Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

They left Moira’s yard and pulled onto the dirt road that led away from her property, reaching Welk’s truck, a quarter mile away. They then began their two-vehicle, thirteen-minute journey toward his house. Welker reveled in the fact that he’d won the skirmish of getting Moira to stay with him, while at the same time knowing there was still a lot of battle left to fight. He didn’t think for a minute that she’d wholeheartedly conceded. In fact, her stellar brain was right now, more than likely, plotting on how to spend the fewest hours under his roof, and get herself off to someplace far, far away from him.

Welker chuckled, feeling…light.

Huh. Maybe his sister and Sabira had a point. He relished Moira’s company, and was looking forward to their squabbles. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed ball-busting he enjoyed, coming from the mouth of the taciturn woman. That certainly was the part of being a SEAL that Welker missed most. Other than being a coordinated unit, the team he’d had to leave behind because of his injury, excelled at trash-talk and teasing; things that he recalled most fondly. Sure, he got some of that with SWAT, but his Maine team wasn’t together 24/7 like the unit with which Welker had been deployed. And there was a huge difference between occasionally stepping his toes into an irreverent pool of teasing, versus being completely immersed under the constant deluge that had been his SEAL team’s modus operandi.

Welker loved his day-job with the Bangor PD, but he didn’t necessarily hang with many of those colleagues. His fault, Welker figured, because he spent his free time, instead, with his core group of buddies; Cisco, Mike, Doug, and Kyle.

That had been fine until they’d all started falling like dominoes, finding their significant others. Now, Welker was at loose ends more often than not. Which was why—he told himself—he was so pumped to have Moira at his place.

The hard question, of course, remained to be answered.

Was he genuinely entranced by the enigmatic woman, or was it the thrill of the chase regarding his squad-mate who wouldn’t be an easy conquest?

Welker had certainly been pondering the dual possibilities, but had set them aside because the easier query was…did he love the verbal sword-play in which they engaged? The answer being, one-hundred-fucking-percent . So for now, he’d roll with that titillating fact, and bide his time to see if his as-yet-undeclared feelings for Moira grew, or fizzled.

Welker’s eyes narrowed as a single motorcycle headlight appeared on the horizon, approaching on the long, but otherwise empty road. He hadn’t thought there’d be any more trouble tonight…uh, this morning, but his senses were now tingling. It could be nobody, but…

He hit the phone connection on his dash and quickly reached Moira.

“Yeah?” she clipped.

“Incoming, Bliss,” he told her, clenching his jaw. “I’m not sure if it’s an enemy, or not, but there’s a bike headed our way. Close the distance between us and stick to my tail, just in case.”

“On it,” she said, not arguing, for which Welker was grateful. Moira might crack his chops off the job, but she knew enough not to discount his cop-instincts when shit was about to hit the fan.

She moved up so her bumper was no more than twelve inches from his now slowed-down ass. He pulled his firearm from his shoulder holster and laid it on the seat next to him. He knew Moira was probably doing the same.

“Fifty feet and closing,” he told her.

“I see him,” Moira answered. “You think he’s a straggler who’s late for the party we just disbanded, or a new threat?”

“Good question,” he replied warily. “I hope we have the answer, soon.”

His headlights had been on low as the bike approached, but as the distance closed, Welker hit his high-beams, lighting up the road ahead as well as the black-garbed rider.

He could easily see the bulky man now, and why wasn’t he surprised when the prick brought his bike to a stop, pulled something out from under his jacket and…

“Gun,” Welker shouted, before he ducked down, his windshield shattering all around him.

“Welk,” Moira’s almost frantic voice sounded from his dash. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he growled, “but this asshole’s about to be toast.”

He hit the gas, fishtailing his back tires on the dirt, but…

What the fuck ? In the time it had taken him to straighten out, Moira had backed up, punched the gas, and gone around him, heading toward the enemy with her foot in it.

Goddammit .

The rider must have been spooked at the aggressive move, because he spun his bike in the opposite direction, spewing dirt in an arc behind him as he goosed the throttle.

Moira’s truck came to an abrupt stop.

Cursing, Welk barely avoided plowing into her as he hit his brakes.

Swearing up a storm, his mouth fell open as he watched Moira thrust open her door, stand on the running board, and…

Two distinct shots echoed through the night.

The bike wobbled, slid, and…

Yes!

Welker was out of his vehicle in a heartbeat, gun raised, sprinting toward the downed rider, as was Moira, who was, of course, three steps ahead of him.

“Stay down, asshole,” she snarled, her weapon never wavering from its target. “I’d like nothing more than for you to move so I have an excuse to shoot you.”

Well, there was no ambiguity there, and apparently the rider thought so, too. He stayed on the ground, his hands held up in surrender.

Welk let her deal with the prick while he veered off to look for the man’s gun, which he’d either dropped—or jettisoned—into the bushes as he’d fallen.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Welk heard, as he spotted what he was looking for, withdrew nitrile gloves from a vest pocket and picked up the firearm. It was a .480 Ruger. Damn. These guys weren’t messing around.

Shaking his head, Welker went back to his still running truck, bagged the gun, then disconnected from the call with Moira which was still live, dialing up Mason.

There were no preliminaries.

“Did I hear gunshots?” Mason barked.

“Yeah, boss. A bogey on a bike came at us from nowhere. Took out my windshield, but that’s all he got. Moira blasted his rubber all to hell, and he’s down. She’s got him trussed up, reading him his rights, and waiting for you.”

“Dammit, Welk,” Mason grumbled. “I was just leaving, and imagining I might still get a little shuteye with what’s left of the night.”

“You? Sleep? Is that even a thing?” Welker shot back. They all knew their boss was a workaholic.

“Hah, hah.” There was a mocking sigh. “Listen. Don’t do anything stupid like kill the guy. We’ll be right there.” A slight pause ensued before… “How the hell do you figure the perp knew that you two were on the road?”

“Wondering the same thing myself, Chief, because I checked Moira’s truck for trackers, and there were none. Which means there had to be someone who was either watching from the trees around her house, or there’s a loose cannon in the sheriff’s department or on our team.”

Welker hated to think it was his group. SWAT was a tight-knit bunch, and the idea that someone might be on the MC’s payroll, didn’t sit well. The likelihood of it being Pickenstahl or that deputy were, at least in Welk’s head, much higher.

Welker tucked that puzzle-piece away for examination, later. Because right now, hopefully and with a little coercion, they might get some answers from the man who was under Moira’s boot.

Yup. Under her boot. She’d yanked off his helmet, and currently had her foot placed on the back of the perp’s shoulder, looking like she was exerting some pressure.

Welker chuckled. Great minds think alike .

He walked closer until he could hear their conversation.

“Who told you I’d left my house?” she growled low in her throat.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, bitch,” the downed man choked back.

“Wrong answer, dickwad.”

Moira ground her heel down, harder.

“What the fuck?” the guy cried. “This is harassment.”

“Says the man who just opened fire and took out my windshield.” Welker joined the pair, his own gun now held lightly by his side. “In my opinion, this is a justifiable use of force.”

“He’s right, ass-wipe,” Moira growled. “Nobody’s going to care if we scuff you up a little. So spill.”

The man remained stubbornly silent.

Welker had been around Moira long enough to know she wasn’t a rule-breaker, so her next words didn’t surprise him.

“Fine. You want to play it that way?” Moira snorted, backing off. “Keep your secret.”

Welker was the one who had to hold himself back from kicking the man until he gave them information.

Moira continued. “We’ll find out who’s behind this, don’t you worry. And in the meantime, you’ll be behind bars rotting with your MC’s president. Or maybe,” she speculated, “since you’re so pretty, you’ll find yourself as someone’s girlfriend,” she taunted.

A look passed over the man’s face, but he remained clammed-up, and Welker sighed. “Looks like we’re not going to get anything out of him tonight.”

“I know. I wish I’d capped his ass instead of his tires,” Moira grumbled. “Waste of skin.”

Lights appeared from behind them, and Welker knew the cavalry had arrived. The boss would take the guy into custody.

With luck and if no further confrontation occurred during their short drive, he and Moira would make it safely to his place.

Pulling into Welker’s driveway—sans windshield—eight minutes later, he was thankful that not only had Mason and Mike come to pick up the perp, but they’d helped sweep his driver’s side clean of all the broken glass so his ass could get home, unscathed.

While they’d been on clean-up duty, Welk had reiterated his suspicions about someone in Moira’s department having given them up. The boss and Mike had both agreed that his reasoning was sound, and after the prisoner had been secured in the back of Mike’s truck—and with Moira’s nod of understanding—they all decided not to tell anyone who wasn’t already in the know, where Welk’s house was located. Not many people were aware—other than Mason and their immediate posse—that he’d moved in to his new, unfinished place, three months previous. As far as most everyone else besides his relatives were concerned, Welker still lived in the condo he owned and maintained in town.

All good, but now that he and Moira had actually arrived…

He wondered how she’d react to his place. He knew it didn’t look like much from the outside since he hadn’t bothered with painting anything yet, but the major exterior renovations were all solid, as was the interior framing of his house. The few rooms within that he had completely finished should give her an idea of what he was aiming for.

He immediately pulled his vehicle into the oversized, seen-better-days garage behind the house. At least he wouldn’t have wet upholstery if it rained before he could get a new windshield, and the vehicle wouldn’t be seen by anyone who might be looking for it. Luckily, as bad as the six-car garage looked on the inside, it, too, was solid from the work he’d done to make sure it remained standing, and it housed a few more rides he could utilize until his windshield was replaced.

Welk gave Moira, who’d paused to see what he wanted her to do, a wave that she should take one of several available spots inside, and she quickly complied.

Stepping out first, he approached her door as she parked, and opened it for her.

She snorted. “I don’t need you to be a gentleman.”

“Tough luck,” he retorted cheekily. “Because my mother brought me up to be one.”

Moira shrugged, and as he should have expected, ignored the comment and got back to business. “If my enemies are keeping an eye out for us, how will we get to town tomorrow for supplies?”

Welker grinned. That was an easy one. “Remember I said, incognito? I actually have a few cars here that are registered and ready to roll out, under the radar,” he told her. “But I think we’ll skip taking my black, ’69 Cutlass 442. It might garner a little too much attention.” The vehicle was his baby, having restored it from the frame, up, in his grandfather’s garage when he was in his early twenties.

“Four-barrel carb, four speed manual trannie, and dual exhaust,” Moira relayed without a second’s hesitation, looking, if it were possible…excited?

Welker’s mouth fell open. “You know the model?”

“Hell, yes,” she said, with unaccustomed eagerness. “My father had vintage cars, and when I was trying to…” She stopped abruptly and changed tracks. “I spent a lot of time in his garages, and learned a bunch from his mechanic. Mr. Sheffings was an awesome guy, and never made me feel like I was in the way.”

There was a lot to unpack in that one, short statement.

First, her father had vintage cars ? Plural? Not to mention that garages meant more than one. But there’d also been a mechanic on staff? Those bits of info, all put together, spelled money. And not in a gazillion years would Welker ever have guessed Moira came from a well-to-do background.

He sought clarification that her knowledge wasn’t a one-and-done.

“Favorite car in the stable?” he asked.

She hesitated, then spit out, “1962 Shelby Cobra.”

“427?” Welker gasped.

“Uh, huh. 427 horses, 7-liter V8,” she said with a look on her face that spoke of…reverence.

“Damn. Those things have to be worth?—”

“A couple million,” she said, finishing his sentence.

“Wow. So your father?—”

“Is not somebody I talk about.”

This time she cut him off with a finality that brooked no argument. Her mood had spun around faster than a ’69, 911 in snow.

“Got it.” Welker wasn’t going to antagonize her just when she’d begun sharing, so he went back to her love of cars. “Do you ever hit up any of the local shows or meets?”

He’d participated in some a time or two, and it had been a lot of fun talking to like-minded gear-heads.

“Every now and then,” she said, but didn’t extrapolate as her gaze traveled around the space, obviously curious about what was under the tarps.

Welker put her out of her misery. “I also have some project vehicles you can have a look at when we’re not sleep deprived.”

“I’d like that,” she stated succinctly.

“Okay.” Welker slapped his hands together. “Let’s get inside and I’ll give you the big tour before we crash.” He led the way out through the large, ancient, overhead doors that these days, unfortunately, wouldn’t open or close.

Dawn was just starting to break as they left the garage. The sun’s morning rays sparkled off the tall, dewy grasses, silhouetting the many structures dotted about his land.

“You have a lot of buildings,” Moira stated.

Welker was happy to fill her in on the particulars.

“Yup. The main house is mine,” he swept an arm toward his home, then indicated the buildings to their right; two additional, large edifices. “The bigger of those two barns will be my sister Callie’s once it’s finished, and the smaller one is where my Mom will eventually live.”

Moira grunted, but not unhappily. “A family compound.”

“That’s right. We’ve dreamed about it for a while,” he answered. “But with my mother getting older, Callie, who’s an architect, prodded us all last year into agreeing it was time to take the plunge. She had us diving in on this place the minute it came on the market.”

Moira nodded. He couldn’t tell what her thoughts were, but the silence that ensued was companionable, so Welker continued his spin.

“There are three more, smaller sheds on the land that can be salvaged. One that my mother has claimed as her henhouse, another that will become a toolshed, and the final structure will be renovated into a pottery studio for my sister’s wife.” Welker threw that last bit out there to see if Moira would have a problem with a same-sex marriage, but the woman’s face didn’t change a single bit.

He’d take that as a positive.

“So, like I said, the whole deal is a work in progress, which means my house isn’t exactly finished. It’s rough inside, all except for the kitchen, whose renovations we completed first. Luckily, the two bedrooms have doors, and each has a private bath. But the best I can say about them is that they’re functional. I left the old, prefab shower stalls in place until I can replace them with fully-tiled enclosures, and the sinks and toilets are clean, but old and stained. I hope that won’t bother you.”

“Not at all,” she assured him.

Welker unlocked his back door, which led right into the kitchen, and gestured for her to go first.

He was glad they came in this way and not into the unfinished living room up front, because Moira’s face, upon seeing his kitchen, actually…lit up?

Welker almost stumbled as he crossed the threshold, catching a glimpse at her unaccustomed wonder.

She hissed in an appreciative breath.

“You, uh, like my kitchen?” he finally asked, remembering that she said she cooked.

“Yeah. I do.”

Damn. This woman was checking all his boxes.

A foody who knew vintage cars, was crazy accurate with a gun, and didn’t mind roughing it.

Welker had to admit that the inexplicable feelings he’d pondered earlier might be gaining traction and moving closer and closer to having a name. Welk’s heart beat harder.

Could this be…love?