She made a disagreeing sound as he left the kitchen.
Mercy was exactly where he always was, on Ava’s bed, leaning back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him, barefoot, in ratty gray sweats and an undershirt, looking like a great big waste of meat as he stared blankly at the TV. It was a WWII documentary, Ghost saw, as he eased into the room and took a seat in the desk chair. Mercy’s eyes touched him briefly, just checking who’d entered, but then went back to the screen, devoid of all color or life.
The prescription bottles were lined up on the dresser in front of the TV, along with a stash of bottled water and Gatorade. A bottle of something labeled as lavender. Mercy’s wallet and keys; a tube of Ava’s chapstick. Little assorted odds and ends of sickbed domesticity. Ghost didn’t know how Ava stood it, to be honest, sleeping in here every night with this hulking lump of disgruntled silence.
“Ava’s making dinner,” Ghost said. “It doesn’t smell half-bad.”
Mercy’s nostrils flared as he inhaled. “Tomato sauce. She does okay with that.”
“She said you taught her how to make it.”
Mercy nodded.
“You’re good with her that way,” Ghost said, sighing, leaning sideways against the desk. “I never had any patience. Not for anything, really. Not like you. You’ve always had all the time in the world when it comes to Ava.”
Mercy’s eyes slid over, narrow and suspicious this time. “Giving me your blessing?”
“Recognizing the work you put in,” he corrected. “You’ve always taken a real interest in her. That’s the sort of thing a father appreciates.”
“Once you get over how much it disgusts you, you mean.”
Ghost frowned. “That doesn’t matter anymore. You two are married now. I have to respect that.”
Mercy twitched a non-smile.
“So I’m not coming to you as your president, but as your father-in-law right now. Because as my son-in-law, you’re pissing me off. Yeah, your leg’s fucked. We all get that. Have the second surgery, go through your physical therapy and get the fuck over it.”
Mercy’s brows lifted in mild surprise.
“Ava’s too relieved you’re not dead to give you the ass-kicking you deserve, so I’ll deliver it for her. You will not turn my daughter into your nursemaid. You will not sit here for months, feeling so damn sorry for yourself that the worry and the guilt break her. Because you will – you will break her. Losing that baby was the start five years ago–”
Mercy’s eyes flared with aggression at the mention of the baby. That was forbidden territory. Ghost didn’t care.
“ – and then finding out about her little boyfriend. What she did to Larsen. She’s hanging by a thread.
“You two, your marriage – you have my full support, because I think that might be the only thing to keep her from going off the deep end.” He stood. “So do your fucking part. Get better. Stop sulking. Be her damn husband.”
Mercy’s gaze raked up him slowly, boots to brows, his eyes black and gleaming with rage. Ghost realized, in that moment, that he’d never been on the receiving end of this particular look. He’d been to war, he’d earned his way to the club’s president seat, and still, he felt the chill, deep along his bones, of Mercy’s threat. He was transported back to the night five years ago in Hamilton House, to the moment when he’d been unable to call Mercy off Mason Stephens. Ghost felt an emptiness in his hands. President or no, he wasn’t the one who held this truly frightening man’s leash.
“Not as my president, huh?” Mercy’s accent thickened noticeably when he was riled. The voice was quiet though, too low for anyone outside the room to hear. “From where I sat, you were never much of a father, either, so don’t come at me from that angle. You wanna be Kenny and Felix? Fine, let’s be them. Don’t lecture me on what’s best for that little girl. You don’t have a damn clue. And don’t you dare fucking mention that lost baby to me one more time. I know what it did to her. What it’sstilldoing to her.” He looked away, with the deliberate dismissal of a tiger.
Ghost was startled by the sound of the door creaking open. Ava stood in the threshold, arms folded, her face drawn into a tight, furious knot. She looked like a dark-haired Maggie, and when she opened her mouth, she sounded like one too.
“For the love of God,” she said. “Are you kidding me? You two have been having – arestill having– the stupidest argument I’ve ever heard!” She threw her hands up. “Trying to decide who actually loves me? Wasting all this hate on each other instead of the people who are the actual problems in our lives?Stupid!” she shouted, hands accentuating her point. “Let it go already! Jesus Christ.”
“Ava–” Ghost started.
“Let it go!” And she stormed off, narrow feet stomping extra hard across the carpet for effect.
Ghost sighed, watching the empty doorframe. “I hope you know what you’re in for,” he muttered, “because she’s going to turn out exactly like her mother.”
“I didn’t know you guys were cattle ranchers,” Greg said, gazing out the window at the fields touched by deepening twilight as they began the climb up the old farmhouse driveway.
“We’re not,” Aidan said, steering the truck around one of the deeper potholes in the gravel drive. Every bump and rattle of the truck tightened the awful fist clenched in his belly. He couldn’t seem to work his face into its normal state of animation. He looked dejected and guilty, when he caught a glimpse of his face in the rearview mirror. How Greg didn’t suspect anything, he had no idea.
“My grandfather had cattle,” he explained, taking them into the first of a series of switchback curves. “And he left my dad the property when he died, but none of us have ever done anything with the place. It’s falling apart, actually.”
“Hm. It’s kinda nice up here.” Greg had his nose pressed to the window like a kid. “It looks peaceful.”
