Headed for Trouble (The McKay Family #1) (15 page)

Neve McKay was his.

*   *   *

“What do you think that was about?”

Ian had no idea, but he was both concerned and fed up. He didn’t know exactly what he was angry at, but there was definitely something, he knew that well enough.

That he had no target just yet wasn’t a problem for him.

He brooded over it as he stood in the door of the pub, arms crossed over his chest. More than a little concern—for both of the McKays—brewed inside him. Neve had been afraid. Upset. Sad. He didn’t know what bothered him the most, the misery or the fear.

Morgan Wade, one of his assistant managers, stood behind him, her tray propped on her hip and a puzzled frown on her face.

“It’s
Neve
,” a snide voice replied.

Both Ian and Morgan followed the sound of the voice. Ian had to fight to keep his face blank.

He hated that he’d taken an instant dislike to her when they’d met some years back but the fact of it was, Shayla Hardee made it hard to like her. She gossiped loudly, she shoved her oversized breasts against him every chance she had, and more than once, he’d had to avoid her bloody hands when she decided to see for herself if
Scotsmen really did wear anything under their kilts
.

She’d followed him into his office after the last time she’d done it, and he’d been of a mind to call the police and have her ass hauled off out of his pub.

He should have, too, because her husband walked in just as she decided to throw her arms around him and plant her mouth on his. It was like having an ashtray shoved into his mouth, too.

He’d immediately removed himself from that situation, and informed her just how unpleasant it had been while he was at it.

Shayla hadn’t had much use for him ever since and he was pleased with that. He would have ignored her comment altogether if Morgan could have just done the same. “Yes. That
was
Neve. Thank you, Shayla, for pointing out the obvious.” She gave the other woman a saccharine smile that had Shayla going red.

“I
meant
it could be
anything
. For all
we
know, Neve went and got herself involved in … in…” She paused, pressing her lips together as she searched for something suitably outrageous. When she smiled at them, Ian couldn’t help but notice she’d gotten lipstick on her teeth. “She probably got messed up with drug dealers or prostitutes while she was up in New York. You never know what kind of people they have up there.”

“Drug dealers or prostitutes.” Morgan stared at her. “In New York.”

“Of
course
.” Shayla flapped a hand. “Everybody knows that kind of trash is all
over
the place up there. We don’t take with that kind of thing down here.”

Morgan caught her tongue between her teeth and then she said, “Wow. I guess I misheard what you and Rog did for your anniversary when y’all went to NOLA then.”

Shayla turned pink, her mouth falling open.

Morgan cheerfully continued. “Yeah, I was talking to some of the girls at the salon when I was getting a manicure and I overheard that you and Rog ended up having a few too many and when you woke up, there was some chick asking where her money was. But, hey, I must have misheard. We don’t take with that down here, right?”

Shayla threw her half-empty glass of wine in Morgan’s face—or would have, but Morgan ducked.

It ended up all down the front of Ian’s shirt.

He sighed, torn between laughing and kicking Shayla out of his pub—once and for all. Plucking his shirt from his chest, he looked down and then up. Shayla stood in front of him, her chest heaving, threatening the decency of the halter top she’d worn. “You
disgusting
little—”

“Enough,” Ian said, cutting her off.

Behind him, Morgan’s snicker choked off.

He might throttle her—after he kissed her.

“Shayla, I think it’s best you leave,” he suggested.

“—
vile bitch!
” she shouted.

“And that’s it!” Ian caught her as she tried to lunge past him.

She swiped out, trying to claw at his eyes.

He caught her elbow and used his body to hustle her out of the pub. She shoved against him the whole way, kicking at his shins, shoving at him, and, once, slapping him. “Settle yourself down,” he warned. “I’ll call the police if I have to.”

“Kiss my ass, you piece of shit. Let me
go
or I’ll sue this joint and take Brannon McKay for all he’s worth!” Shayla screeched.

“Yeah and I’d like to see
that
happen.” He let her go.

She made another go for his eyes and he barely caught her.

That
would have hurt—she had nails nearly an inch long. The glitter on them served as a warning.

“I’m not going to tell you again—if you don’t leave—”

“Problem?”

At the sound of Gideon’s voice, Ian heaved out a sigh of relief. “A bit, yeah. Mind helping me out here, Marshall? Mrs. Hardee is somewhat unhappy with us tonight.”

“Unhappy … is that what you call it?”

After a few more minutes, Ian stood out on the sidewalk, hands braced on his hips while he watched Shayla turn her fury on Gideon. She was nose to nose with him and Ian thought the man might be a candidate for sainthood, considering the patience he displayed.

“I’ve a
damn right
to have a drink!” she shouted, jabbing a finger at him after Gideon had explained, yet again, that Ian couldn’t be arrested for refusing her service—and, no, he hadn’t manhandled her when he’d walked her outside.

Ian coughed loudly, ignoring the left side of his face where it still stung from her vicious, openhanded slap. She turned to snarl at him.

Ian pointed to the neat little custom brass sign affixed to the wall just outside the door.

To be honest, there was rarely a need to point the sign out. Most of the pub’s patrons were looking for a fine meal, a fine drink, and fine service. Ian was proud to offer those very things.

But the sign was there for a reason.

L
OUD OR DISORDERLY PATRONS WILL BE ASKED TO LEAVE.
I
F THEY DO NOT LEAVE, THEY WILL BE ESCORTED OUT.

“You were very loud,” Ian said soberly.

She swiped out a hand and grabbed a glass from one of the tables placed on the wide sidewalk on the nicer evenings. Ian prepared to duck but Gideon caught her hand.

“Alright, Shayla. I gave you a chance to calm down.”

She was spitting at him by the time he had her in the back of the car.

“Don’t suppose you could
try
to make my job a little easier,” Gideon said as Ian handed him a wet towel he’d had Morgan bring out. Gideon swiped it down his face and went to hand it back.

“Keep it. My compliments.”

Gideon tossed it in the open window of his car and looked up as a patrol car came to a stop in front of the pub. A uniform climbed out and Gideon turned away without another word.

Fifteen minutes later, Gideon came inside and wedged himself into an empty seat few inches at the packed bar.

“You’re busy.”

Ian looked at the chief of police and then skimmed his eyes over the buzzing crowd that was packed into his pub. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Chief, your powers of observation stagger me. Truly, they do.”

“Smart-ass.” Gideon jerked his head.

Ian sighed and made his way down to the end of the bar. “As you said, I’m busy. We don’t often see a crowd like this in the middle of the week.”

“That’s how a small town works. Something out of the ordinary happens, people come out of the woodwork to talk.” Gideon shrugged. Then he braced his elbows on the bar. “Do me a favor—and be a friend. Go out to Ferry. Stay on Brannon’s ass for a few hours, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Ian narrowed his eyes. The busy bar fell to the back of his mind. Both of his assistant managers were here and so was Chap. Chap could handle the bar. Ian could leave—they’d hate him, but he could do it.

The question was …
why
?

“Define stupid.”

“Anything that would make me have to lock his ass up,” Gideon said grimly. “I think he’ll cool down—probably already has—but just in case.”

Ian had a thousand questions, but he just nodded. “I need some time to settle things here. Have I got it?”

“Probably.” Then he paused. “They’re having dinner out there—Ella Sue was making something nice for Neve coming home. I’ll call her and smooth things over. Charm your way inside if you have to. Just keep an eye on him for a while.”

Gideon turned and got lost in the crowd, leaving Ian behind to wonder just what it was he was supposed to keep Brannon from doing.

*   *   *

“Rich fuck.”

Gideon tuned it out as he finished talking to Beau Crawford back at the police station—poor Beau was now getting the sharp side of Shayla’s tongue. Gideon could hear her through the phone. “Just call her husband,” Gideon told Beau. “If he wants to act like she’s tied a few on, I don’t care. If she calms down, she can leave. If not, she’s spending the rest of the night in her cell.”

After Gideon hung up, he stood there, torn about whether or not he should be heading out to McKay’s Ferry himself—he still had questions, he was still pissed, and Moira …

He cut the thought off.
Don’t go there, son,
he warned himself. That ship had already sailed and there was nothing to be done about it.

“I’m telling you, the prick practically took my front end off and then he flipped
me
off.” There was a pause, followed by, “Probably somebody Brannon knows, driving that Porsche or Jaguar or whatever foreign piece of shit it was. Only car worth driving is American. Everybody knows that.”

Now Gideon looked up, immediately seeking out the speaker.

Clive Owings. He talked loud, he talked long, and he talked a lot of bullshit. He also didn’t like anybody who had it better than he did, and, since he didn’t much like investing effort in anything, plenty of people had it better.

“Who did you piss off this time, Clive?” he asked.

Clive spat out a nasty stream of tobacco into the street and then bared stained teeth at Gideon in a smile. “I didn’t do nothing, Marshall. Was just going through the stop sign and some dickhead almost crashed into me, then flipped me off.” He paused, then added, “Not from here. Had Indiana plates. Fancy car. Probably somebody heading out to the McKay’s. Ain’t none of them able to drive worth shit.”

“Neither can you.” That came from one of the men sitting in the seats lined up in front of the hardware store, and everybody—save for Clive—started to laugh.

“Kiss my ass,” Clive said. But he just shrugged it off. “What’s it to you, Marshall?”

“Oh, nothing.” Gideon smiled and nodded at them before turning around. He had half a mind to head back into the pub, have a drink, but then discarded it.

He sure as hell wanted a drink, he wanted something strong, preferably two or three of them, but first, he had a date with the heavy bag in his garage. The bag and some hard, crashing music while he pounded out the frustrations of a miserable day.

He was halfway home, already feeling the satisfaction of slamming his fists into something, when his phone started to ring, and damn it all if it wasn’t a McKay.

Sometimes, he’d swear they ran his life. Today of all days, he couldn’t ignore the call. Not even if it had been Brannon and his fool hot head. But it wasn’t Brannon, or even Neve, the woman he loved like a sister and who owned a piece of his heart.

No. It was Moira—the woman who owned the rest of that useless, miserable piece of flesh.

*   *   *

“Son of a
bitch
.”

Moira McKay—formerly Moira Hurst—was the picture of elegance and poise, even in a tank top and a pair of knee-length capris that bore signs of a long day of hard work. And when she was angry, she managed to swear in a way that made Gideon smile, even as it made him want to cover that cupid’s bow mouth and kiss her senseless.

He hadn’t had that pleasure in a good long while, and for too many years, he’d had to watch her at the side of another man. A useless waste of a man, too. Charles Hurst wasn’t good for much of anything, in Gideon’s opinion, and he certainly hadn’t been good enough for the likes of Moira. A mutual appreciation for history and curating just wasn’t grounds for a relationship, if you asked him.

You needed heat.

You needed love.

He’d thought they’d had both, but Moira had left him anyway.

Of course, after less than three years of marriage, she’d separated from Charles. Not that the man was giving up.

“Why now?”

Her soft, tired sigh came to him across the parking lot and he gave up on what he’d hoped would be a few personal moments to soothe his battered heart.

Taking care to make noise as he moved away from the shaded spot where he’d parked his car, he softly said, “Moira.”

She’d already disconnected when he answered even though it had been on the second ring, but that hadn’t kept him from heading over here. Of course it hadn’t. He might as well have a hook in his mouth.

Her head came up. A faint smile curled her lips, but it was gone just as fast, almost as if she hadn’t realized she was smiling.

She cocked a brow at him. “Well, it’s nice to know the law enforcement in this part of the country is still around when you need them.”

He followed the line of her gaze. A mix of frustration and borderline anger moved through him, although he hid both. Voice neutral, he said, “You called me because your tire is flat?”

“I didn’t call you.”

He took out his phone and pulled up the call log.

She groaned and then rubbed her temple. “Sorry. I must have hit the autodial when I was packing up my things for the day.” Then she gave him a cheery smile. “But the timing is lovely. Can you give me a hand?”

The anger, the irritation—all of it misplaced—drained away and he managed a smile. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t loved him enough. It wasn’t her fault he wasn’t able to cut the ties that bound him to her and just leave. “Of course. Serve and protect—that’s the job, right, Moira?”