Page 11 of Welker

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.

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