Page 131 of Price of Angels

“I’mserious,” Ghost said, “about protecting this club. And if we get culled by some kingpin, more than one girl will end up dead.” His expression darkened when he was met by more shock and doubt. “Let’s not forget, boys, that this isn’t Eagle Scouts. I don’t want to hurt a woman, no, but unless she’s my wife or daughter, I’ve got no interest in protecting anyone if it puts the club in jeopardy.”

He sat back, arms folding. “But I’ll leave that up to all of you. If you want to take the chance, then take it.”

It was quiet a long moment.

Finally, Aidan said, “Dad, this Shaman guy’s gonna be a problem down the road eventually. Let’s just deal with it now. Get it over with.”

“I second that,” RJ said.

Briscoe: “Third.”

Mercy glanced at Michael, holding contact while he said it: “It’s just a meeting. That doesn’t put anybody in the crosshairs. I’m on board.”

One by one, all them voted in favor of Holly.

Michael felt the sudden release of tension, all his muscles going slack in the wake of an adrenaline high. He was so weak he wanted to put his head down on the table, and called on every reserve of composure to stay upright, spine stiff.

Ghost heaved a deep sigh. “Alright.” He looked at Ratchet. “Make contact.”

Twenty-Two

Chaceaway Farm, Holly decided, was an undiscovered slice of heaven. In the daylight, she had a view of winter-browned rolling hills and thick patches of forest. Walking trails snaked as thin pale ribbons, leading away from the barn and into the trees. The barn itself was of the hulking, old fashioned variety, with soaring beams overhead and irregularly-sized stalls.

She spent the afternoon meeting the animals. The two donkeys, a jack and a jenny, Cletus and Maude. Maude was pregnant, and due in March. Holly scratched their long tapered ears and the fluffy poofs of gray hair on their foreheads. They rooted at her jacket pockets for carrots, nibbling at her sleeves until Wynn apologized for their bad manners.

Daisy was a brown Jersey milk cow, with the biggest, brownest eyes Holly had ever seen, set in her petite, dished face. Holly spent long moments stroking her jaw, marveling that a cow could be so pretty.

The barnyard was crawling with black and white chickens and two white domestic turkeys.

They progressed over to the dog kennels, a low-slung building with a tin roof and dozens of chain link enclosures sprouting off to the side. Each dog had an indoor and outdoor space, separated by a doggie door. Wynn took her inside the building, which looked a lot like a barn, with chain link doors for each run. Blueticks on the left, Danes on the right. Each had thick beds, food, water, toys. Wynn let them out to run every day in the fields, he explained, and took them on long walks down the trails. Now that Michael was gone, and he was getting on in years, a young man named Terry came to help with the training, though most of the dogs he sold these days were untrained pups, weaned from their dams and sent off to their new homes.

Wynn was easy, undemanding company, his conversation unhurried, but constant, leaving no time for awkward pauses. He lived alone out here, and was clearly lonely. He was enjoying having someone besides the dogs to talk to.

Holly helped him milk Daisy – he didn’t have a milking machine, he explained – and carry the milk into the house, pour it from the steel bucket into glass bottles to stock in the fridge. They took the dogs for their walks in the field, and she laughed at the Blueticks’ exuberance, the way they surrounded her and sniffed and licked at her hands. Beautiful dogs, all of them.

As the afternoon wore on, the sky darkened, clouds unrolling across the heavens, gray and fat with moisture.

“More snow coming, it looks like,” Wynn said, and sure enough, the first flakes sifted down like powdered sugar a little after four.

When Wynn told her he had some chicken thighs in the freezer, she insisted on making dinner for him. He protested at first.

“I love cooking for Michael. Let me thank you for being such a gracious host,” and he relinquished the kitchen into her capable hands.

“How did you and Michael meet?” he asked from his seat at the table.

Holly ran a knife through a large yellow onion and felt her brow crimp as she thought about how to venture down this conversational road. Naturally, Michael’s uncle would be curious about the woman who’d inspired a call for help. But she knew there were things she couldn’t say.

“I work” –worked, past tense; she had three voicemails on her phone from Jeff at Bell Bar, asking her to come in, no doubt so he could fire her – “at a bar in Knoxville. The Dogs come in there a lot, and Michael always has dinner by himself, in one of the back booths.” She smiled, sadly. “He always looked so angry and lonely, reading his books and eating crappy Salisbury steak.”

Wynn snorted. “That sounds about right. So you were the one making eyes at him?”

She sliced the onion into tidy rings and felt a blush warm her cheeks. “Well, I mean…it’s not like I was…I didn’t throw myself at him…”

Except that’s exactly what she’d done.

“No, no, I don’t mean that,” Wynn said, laughing. “I meant he’s not got the manners of that jackass out there, not even when it comes to the ladies.”

Holly laughed, too, her mind flashing up a side-by-side of Michael’s surly expression alongside Cletus with his ears laid back. Dead ringers.

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