ultimately turned around.
Manfred lingered, glaring.
“Oh,” Walsh told him, “and if I hear of you down there yelling at my manager again, you’re gonna find out the difference between a biker and a real biker, mate. We clear?”
Manny said something that sounded like “fuck you,” and stalked off after his brother and sisters.
Walsh was then alone, in his new front yard, looking down at his new farm, more than a little stunned with the turns of life that had led him to this point.
Technically, it was the club’s farm, and the Knoxville crew was going to do a major run as favor to Texas for their loan.
But in this moment, he felt proprietary and peaceful inside. He did love farms. Oh, how he loved farms.
It was evening, and the low sounds of horses nickering floated up from the barn. He watched the Richards all leave in their various cars, and then climbed the porch steps, went into the expansive house, its industrial kitchen, and found the champagne he’d left in the fridge earlier.
He glanced around the room as he stripped off the foil. The appliances would probably stay, but the table, the dishes, the pots and pans – all of the furniture in the rest of the house – would no doubt be hauled away by Richards’ children. It was theirs, after all. The house hadn’t been sold furnished. And Walsh wouldn’t miss any of it – it was just stuff. But he would be in the lurch furniture-wise. His own bed, table, and TV wouldn’t go far toward filling this cavernous home.
Any regret he felt over Davis Richards’ death was slotted in his usual Unpleasant Things mental drawer, and he went back out to the porch to enjoy his chilled champagne on the porch, overlooking his new domain.
He’d just gotten settled in a rocking chair when he noticed a lone figure cresting the driveway, cutting across the flagstone path toward him. Emmie had swapped her riding outfit for short cutoffs and another tank top, this one navy. Instead of boots, she wore a pair of those ugly leather Dansko clogs every chick at every barn wore.
Her hair was down, and that pleased him into a momentary stupor. It was sheared straight off at the ends just below her shoulders, and was a tangle of tight curls, a dozen different shades of blonde.
He liked for his women to look like women, and her combination of curvy and fit, small but emotionally sharp-edged was pushing all of his buttons.
She reached the base of the porch steps and paused, looking up at him. “Can I come up?” she asked.
He bit back a smile. “You don’t have to ask that.”
“I always did before…not because he asked me…I just…” She shook her head hard and walked up the few steps, clogs loud on the wood. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“S’alright.”
She came to the chair beside him, hesitated, then sat, arms braced on the chair arms that were really too tall for her, looking stiff and uncomfortable.
“No lessons tonight?”
“They all canceled. Because of what happened.”
“Figured.”
She looked down at her lap and fiddled with the frayed hems of her shorts, then gathered a breath and looked over at him. “I realized there’s some things we didn’t talk about. Important, boss/employee stuff. I think we ought to walk through it.”
He couldn’t help it: it was a small disappointment that she hadn’t come up here just to see him. Then again,
Manfred lingered, glaring.
“Oh,” Walsh told him, “and if I hear of you down there yelling at my manager again, you’re gonna find out the difference between a biker and a real biker, mate. We clear?”
Manny said something that sounded like “fuck you,” and stalked off after his brother and sisters.
Walsh was then alone, in his new front yard, looking down at his new farm, more than a little stunned with the turns of life that had led him to this point.
Technically, it was the club’s farm, and the Knoxville crew was going to do a major run as favor to Texas for their loan.
But in this moment, he felt proprietary and peaceful inside. He did love farms. Oh, how he loved farms.
It was evening, and the low sounds of horses nickering floated up from the barn. He watched the Richards all leave in their various cars, and then climbed the porch steps, went into the expansive house, its industrial kitchen, and found the champagne he’d left in the fridge earlier.
He glanced around the room as he stripped off the foil. The appliances would probably stay, but the table, the dishes, the pots and pans – all of the furniture in the rest of the house – would no doubt be hauled away by Richards’ children. It was theirs, after all. The house hadn’t been sold furnished. And Walsh wouldn’t miss any of it – it was just stuff. But he would be in the lurch furniture-wise. His own bed, table, and TV wouldn’t go far toward filling this cavernous home.
Any regret he felt over Davis Richards’ death was slotted in his usual Unpleasant Things mental drawer, and he went back out to the porch to enjoy his chilled champagne on the porch, overlooking his new domain.
He’d just gotten settled in a rocking chair when he noticed a lone figure cresting the driveway, cutting across the flagstone path toward him. Emmie had swapped her riding outfit for short cutoffs and another tank top, this one navy. Instead of boots, she wore a pair of those ugly leather Dansko clogs every chick at every barn wore.
Her hair was down, and that pleased him into a momentary stupor. It was sheared straight off at the ends just below her shoulders, and was a tangle of tight curls, a dozen different shades of blonde.
He liked for his women to look like women, and her combination of curvy and fit, small but emotionally sharp-edged was pushing all of his buttons.
She reached the base of the porch steps and paused, looking up at him. “Can I come up?” she asked.
He bit back a smile. “You don’t have to ask that.”
“I always did before…not because he asked me…I just…” She shook her head hard and walked up the few steps, clogs loud on the wood. “Sorry. Old habits.”
“S’alright.”
She came to the chair beside him, hesitated, then sat, arms braced on the chair arms that were really too tall for her, looking stiff and uncomfortable.
“No lessons tonight?”
“They all canceled. Because of what happened.”
“Figured.”
She looked down at her lap and fiddled with the frayed hems of her shorts, then gathered a breath and looked over at him. “I realized there’s some things we didn’t talk about. Important, boss/employee stuff. I think we ought to walk through it.”
He couldn’t help it: it was a small disappointment that she hadn’t come up here just to see him. Then again,
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