Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

When Moira didn’t argue any further, Welker was flummoxed. Had she really just agreed, albeit silently, to stay at his house?

Instead of asking for clarification, and perhaps derailing the plan, he let things simmer while he turned to Mason for clarification over their next move.

“What do we do from here?” he asked.

Mason looked conflicted. “Well, normally I’d say that since Moira is one of our team, and we take care of our own, that we’d investigate and go after the MC responsible for targeting Moira. But the Sheriff’s Department is her day-job, and they were the ones involved with Tormentor’s capture and prosecution, so as much as it pains me to say it, they need to take lead on this.”

Moira nodded.

“You’re right. I’ll call the Sheriff,” she agreed, having weighed the exchange.

She dug her phone from her pocket. “I probably should have done it from the get-to, but I knew SWAT could get here faster than the PSD. With Vestore living close by, I decided not to risk it, and went with the sure bet, instead. My boss will want me to…” Her face grew troubled. “Damn. Normally, I’d be the one heading up an investigation into something like this, but since it’s my ass and my property that’s been threatened, I’m not sure how he’ll want to handle it.”

Without pondering any deeper, she dialed.

“Yeah boss…” she paused, then grimaced as if she were being reamed out. “Right. I figured you’d heard it on the scanners by now…”

She walked away, so Welker was unable to hear any more, but he didn’t like that she was dealing with this post-cluster-fuck-shit-storm on her own. He began edging toward Moira’s turned back.

Mason grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” he said. “She’ll be fine. She works with them, too, remember? And I’ll talk to Sheriff Gladstone tomorrow; make sure he fully understands why she called us instead of them. You, my friend, should pull your head out of your ass. You have enough to worry about without trying to fight her battles, which she won’t thank you for.”

Mason was right. Moira hated being treated as if she had any weaknesses, and wouldn’t relish his intervention, no matter how well-intentioned.

“Wait. Enough to worry about?” Welker questioned, just registering the rest of Mason’s warning.

“Yup. Trying to get Moira settled at your place,” he laughed. “You’ll need all the luck you can get. You know how much she hates to accept help of any kind.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware of that,” Welker chuckled. It was like Mason had read his mind. And now that he pondered it even more, he wondered exactly how that would go once he got Moira to his place. The two of them living together for an indeterminate amount of time could lead to…

Welker didn’t know what it would foment, but if he played his cards right, it damned well could be…interesting.

In truth, Welk couldn’t wait for Moira’s opinion on his living situation.

His ninety-acre compound was, as Moira had indicated, fairly close by, but she’d never seen it. A lot of what was on his land was in rough condition; the entire, three building enclave being a work-in-progress.

The main structure, a large A-frame house he’d been renovating over the past year, was habitable—and luckily had a guest bedroom that, shit , held one bed whose linens needed to be changed—but the interior still lacked any but the most basic of amenities. His two bathrooms were functional, without the finish work that would spruce them up.

His kitchen, however, was complete and a work of art. His sister Callie had insisted upon it, so that Sabira, her wife, could putter in it to her heart’s content while she and Welk “constructed” as Sabira so sweetly put it. Sabira was a kitchen putterer when she wasn’t on-line as a prominent influencer.

As for the rest of Welker’s property…

The bigger of the two barns on premise had been framed up inside, waiting to be turned into an eventual home for Callie and Sabira, but it was a long way from being finished.

The second, smaller barn, hadn’t yet been touched, but would in due coarse become home to his mother.

Betta Vestore was in her early seventies, currently living by herself in a small cape just outside of Bangor. She was excitedly looking forward to residing in a place where she’d be neighbors with her children.

Welker glanced over at Moira’s back; her posture looking tense as she conversed with her boss, and decided he wasn’t going to sweat the details of his rough living arrangements where she was concerned. If it had been any other woman of his acquaintance coming to stay with him, he’d feel he had to apologize up and down for the unfinished interior of his home. But Moira? She probably wouldn’t even blink. Piecing together what her place had looked like before the destruction the MC had wrought, he could tell she wasn’t one for mementoes and doo-dads. And none of her furniture had looked…aged, to say the least.

Welk had no doubt she wouldn’t blink at his work-in-progress.

He did wonder, however, how she’d react to the furniture he owned. It was a far cry from hers. Every single item Welk possessed had sentimental value baked in, due to the care and craftmanship that his grandfather had worked into the wood. The pieces were all things he’d inherited from the man who’d been a carpenter and an artisan, and each item meant a lot to him. Every time he sat in Papa’s comfortable Stickley-esque chair, or lay on the huge, lovingly-carved, king-sized four-poster, he could almost smell the Borkum Riff pipe-smoke that had always clung to his grandfather’s clothes.

He missed the man who’d been more like a father to him than the actual guy who’d sired him. Bob Vestore, Welk’s dad, had been a workaholic who’d spent little time doing family things, and had died of an aneurysm when Welk was twenty. Sure, he missed the man, but Welker had adored his mother’s father, a man who’d constantly been in his life, and from whom he’d learned all his own carpentry skills, having apprenticed from a young age at Papa’s knee.

If Welker hadn’t decided to be a SEAL, then a cop, he’d have ended up a contractor, for sure. And without a doubt, if he’d gone that route, he would have put his skills toward renovating old buildings instead of erecting particle-board palaces for ego-bound wealthy people. He loved bringing stuff back to life that other people overlooked and considered worthless.

But his place wasn’t going to be insignificant much longer.

Lucky for Welker, his sister Callie had gone on to be an architect, so her genius was the driving force in determining the layout and eventual interior designs of the three buildings. Which would boost their value, exponentially. Not that Welk was selling. Nope. He was building a family compound for life.

Welk was lucky to have Callie. He was talented with his hands, but not so much with his abstract brain. He’d happily left all blueprint nuances to his sister.

His thoughts were interrupted when Moira walked back toward him and Mase, a hard look on her face. “Sheriff Gladstone isn’t happy that I called SWAT. He’s already sent out Undersheriff Pickenstahl and one of the newer deputies to secure the place as a crime scene. He doesn’t want us touching anything or cleaning anything up until they’ve done their preliminaries. I’ve been told not to remove a single item from the premises, not even clothing.”

Which sucked, because she couldn’t live in the dirty, roof-crawling sweats she still had on.

Moira continued. “Luckily, I have an extra uniform and my SWAT gear in my truck, so I’ll be okay to work, except…” She seemed reluctant to say the rest, eventually drawing in a breath to spit it out. “…I’m not allowed to return to duty with the sheriff’s department until the Sheriff clears me, since I’m the one who’s been targeted.”

That could mean a long wait, Welker knew. The sheriff’s department was understaffed at the moment, and even though this home-invasion should take priority because it was one of their own who’d been attacked, Welk got the feeling that there was no love lost between Moira and her superiors.

“Don’t worry about Abe and Gerald,” Mason assured her, calling the sheriff and undersheriff by their first names, which means they were either friends, or Mase had something over them with which to bargain. “I’ll talk to them both, and get the okay to start cleaning things up here, on our schedule.”

“And in the meantime,” Sin walked up behind Moira and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got some clothes you can borrow until that happens.”

Moira snorted. “Nothing you own will fit me,” she stated, straight-faced, and Welker figured she might have a point. Sin was built, tall and willowy. Moira was…

What was she, exactly?

Welker realized he had no idea what kind of build Moira had. Even now, seeing her off-duty and out of uniform, the sweats she had on could be hiding a svelte female figure, or covering up a muscled titan. When engaging in drills or on the mats at the gym, she always wore those ubiquitous sweats, so he couldn’t use that as a reference.

In uniform, her khaki-colored-fit was always square-cut, boxy, and never gave any hint of her body away. Frustratingly, it was the same with Moira’s hair. Welker had never seen it—even tonight when she’d been fresh from bed—any way other than pulled back into a tight braid that… Yup… fascinated him. The thick rope of honeyed brown hung down to mid-back, with never a strand out of place; nothing to tuck behind an ear; no whisps escaping… He wondered what it would look like, let loose to circle her face, maybe splayed out on a pillow?

Welker caught himself. What the fuck? Had he just pictured Moira’s head on his pillow? That was fucked up. Not that he was swimming in known territory, here. His attraction to Moira, he’d thought, wasn’t at all based on her looks. He’d always gleaned plenty of attention from beauties of the opposite sex, and they didn’t do it for him anymore. He was tired of superficial.

When lamenting all that with his sister and Sabira, even letting them know about his odd interest in Moira, the pair had teased that he was fixated on the sheriff because she was the one woman Welker couldn’t charm.

That might be part of the draw, but Welk knew the truth. He liked how calm and competent Moira was in any situation; under duress, being teased, faced with the unknown. She was never rattled. He’d watched her for months, waiting to see if she could be shaken, but her unruffled record still held. Even now, when she’d been the target of assholes at the one place she should be safe, there hadn’t been a single crack in her demeanor. She did seem a little concerned over not being able to pack for her stay with him. He could quiet her concerns on that front.

“There are some clothes at my place that will probably fit you,” Welker offered. Callie and Sabira kept clothes in his guestroom for when they came to visit and lend a hand with renovations. His sister was about the same height as Moira.

One blink was all Welk got in return for his proposal, but it hadn’t been a no, so it must have been her agreeing. She’d also need a toothbrush and whatever else she had to leave behind. “If you?—”

Lights and sirens sounded from down the road, cutting off the offer he’d been about to make; that they stop at an all-night store for whatever else she needed. Welker figured the new arrivals had to be the sheriff’s personnel rolling in. He’d never met any of Moira’s colleagues, but he was intrigued. How did she fit in?

The two vehicles pulling up were white, with the sheriff’s department logo blazoned across the doors in black and gold. Brand new, if Welker were any judge.

Sweet .

The cars came to a stop, and…

“What the fuck, Bliss?” the first man to put a foot on the ground spat, before he’d even fully left his seat. “Leave it to you to piss somebody off.”

Welker’s hackles were instantly up. What kind of asshole threw out a statement like that, clearly meaning it, without seeing to the condition of his Chief Deputy, first?

Welker was about to say something, but Mason must have sensed it, and stepped forward instead. “Gerald.”

He held out a hand to the man Welk could now identify as the Undersheriff. “Nice of you to show up.”

Not friends, then.

Welker had known Mason for years, and the greeting he’d just bestowed was the kind his boss saved for pompous, ass-kissers.

Pickenstahl grumbled. “As if I had a choice. The sheriff told me Bliss had gotten herself into some kind of trouble, so I had to drag my ass out of bed to get here and have a look.”

“Well, as you can see,” Mason narrowed his eyes at the man, “the perps did a number on the place. But don’t worry. We haven’t touched anything. And we’ve taped off the entire scene.”

The occupant of the second car walked toward them, huffing out a laugh and looking…smarmy. “Christ. Leave it to Bliss. This place is a fucking mess.”

Who were these pricks, that they derided Moira before even seeing to her well-being?

Welker couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “Yeah. Clearly, she did it on purpose; had that MC make a shambles of her shit just to yank your chains. And all this after getting targeted for the job she did for your department, single-handedly breaking open the 227 MC case, then testifying against the assholes.” He barely drew a breath. “Luckily, she’s smart; and figured out on her own that they might be coming, even though her department should have had her back, so she was able to get up onto her roof and avoid being murdered.”

Yeah. He’d said “murdered”. There was no way he was softening his rhetoric for these douchebags.

Pickenstahl scoffed. “Bliss can take care of herself.” He clearly gave no weight to Welker’s words. Welk looked over toward Moira where she remained silent, but it warmed something inside him to stick up for her.

“It’s a good thing she’s more than competent,” Welker continued in a growl, “since nobody from your department thought she might need surveillance.”

Sin pranced over from where she’d been listening.

Hah . She was pissed, too. Welk could tell by her gait. She gave the pair of sheriffs a wide smile that was so blatantly fake, it almost made him wince. “Whatdaya say boys? Can I show you two around, now that the hard stuff’s been taken care of?” She batted her eyes at them as if she hadn’t just insulted their pitiful asses.

Welker could see the pair bristling, but with one glance at Mason’s granite face, they turned their resolute, but irritated countenances to Sin. “Sure. We need to take pictures,” the deputy finally agreed.

“Excellent,” Sin replied. “Let’s start inside.”

Smart woman.

Sin knew if she let them linger in the yard any longer, they might say something that would piss off Welker to the point of him becoming…physical. Explosions with Welk rarely happened, but the team knew that once his uber-long fuse was finally spent, the resulting blast could equal the damage of a ten-megaton bomb, and clearly Sin was taking no chances.

The trio crossed over the threshold into Moira’s house.

“Close one,” Mason teased him.

“Not close enough,” Welk growled.

“You’re going to get written up,” Moira grunted. “Pickenstahl doesn’t like anybody stepping on his toes.”

“Well, he’s an asshole, and he can waste as much ink as he wants. I don’t give a fuck.” Welker wouldn’t apologize, and he was shocked… No , amazed when one corner of Moira’s lips actually turned up. “You agree, huh?” he asked with a grin, the anger that had been bubbling within him laid dead-to-rest by her uncustomary quirk.

“Off the record, yes,” she agreed, then cleared her throat. “On the record, no comment. But, uh, thanks for coming to my defense, LT,” she managed.

Welker gaped. Had Moira just offered him kudos?

He felt like he’d just won the biggest fucking prize at the county fair.