Bad to the Bone

  “I’d like to see that.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, both of them watching each step Meatball took as he navigated the path. Most of the snow that had fallen last month had melted, but there were still patches where drifts had been, and the dirt was hard and cold. Meatball was moving slowly, but he finally seemed to be out of pain as he stopped, sniffed, and watered a few trees along the way. Mostly, he kept a perfect rhythm and pace with Trace.

  “He’s back in tune with you,” she noted.

  “We have been together for well over a year, and you’ve had him for less than two weeks,” he said, that little bit of jealousy in his voice again. “But this dog and me? I don’t think I’ve ever been that in tune with another creature.”

  So he’d never been in love, Molly mused. And the last person he’d been with…was her. “I’m like that with Pru,” she said. “It’s a pretty wonderful place to be with another person. Or dog,” she added.

  He waited a beat, then asked, “Why Pru?”

  “Because we’ve been together constantly for thirteen years.”

  “No, I mean why’d you pick that name? Is Prudence a family name?”

  “No, not really. I liked the sound of it, kind of old-school Irish. Plus, the irony amuses me.”

  “Irony?”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t demonstrate any ‘prudence’ in my behavior the night she was conceived.” She leaned into him to make the confession more playful, but that only made her realize how solid his shoulder was. And how much she wanted to slip her arm through his and hang on to that muscular arm.

  “Maybe I don’t know what prudence means, then,” Trace said. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Prudence means good judgment and discretion. It’s a perfect name for her.”

  “Yes, it is. And maybe your judgment was off that night, but it seems you were discreet. Only telling your mother all these years.”

  “Speaking of my mother,” she said softly, leading him to the crest of a hill. “See down there in the valley, that oak tree? She’s there.”

  He followed her gaze, squinting. “I see three markers from here.”

  “My grandfather Seamus and my uncle Liam, who died as a child. And my mother.”

  “So you brought me to the family burial grounds?” he noted with a soft laugh.

  “It’s one of the prettiest valleys at Waterford. We don’t have to go down there, although I often do when I want to talk to my mom. Grandpa Seamus put a bench up here for Gramma Finnie after Liam died. We all use it now. Come on.”

  “This is beautiful,” he said as they continued along a worn path between more oaks and pine trees.

  “Yeah. I come out here frequently, especially since my mother died.”

  He eyed her, quiet for a moment. “Must have hurt to lose her so young,” he said as they made their way around the last grouping of trees. There, a wooden bench had been strategically placed to take in the vista beyond the hills to the horizon and also look down on the valley where some precious people rested in peace.

  “It was agonizing for all of us,” she told him. “Especially my dad, but…it did result in Waterford Farm in its current iteration.”

  “How’s that?”

  When they sat, she told him the story of how losing her mother had inspired her father to bring all of his kids back to Waterford to start an elite canine training and rescue facility. Three of her brothers had been living in Seattle at the time, along with Darcy, but they’d come back.

  “And the youngest one? Aidan? Shane said he’s a helicopter pilot in Afghanistan.”

  “A Night Stalker, actually. So badass it hurts. He was home for a really short visit at Christmas. We’re all hoping he’s home for good soon.”

  “He’ll leave the military?”

  “Maybe. Probably.” She looked to the distance remembering the pain that crossed in her little brother’s eyes when he’d been home for that short visit. “He enlisted with his best friend, Charlie, and they went through boot camp and then Ranger training and something called Green Platoon to train on specialized helicopters. They’ve done multiple tours together, too. We don’t always know where Aidan is, but he’s been in Afghanistan for the last year or so, with Charlie until…” She took a deep inhale. “Charlie was Aidan’s door gunner on the Black Hawks he flies, but he was killed about six months ago.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “Yeah, Aidan’s really struggling and he told my dad when he was here in December that he might not re-up this spring. He enlisted at eighteen, and we were sure he’d stay in until retirement, but Charlie’s death hit him hard.”

  Trace thought about that, nodding. “I didn’t know your family well, obviously, but every once in a while, I’d see some Kilcannons in town, and I remember a wild little blond boy always being carried on some big kid’s shoulders.”

  “Big kid was Liam, no doubt. They’re the youngest and oldest, but surprisingly close. Liam was a Marine and I’m sure that’s why Aidan enlisted so young. So no doubt that you saw our Golden Boy, Aidan.”

  He reached down to Meatball’s collar. “Now?”

  “I guess I can trust him not to run.”

  “You guess?” He snorted softly. “You underestimate my dog…and me. Watch.” He removed the leash and stood, snapping his fingers twice, exactly as she’d seen Shane do with a trainee a thousand times. Instantly, Meatball stood at attention, his usually floppy ears perking a bit, haunches down, his haunting green eyes pinned on his master in perfect stillness, waiting for a command.

  “Meatball, walk four steps to your right.”

  He turned like a soldier and walked four paces.

  “Three to your left.”

  When he followed that command, Molly gave a soft whistle. “That’s good.”

  “Meatball.” When the dog looked up, Trace pointed toward the open area behind the dog. “Fifteen steps.”

  Molly counted them and laughed when he stopped at fifteen, turn around, and looked expectantly at Trace for another command.

  “At ease, Meatman.”

  He flopped onto the hard, cold grass and put his head down.

  “Well, I stand corrected about the leash.” Rubbing her bare hands together, she blew into them as she scooted to one side to make more room for Trace on the bench. “Is he being trained for a specific service?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t have him long enough to focus on one service, and once I knew I was about to keep him, I decided to, well, keep him. If I train him for service, he’d have to go to someone else. Not sure I could part with him now.”

  “I understand.” She waited a beat, then asked, “So what was that favor you wanted?”

  “Ah, yeah. My favor.” A smile pulled at his lips, a little shy, a little sly. “Something called the Puppy Parade.”

  “Chloe’s event tomorrow night?”

  He nodded. “I got roped into walking Natasha and Boris. Would you…” He hesitated long enough for Molly to know he wasn’t sure he should finish the question. “Be my puppy partner?”

  “You want me to walk them in the parade with you?”

  “I really don’t want to march through Bushrod Square all by myself with two crazy puppies that do nothing but draw attention.”

  She laughed, imagining that, and maybe to cover up just how much she wanted to join him for that experience. “Well, I was going to help run the Waterford desk, but Pru could cover for me if I bribe her with dinner afterward. Let’s ask her when we’re at your house tomorrow afternoon. You can tell her how much you want a Puppy Parade partner, that is if it fits into her workflow chart, assignments, and a timeline.”

  He grinned like a proud parent, which hit her in the gut. “That kid.”

  “Welcome to the world of General Pru trying to win a state competition.”

  His smile faded a little, then. “Speaking of irony, has it dawned on you yet that Pru has the same person for a community service project that her mother had?”


  It hadn’t, actually. “Pretty sure we signed up for different reasons.”

  “What were yours?” he asked.

  She bit her lip, knowing it didn’t matter now, but she sure wouldn’t have wanted him to know then. “I didn’t need any more hours. I had my quota well met that year.”

  A spark of humor danced in his dark eyes. “Yet you signed up to tutor me anyway.”

  “Yeah.”

  He leaned a little closer. “Crush?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Aw, Irish.” He reached for her hand, covering her fingers with his. “Why’d you wait two years to make a move?”

  “I didn’t make…” Then she remembered her request in the car that night.

  Kiss me.

  Thought you’d never ask, Irish.

  “I was scared,” she admitted. “Terrified of you.”

  “What’d you think would happen?”

  She laughed and turned her hand to hold his, loving the comforting touch of his rough skin. “I thought exactly what happened would happen. You’d take my virginity in the back of a van with a dog crate smashed against my backside.”

  He laughed, then he stopped suddenly, pulling his hand away and holding it frozen in midair. “You were a virgin?”

  “Of course I was a virgin.”

  He grunted and closed his eyes. “I had no idea. You faked it well.”

  “I didn’t fake anything.” The confession sent some heat through her and, by the look in his eyes, through him, too.

  “One time and you got pregnant.” He choked softly. “What are the odds?”

  “Apparently, good. My mother reminded me that I come from fertile stock. And you should probably check the dates on your condoms.”

  His soft snort reminded her that he’d been in prison and not with a woman all this time. He searched her face, his gaze intense and direct. “You know, Irish, I got a confession myself to make about those hours in the study hall and library, too.”

  She could feel herself drawing closer, imperceptibly so, she hoped, but he was magnetic and she couldn’t resist. “Yeah?”

  “You got to me.”

  Lifting both brows, she didn’t understand the admission.

  “You had that…that thing. I never really could put into words what it was about you, but it got to me.”

  She flicked her fingers, scoffing at the compliment. “It got you one night in a minivan after a few beers and a brush with danger. Otherwise, don’t try to pretend I was much more than a diversion during your study hall when you were forced to be tutored in chemistry.”

  For a long time, he looked at her, silent. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with a featherlight touch she barely felt. “You are so wrong, Molly Kilcannon,” he said huskily. “I never made a move, because you were so completely out of reach for me. Then you walked up that driveway one night. You and that other girl…I don’t even remember her name.”

  “Isabella Henderson. Dizzie Izzie, as I dubbed her.”

  “She didn’t exist.”

  “Then you were blind, Trace, because that girl was gorgeous, and she still is.”

  “You’re friends with her?”

  “I’m the vet to her dog, and our daughters are in the same class.”

  He frowned. “She had a kid the same year you did?”

  “Stepdaughter,” she corrected. “She married Allen Phillips. Do you remember him?”

  He thought for a minute. “Lawyer? Loaded? Has to be in his fifties now.”

  “That’s him. Criminal defense and family law, richer than God, and has every imaginable trophy, including Izzie.”

  “Well, she had nothing on you. None of those girls did.”

  Molly laughed softly. “You know, that’s funny you would say that, and even that you’d think it, because that night? I was feeling so down about myself. So not pretty, so not…worthy. That’s probably why I fell into your arms so easily.”

  “And here I thought it was my good looks and great kissing.”

  “That, too.”

  He smiled, studying her again. “By the way, Irish, you don’t even belong in the same sentence as the words ‘not worthy.’”

  “Tell that to a nineteen-year-old girl with a few pimples and curly hair.”

  “I love your hair.” He reached for it, taking a handful and sliding his fingers through the curls. “It’s so…rich. And your skin is gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. I guess I’ll be looking for wrinkles soon instead of blemishes.”

  “You’re flawless.” The words were sweet, and his touch was even sweeter, making her tilt her head into his hand for the sheer delight of his fingers and this moment and…and…how close he was. A foot away, maybe, but close enough to count every eyelash and get lost in the depths of his dark, dark eyes.

  “You’re flirting with me,” she said on a sigh.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Am I not allowed to do that? To make you laugh or talk to you or…touch your hair? What are the rules? Where are my boundaries?” Still holding a strand of her hair, he twirled it around his finger, sending chills up the back of her neck.

  “The rules?” Probably that he shouldn’t give her chills. But was that so wrong? Being with him felt…exciting. “Just use common sense,” she whispered. “That’s the only boundary.” And she needed to remember that. She needed the same boundary.

  “Got it.” He leaned a little closer and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Sensible enough for you?”

  Much, much too sensible. “Yeah.”

  “Then we’ll stop right there.”

  No, no. Don’t stop.

  But he stood, took her hand, and snapped his fingers for Meatball, who meandered over, happy to have had fresh air. “We better go,” he said. “It’s dark out here.”

  Exactly. Dark and quiet and the perfect place for a kiss. She looked at him, long enough to let him know exactly what she wanted, but he smiled. “You still get to me, though.”

  On a soft sigh, she nodded. No kiss. Only a compliment. A very nice compliment. “Nice to know.”

  As they walked together, hand-in-hand, Molly knew what she should do.

  She should let go. She should keep things platonic and forget parades and projects and the past. She should practice common sense.

  But at that moment, in the deepening twilight, with frost and uncertainty in the air, Molly held his hand and loved it.

  Chapter Twelve

  It made no sense—common or otherwise—but the only way Trace could describe how he felt on Saturday morning was nervous. For the tenth time, he wiped his damp palms on his jeans and looked around the little house, seeing it through his daughter’s eyes. That had to be what had him uptight.

  He wasn’t nervous about seeing Molly. On the contrary, the time he’d spent with her had one effect on him—the desire to spend more time with her. She didn’t make him tense, unless he counted the low-grade and constant need to lean closer and kiss her.

  Which he damn near did last night.

  But today wasn’t about Molly—this was about Pru. And the more time he spent at Waterford Farm, the more he realized why Pru saw his home as a “service” project. Molly had told him he couldn’t contribute anything major to help unless he was “given” a job—that was against the rules. Pru was bringing cleaning supplies, tools, paint, and, he hoped, a strong stomach, since the house was old, unlived in, and…weird.

  His gaze fell on the giant purple tie-dyed sheet with a peace sign in the middle that had hung on the living room wall since he was a child, then moved to a bookshelf full of self-help and new-age titles, not to mention at least twenty books on astrology. And don’t forget the crystals in every room.

  When did his mother decide to become a hippie astrologist? He couldn’t remember exactly, but it wasn’t long after they moved here, and he was really young. She liked being weird, because it kept people from getting close and asking questions, he guessed. Maybe she ju
st liked being weird.

  But sometime, someday, probably soon, Prudence Kilcannon would learn that this weird woman was her other grandmother, and that was one more thing that would shame the poor kid.

  He marched over to rip down the peace-sign sheet just as he heard tires on the gravel drive. He yanked hard, but the sheet didn’t budge. Of course not. He’d hung it himself for his mother, in an effort to prove to her that he wasn’t like his old man, no matter how frequently she muttered that he was. And, of course, he’d done an over-the-top job. There were probably a hundred tacks holding that sheet up.

  For a fleeting second, he thought of Pru. Maybe some of her determination to do the right thing was from him. Holding that nice little thought, he headed to the front door and opened it as Molly reached the other side, making her draw back a little and let out one of her sassy, easy laughs.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling up at him. “The work crew has arrived.”

  He peeked past her to where Pru was climbing out of the backseat of an SUV, carrying a huge cardboard box.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Just Pru, her best friend Brooke, and her other best friend Gramma Finnie, for today.”

  He lifted his brows. He liked the old woman, but for eightysomething, she was as sharp as one of those hundred tacks in the wall. Could she put two and two together and came up with…Pru?

  “Okay, that’s cool,” he said, shifting his gaze back to Molly. Her face was fresh and clean with barely a drop of makeup. Had she ever had a blemish on that creamy complexion? He didn’t remember any. Her reddish-brown curls were pulled up into a loose ponytail that cascaded down from the top of her head, and she wore jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers, and a Waterford Farm sweat shirt.

  Without trying—maybe actually trying not to—Molly Kilcannon was the sexiest woman he’d ever known.

  Of course, he hadn’t been around many women in the last fourteen years, unless you counted Wally’s admin and the ladies in the laundry. Still, he didn’t have to have had his face in People magazine for more than a decade to know there wasn’t a movie star as pretty as the woman standing in front of him.