You know you’re spoiling me,” he chastised, tongue-in-cheek.

Moira snorted. “Don’t get used to it. Three more weeks and I’m back to work.”

Now Welker scowled. “We don’t know that. We still haven’t nailed down the MC threat and found out who the brains are behind the operation.”

Moira spooned batter into the iron and turned to lean her backside against the counter. “As we’ve all endlessly discussed, our money is on Gladstone, and I’m feeling optimistic that Tex is going to break things wide open any day.”

“But if he doesn’t…?” Welker trailed off to blow on his coffee.

“If he doesn’t, then I’ll go back to work and draw out the bad guys myself.” Yeah. She was tired of letting assholes dictate her every move.

When Welker would have argued, Moira stepped forward and dropped a quick kiss on his lips. “No argument. Hayden will be there to have my back, and I can’t stay cooped up here, forever.”

Welker pouted, but he understood. They’d also had that discussion before. When all was said and done, Welk had admitted that he’d be out of his mind, too, having to remain static for so long.

Moira slid her arms around his waist and pressed her head against his bare chest, comforted by the steady thump-thump of his heart. “You know I won’t take any chances, Welk. This is all so good, here with you, that I can’t get myself killed now. I’d hate to miss out on what comes next.”

Welker backed up and looked solemnly into her eyes. “About that. It’s something we haven’t exactly discussed, but for me, what comes next is you agreeing to become my wife.”

Moira gaped, but he kept going.

“Then we get ourselves a non-farting dog, a cat who’ll rule the roost but won’t eat the birds, then eventually we’ll add a few kids to the mix.”

Moira sob/laughed, feeling tears threaten, but she turned her weepy-joy into a snort. “You’ve got it all figured out, huh?” she postured.

“I do,” he responded smugly.

“Well,” she couldn’t help but tease him, “I have news for you. That— what you just did—doesn’t count as a proposal. You have to do the whole flowers, ring, and down-on-one-knee thing if you expect me to say yes.”

Welker smiled, put his coffee down, and came forward again to kiss her gently on the lips. “I can do that.”

The kiss grew deeper until?—

Moira flew back.

“Shit!”

Something was burning. She turned to see smoke coming from the waffle iron.

Deftly, she flipped the lid open, forked out the burning waffle, and threw it in the sink.

Welker was already busy opening windows to let the acrid air out. Once the kitchen was clear, they turned to look at each other and broke out laughing.

“New rule,” Moira managed, once she calmed down. “No nookie in the kitchen while things are cooking.”

Welker smirked and pointed at the dark-colored bacon.

“Yipes!” Moira scooted over and rescued the meat before it blackened, but damn, it was going to be hella crispy. Maybe she’d start a new batch…

Yup. Breakfast would take a little longer than she’d planned.

“Go sit on the deck,” Moira ordered Welker. “I’ll deliver when it’s ready.”

Welker nodded, but before he left, he grabbed the butter and syrup, as well as the plates, flatware, and napkins Moira already had out. One more quick kiss on her cheek, and he was gone.

Moira sighed happily.

The man was the best kind of menace.

An hour later, after eating and cleaning up, they were both reclining on the deck with Moira naming birds for Welker, when their phones sounded twin alerts.

“Shit. Call-out,” Welker barked, leaping to his feet.

Moira squinted up at him, where the sun silhouetted his body. “Hey. Don’t make it sound like you’re bummed. I know you live for these ops, just like I do. And as jealous as I am to be sidelined, you shouldn’t have to pretend on my account.”

“Thanks, Moira. You’re right. I am pumped. We haven’t had a job in weeks. But on the bright side, you’ll probably be back on the team before the next one comes in.” Welker swiftly disappeared through the door to get kitted-up, with Moira following at a sedate pace, not hesitating to dial Everlee. She hoped to get some details.

“Hey, Ever,” she said when the connection was made. “It’s Moira.”

Two months ago, she wouldn’t have dared, or even imagined that she’d be calling the boss’s wife for anything , but things had changed dramatically. With all the visits, and food, and laughs they’d had since her surgery, Everlee had insisted they were now besties.

“Moira,” Everlee greeted. “You probably want deets.”

“Only if you can, and have the time,” Moira assured her. She wasn’t going to keep Everlee from her job.

“It’s okay. I’ll be on the bus for this one. There’s a robbery in progress way the hell up in Millinocket. I’ll be able to keep you posted throughout, so keep your phone handy.”

“Thanks, Ever. I will. Now get moving.”

Everlee snorted. “You sound like Mase.”

They both hung up, and Welker came bounding down the stairs in his BDU’s and vest.

“Robbery in progress in Millinocket,” Moira told him, going up on tiptoes to land a kiss on his mouth. She hated that the call-out was well over an hour away, but that’s how it went in a state as vast as Maine.

“I figured you’d have it all sussed out by the time I was dressed.” He kissed her back, then picked up his bag.

“Stay safe,” Moira told him, biting her bottom lip. She hated not going along to have Welker’s six, but knew the rest of the team would cover for her absence.

“Always,” Welker replied. “I’ll see you soon. And don’t forget to reset the alarms once I’m gone.”

Moira wanted to snicker. Welk told her the same thing every day when he left for work. This wasn’t her first rodeo.

Fifteen minutes later, after following Welker’s orders, Moira was starting to binge a cooking show she’d never watched before, when her phone rang. Pausing the TV, she glanced at her display and saw that it was Margaret.

“Hey! How’s my favorite lady doing?” she answered chipperly.

There was a slight hesitation before…

“Moira?”

Margaret’s hushed voice had her instantly on alert.

“What is it?” Moira demanded. Was the woman having a heart attack?

“There are two men here,” Margaret hissed. “They knocked, but I didn’t know them, so I didn’t answer. They look…dangerous. They’re dressed in leather, and their motorcycles are parked out front.” She let out a tiny screech. “Yes, my door is locked, but now they’re hitting it with something big. I’m afraid it’s not going to hold.”

Moira could hear the pounding over Margaret’s terrified voice.

“Listen to me.” Moira spoke quickly. “Go out the back door. Close it behind you and head to your root cellar.” Margaret had told her it was not only habitable, but had some supplies stocked inside. “Does the cellar have a lock?” she asked.

“A deadbolt,” Margaret confirmed shakily.

“Lock it, and don’t open for anyone until you hear my voice. Do you understand?”

“Close the back door. Head to the root cellar. Throw the bolt. Got it.”

Dammit. There was no way they could stay in touch. Margaret had eschewed cell phones, and only owned a land-line.

“Go now,” Moira ordered. “I’ll be there, soon.”

“Hurry.”

The line went dead.

Moira prayed it was because Margaret was following her instructions.

Knowing time was of the essence, Moira walked as quickly as she dared, retrieving her Glock along with adequate ammunition from Welker’s safe. But she wasn’t going to be so stupid as to go it, alone. She knew this couldn’t be a solo operation. She was only working at half-capacity, and needed help.

The thing was…

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at it.

Her team was headed north, and there was no way she’d bother them. If she called either Welk or Everlee, they’d divert half the team to Margaret’s and possibly blow the robbery operation.

She could call the police, but everyone she trusted was on the SWAT call-out, and Chief Ildavorg of the OPD—whom she knew from get-togethers—was out on leave after gallbladder surgery.

The sheriff’s office wasn’t an option because they were under suspicion of being compromised, but…

Hayden .

Perfect. The woman kicked ass, and was the perfect partner.

Moira went to hit her number, but before she did, her phone rang.

Caller unknown.

Well, shit.

“Yeah?” she answered, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

“It’s Mick. We have the old bitch, cunt. Come alone or she dies.”

Click .