The following afternoon I was returning from Cleric’s Cove with supplies and food when I heard Mo yelling.
I ran along the path, growing more frightened with every passing second that I’d come around the corner to find Mo being hauled away by Prohibition agents.
Rounding the path, I saw that there was a boat tied to the dock. I hurriedly climbed the back porch, quietly opening the door and slipping through. I placed the supplies on the counter and crossed the room, pressing against the wall near the doorway to listen.
Voices were coming from the front room, only Mo’s was raised.
“Who the hell was it?”
A sheepish voice followed. “Nobody knows, Mo. She said her name was Marline Fortune. Her driver was some guy she called Sonny. James’s boys said he looked a lot like one of the Grangers though. Thought it might be the middle one. Ronny?”
There was a sliver of space between the curtain and the door jamb separating the kitchen and front room. I peeked through the space. Mo sat in the armchair with two men in front of him, holding their hats in their hands. Joseph laid on his side in the bed.
“Remy,” Mo growled. “Remy Granger. Find out who that girl was. I want to know who’s moving in on Moret business. We ain’t gonna stand for this shit. I want to talk to James myself.”
Granger. I’d heard the name mentioned several times already. I wondered who the Grangers were and what their relationship was with the Morets. It didn’t sound like they were on a friendly basis. Maybe Finn had run afoul of the Grangers and not the Morets after all. Hope sprung in my chest and brought relief trailing behind it. If the Grangers had been the ones to hurt Finn, I wouldn’t have to continue on my path to avenge him with the Morets. With Mo.
“You got it, Mo.” One of the men stood, ready to leave.
His partner paused and dared one final question. “Any word on Jack?”
Mo leveled a cold look at the man. “If I get word about Jack, I’ll let you know. When you need to know.”
“Right, Mo. Sorry. Was just curious was all.” Both men rushed through the front door and made their way toward the dock without another word.
Mo went to the door and looked after them as the boat pulled away.
“They don’t mean nothin’,” Joseph said to Mo from the bed. “They’re young and dumb. They don’t get how to adapt to the situation. They only know what they was told to do if anything happened to Claude.”
“Is that what you’re doin’, Joseph? Adapting?” Mo looked over his shoulder.
“Well, Mo, I ain’t really got a choice, do I? I lost that when you stabbed me in the belly.”
I slapped both hands across my mouth so as to not let a gasp escape my lips. My eyes were so wide I could feel the pressure as they strained against the confines of their sockets.
“And the next time you pull a knife on me, I’ll take it from you and stab you again. Only next time, I’ll put a little more effort into gettin’ it past yer fat gut.”
Joseph struggled to sit up. I wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to look Mo in the eye or if he wanted to be in a better position to defend himself should Mo attack. “Come on, Mo. It was a disagreement. Yeah, Jack brought me in, but I’m loyal to the business. This ain’t one man’s game. We’re a team and it takes all of us. Jack skipped out. You’re runnin’ things now.”
“And when Jack comes back?”
“I don’t know, Mo. It’s gonna be a battle of the titans I’m afraid. Ain’t neither of ya want to answer to the other.”
I’d heard enough. I was overwhelmed with the amount of information I’d just learned. Mo and Jack were at odds. They both wanted to run the Moret empire. With Claude in jail, they might just bring each other down.
My mind reeled. If I could find a way to help ensure Mo destroyed Jack, I’d only have Claude to tend to myself.
My stomach turned with nervous energy. Not only had Mo stabbed Joseph, he had actually helped carry the man he’d stabbed in order to get him medical attention. Was Mo really so different from the rest of the Morets? Was he the sole redeeming member of an entire family?
I slipped out of the kitchen to the back porch and sat with my back to the wall. My hands clenched in my lap. Mo stabbed Joseph. That fact reverberated in my thoughts. Mo Moret was not an innocent. Had Finn come into conflict with him as well?
After several minutes, I regained my breath and my muscles loosened. I returned to the kitchen to put away the supplies and groceries I’d brought back with me.
Joseph shuffled into the kitchen, arm holding tightly to his abdomen. “Did ya get any more medicine?”
He’d taken to calling the whiskey his medicine.
I cast a glance into the front room. It was empty. Mo must have left through the front door.
I scoffed at Joseph. “It isn’t the kind of thing I can just ask for.”
“Sure, it is. Ev’ryone knows yer the Moret healer. You can have anything ya want. Ain’t nobody gonna say no.”
“And perhaps ye should lay off it a bit,” I added before feeling immediately guilty for telling a man who’d been stabbed that he couldn’t have a drop of liquor if that’s what made him feel better.
“I’m sorry. I’ll see about gettin’ ye some more.” I dug behind my jars of herbs and withdrew a jelly jar that I’d filled with moonshine. “Here. This should keep ye.”
“Ya know you’re a saint? I been tellin’ Mo that you’ve been sent from the heavens.” He took a long pull from the jar and shivered as the alcohol passed over his tongue and down his gullet.
“Of course, he don’t believe me,” Joseph laughed.
A dull ache burned through my chest at his words. Did Mo distrust me?
Joseph rolled to the side, the moonshine he’d been drinking throughout the day catching up to him. He laughed again and then looked to me with his most deliberate attempt at a serious face. His lids were at half-mast and one side of his mouth drooped. “I’m the only one who really appreciates you. The only one who knows what an angel you are.”
I shook my head, realizing I’d been put on by a drunken fool.
“Git ta bed, ye drunkard.” I hefted him to his feet and ensured he made it safely to the bedroom without tearing the healing tissue at his abdomen.
I struggled to lift his feet into the bed then covered him with a sheet. It was barely six and hadn’t cooled off entirely yet. The blankets still covered the windows, so I pulled the curtain to the kitchen closed behind me, leaving him in the mostly dark front room.
For the first time in what seemed like weeks, I had time alone. I pulled the mortar and pestle as well as a large knife from the shelves and arranged some dried herbs, flowers and plants on the table. Everything I’d learned about natural remedies and folk healing had been taught by Mam. Her own family was from a series of small sparse communities. Without an actual physician, they’d come to be relied on as village healers.
As I chopped and ground the leaves, roots and blossoms, then placed each in a small jar, I hummed an old Irish tune that Mam had taught me. It was the same tune that she’d worked to and had learned from her own mam. I was educated on a steady diet of information about herbal remedies. I was aware of which could heal a man, as well as which could end one. I foraged with my mum and learned which ingredients to dry, chop, and grind. Which could be taken orally, and which needed to be diluted, applied as a paste, or administered in a suspension.
My father was a physician. He was from a long line of Cassidy physicians. Though he’d trained in London and had been part of small practice in Dublin, he’d found his happiness when he returned to Finnigan’s End and began working in and around the community he’d been raised in. It was from him that I learned the most about treating emergencies and delivering babies. I’d learned to set bones, dress wounds, sew lacerations, and deliver a breech baby in a manner that protected both the mum and babe.
The smell of elderberry leaves, lavender, peppermint and the soil-rich aroma of mallow and menguilié roots filled the kitchen when I’d finished. I wiped down the table and rinsed my hands. With a fresh cup of tea in hand, I opened the door to the back porch.
“Oh!” I tried to recover quickly and not show my surprise to find Mo sitting in the dark.
“Sorry,” he said. “Been sittin’ here a while. Just thinkin’ ‘bout things.”
I held up my tea. “Can I get ye a cuppa?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. He lifted a cigarette to his lips and pulled a matchstick from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he’d flipped it down and against the chair he sat on. A flame sprung to life and danced at the tips of his fingers. The orange glow billowed against the indigo night. The scent of sulfur mingled with the earthy aroma of my tea and the wafting remnants of the dried and pummeled medicinals. He cupped the flame in his hand as he took quick puffs, drawing the flame against the end of the cigarette.
I watched mesmerized. I was as entranced by the pull of the flame and gusts of smoke as I was with the way Mo’s lips wrapped softly around the cigarette. A tremble erupted in my chest, my heart and lungs working as cohorts to prevent me from drawing a full breath. My own lips suddenly felt dry. I realized it might be because I’d pulled my lower lip between my teeth to prevent myself from licking them. I realized right away that either may be deemed a suggestive move should Mo see it.
Hurriedly, I lifted my cup to my mouth and sipped my tea. I nearly choked due to the tizzy I’d gotten myself into.
Mo patted the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”
With my body revolting against me, I focused closely on my feet. I placed one in front of the other and then sat in the chair. The last thing I needed was to trip and fall into his lap. I was certain I’d never live down that humility.
Why do you even care? My mind was screaming at me. He’s a Moret, and you’re here for the sole purpose of finding and avenging Finn.
Why was it that my heart and mind engaged in such intense battles every time Mo was around? I’d never forgotten my purpose around Jack. Or even in that brief time I’d spent in the presence of Claude Moret. But, with Mo…
He’s different, my desperate and traitorous heart whispered again before I squelched its voice.
Mo took a deep drag from his cigarette and leaned back in the chair. He kicked one boot up on the bench across from us. He turned toward me slightly, elbow cast over the back of the chair. He leaned out of the smoke that lingered after he’d exhaled. It billowed softly about his head before it rose into the dark of the night like a ghost. “So, how much of that did ya hear earlier?”
I paused. I was afraid to admit that I’d overheard anything about his family business. His criminal business. I wasn’t stupid enough to think that I wouldn’t be deemed as a risk for everything I’d heard. But I was pulled by my own deeply ingrained ethical code. The one instilled in me by my parents. “If ye never lie, Deary, ye’ll never ‘ave to recall yer lies. Ye stick te the truth, and the truth’ll stick right back to you,” me dad used to say.
I let out a deep breath and turned to Mo. “Most of it, I think. I’m sorry ‘bout yer—” I stumbled, unsure if I should even say the word “moonshine” out loud. “Yer stuff gettin’ stolen.”
“Yeah. Claude ain’t gonna be happy. I been in charge three days and had fifteen gallons of shine stolen. But when I find out who stole our sale—”
He didn’t have to finish the threat. It hung clear and heavy as the summer air in the bayou.
I tried to distract him from his thoughts of vengeance. “You’ve certainly stepped in to take care of everything. I’m sure yer dad will be proud of ye.”
Mo snickered and shook his head. “Nah. Even if I hadn’t gotten that stuff stolen, he’d have found somethin’ I did wrong. That’s the way Claude is.”
An awkward silence descended around us. I sipped my tea while Mo focused his attention on his cigarette.
The one question that was ricocheting about in my brain was the one I didn’t dare ask. “Why did you stab, Joseph?”
Apparently, I wasn’t going to just dance around that question after all.
Mo blew the smoke from his lungs in a slow stream and tossed the cigarette to the soil path at the end of the porch. He leaned back but looked into the darkness rather than at me. “Joseph pulled a knife on me. I had to defend myself. When I got the knife from him, he shouted for someone to give him a gun. He was reachin’ out, and I couldn’t take the risk that someone’d let him shoot me. So, I stabbed him.”
My voice was low, nearly whispered. I couldn’t force enough air from my lungs to give it any more weight. “There were other people there?”
He nodded.
“And they were watchin’ him attack ye?”
Mo cast a quick glance at me as he nodded. “Yep.”
“Who would do such a thing? Who would stand by as someone tried to stab ye?”
Mo leaned forward. He rubbed his fingers across his brow several times before he answered, “Jack. And Claude.”
I gasped. “Yer own dad?”
I recalled the night they’d carried Joseph into the cabin. At the time I’d assume the quiet and somber mood of every man in the room had simply been because one of their members had been injured. Perhaps I imagined they were concerned about their friend. Now I realized how deplorable the events of that night had been. Mo’s uncle and dad had been standing aside watching as Joseph tried to stab Mo.
Joseph—and even Mo—had expected that one of them might hand Joseph a gun to finish the job.
A curse slipped through my lips on the deep and bewildered sigh. “Holy Mother of Christ.”
“That about sums it up,” Mo responded.
It wasn’t just the shock of what Mo had experienced that overwhelmed me. The fact that these men—the Morets—could so callously try to end a member of their own family meant that they would have even less regard for a life they hadn’t created. It meant that—had Finn run afoul of the Morets—they would have easily dispatched him without a moment’s hesitation.
The heavy weight of melancholy settled across my shoulders smothering the miniscule spark of optimism I’d carried with me into Moret territory. I wouldn’t find Finn. I’d never see him again and I couldn’t trick myself into holding out hope any more. My mind accepted what this pit in my stomach had known immediately: Finn was dead.
I blinked against the burn of tears that threatened to gather in my eyes. Grief and fear tumbled in my chest, drowning out any other feeling. Finn is gone. The only thing left for me was to destroy the Morets. Whoever had killed Finn—as well as whoever had ordered it, and anyone who stood by as he was robbed of his life—would pay. I might well die in the process, but I was prepared to meet my parents and Finn in the afterlife with the story of how I’d avenged everything that’d been stolen from us.
“Why?” It seemed that if I could better understand what Mo had done to cause his own dad to stand by as he was nearly killed, I’d better understand what kind of person Mo was.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “A mistake I ain’t never gonna make again.”
I waited, but he said no more.
After a few minutes, he shook slightly, casting off unpleasant memories, or the serious mood that descended over us. He stood and held a hand out as if to help me up as well. “It’s late. We should prob’ly turn in.”
I reached up, my hand melting into his. As I stood, I felt his other hand against the small of my back, and he nodded for me to enter the kitchen first. I looked up as I moved past him. My shoulder brushed against the soft material of his shirt. His muscled chest rose and fell, each breath bringing the heat of his body closer to me.
Mo’s face was so close to my own, and I gazed up at him. A spark of electricity jolted through my heart as Mo’s eyes held mine. I imagined myself leaning into him, pressing my lips against his and being engulfed in his arms, the heat of his body pressed against mine. Desire coursed through my body, settling low in my belly as my breath hitched in my chest.
Mo leaned back as if he had seen each of my thoughts in vivid detail.
Embarrassment warmed my cheeks, and I hurried past him into the kitchen. I quickly rinsed my cup in the basin and set it on a towel.
As Mo reached the door, he stopped and looked out into the dark for several seconds.
I wondered if he’d heard something or was just being cautious.
“What is it?” I looked through the window since the blanket that had been hung over it was still pulled aside from earlier in the morning. I saw nothing but my own reflection peering back at me.
“Nothing.” Shaking his head, he stepped in and closed the door behind him. He moved a chair from the table and wedged it under the door knob.
When he turned, he must have seen the concern on my face. “Just a precaution.”
He took another chair into the front room, and I heard the scraping of wood against wood as he secured the front door in the same manner.
My nerves were on edge at Mo’s sudden concern for safety. The shadows cast by the oil lamp caused the night to take on a more sinister feel. I pulled the blanket back down over the window and laid down on my bedroll. Rolling my head from side to side, I tried to stretch out the tension that had settled into my shoulders from the days of uncertainty—and sleeping on the floor.
“Tomorrow I’ll get Joseph out of your bed,” Mo said. His voice was low so as to not wake up my slumbering—and snoring—patient.
I shook my head. “He’s not healed yet. There’s no way he could lift himself from the floor without tearing the new tissue. I’m fine where I am.”
“Well, I’ll move in there with him. You should have your privacy.” Mo bent over and retrieved his own blanket and makeshift pillow before turning down the flame on the lamp.
The soft scratching of his boots against the planks of the floor as he left the kitchen and entered the front room echoed around me.
I wanted to call out to him. My mind came up with a dozen reasons why he should stay. I’m scared. You were already there, no need to move. I don’t like to be alone. I’m safer if you’re close. But the one that was most true: I want to feel you near me.
My ears strained at the sounds of Mo laying out his blanket in the next room. His boots thumped against the floor as he kicked them off.
I smiled as I heard the distinct sound of Mo picking the boots up and lining them neatly somewhere in his reach.
His clothing rustled against the blanket as he laid down and assumed a comfortable position.
The sound of his breaths didn’t reach me. There wasn’t the distinct sound of increased depth of respirations that would indicate he was sleeping.
I slowed my own breathing, listening more closely for Mo’s.
Was he doing the same? I imagined Mo laying on his side listening for me.
I sent a silent plea to the universe and to Mo. Please be innocent. Show me that yer not like yer dad. That yer nothin’ like yer uncle. I know yer different. You have to be different.
Because what did it say about me if I’d fallen in love with my brother’s killer?
And if I had to kill Mo—and I would if he’d been the one to hurt Finn—I’d be no better a person than Claude or Jack Moret.