Wild Irish Rogue

By Genie Gabriel

Can a hot-tempered Irish rogue become a loving dad, a heroic cop, and a small town legend? After a series of tragedies, Bernie O'Shea turns his Irish stubbornness to becoming a loving dad, a heroic cop, and a small-town legend. He doesn't plan on finding a woman who becomes his courageous life partner or enemies among those he thought were his friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781624203787

Book preview

Chapter One

TIMELINE: Circa 1977

Bernie O'Shea grinned at his buddy as they maneuvered around the pickups and aging cars already crowding the street in front of an older ranch-style house. Looked like every off-duty cop in the county was here. Ah, Denny, we're gonna have fun tonight. I can feel it in my Irish bones.

You just want a piece of JessieBelle. They stepped over the cracks in the sidewalk and rapped on the door before pushing it open.

Bernie's grin widened as they stepped through the doorway and into the raucous music and noise of a party in full swing. They drew foaming mugs of green beer from the keg, clinked the rim of their glasses together and drank deep draughts of the brew.

Denny slipped off with a woman wearing a green derby in celebration of St. Patrick's Day, and Bernie wandered toward the back of the house. JessieBelle said she would be waiting for him. He had been hot for that woman for years.

You looking for me, O'Shea?

Bernie turned toward at the sound of the woman's voice. Dressed in a long, green satin dress, JessieBelle lounged in a doorway framed by a rainbow and a leprechaun with his pot of gold. He strode toward her and reached out a hand. She stepped away with a giggle; her long, jet black hair swirling as she turned.

He followed her into the bedroom and kicked the door closed behind him. I've waited a long time for you to come around to me.

What makes you think you're so special? JessieBelle sat on the king-sized bed and grabbed several pills from the nightstand, washing them down with green beer.

Well, I'm Irish, and I seem to have pleased a few select ladies.

JessieBelle laughed. I'm not picky as long as the money is right—Irish or German or whatever. I've screwed almost every guy in the county. Had 'em bigger. Had 'em better. Think I'd settle for just one?

So you are a whore. Bernie knew this, but it sure didn't feel good to have it thrown in his face.

And you like it. JessieBelle lunged at him and scraped her fingernails across Bernie's face.

He pushed her hand away, and she came at him again with a hiss, baring the fingernails on both hands like an enraged alley cat. She jumped onto Bernie's back and clawed at his face and eyes. He swung her around and onto the bed. Stop it, Jessie!

But she didn't. She cackled and hissed and flew at his face again. This time he put an arm around her and snugged her back against him.

Just calm her down and leave, Bernie thought. Within seconds, she slumped limp in his arms. He laid her on the bed, propping her up against the pillows. This was a bad idea, Jessie. I shouldn't have come here.

When she didn't respond, Bernie gently shook her shoulder. JessieBelle?

She should be coming around by now. But her body seemed too relaxed, sliding sideways on the black satin pillows. A sense of urgency spurted through Bernie's veins as he held his fingers at the base of her neck, searching for a pulse.

She can't be dead! The thought instantly cleared any remaining alcohol from his brain.

Help me! Bernie bellowed as he searched for that elusive pulse beat. Finally, he found one. Weak and thready, but there.

One of his peers staggered into the bedroom. You never went in for kinky sex before, O'Shea. You want a threesome?

She's barely breathing. Get an ambulance here quick.

Shit. The other cop zipped up his jeans and hustled for the phone.

Several others entered the room as Bernie rolled JessieBelle onto her side and checked her airway.

Still have a pulse? Another off-duty officer asked.

Bernie nodded.

Respiration?

Shallow, but breathing.

What are those pills on the nightstand?

There aren't any pills here.

Bernie cursed. How many of the damn things did she take?

Soon a siren echoed in the distance, the sound growing closer and closer. In this small town, Bernie knew it would be one of a handful of volunteer medical techs driving the ambulance and someone on duty from Halo's police department.

The siren stopped abruptly and two men hustled into JessieBelle's bedroom. Give Leland some space to work here.

Randall Weston glared at Bernie and the others gathered around the bed. Out.

Bernie frowned, then backed out of the room. He didn't like Weston. Figured he was handed the job of police chief because his daddy was quite a legend in Nevada. Unfortunately, what he had seen of this guy leaned toward cruelty and corruption. However, he was a superior officer and Bernie was still a rookie.

The minutes stretched long in Bernie's spinning mind until Weston emerged from the room, shaking his head.

Bernie stepped toward the door. She was alive when you went in there. We all saw that.

Several other guys nodded.

How much have you had to drink tonight, O'Shea?

A few beers. What does that have to do with JessieBelle?

Everyone knows your Irish temper gets shorter when you get drunk.

Bernie grabbed the front of Weston's shirt. I'm not drunk—

Weston's beefy hands landed with a smack on Bernie's wrists. Just like you're not angry now.

Bernie eased his grip and released the other man. Weston shrugged his shoulders and straightened the collar of his shirt. A woman is dead under suspicious circumstances, and you were the last one to see her conscious.

What are you saying?

I'm saying you're under arrest. Weston waved to one of the other off-duty police officers. Swaggerty, you're on the clock. Read him his rights and cuff him.

The other officer glanced from Weston to Bernie.

That's an order. Weston disappeared back into JessieBelle's room.

The other cop shrugged almost apologetically at Bernie as he recited the Miranda rights and cuffed his hands behind his back.

~ * ~

You're going to hurt someone bad if you don't control that temper and quit drinking. Don't learn the hard way like your father did. He never should have been behind the wheel of that car. Killed both himself and your mother. The admonishments of his grandfather pounded in Bernie's head as he sat in the single concrete cell that passed as Halo's jail.

Denial that JessieBelle was dead had given way to the reality that he was sitting in jail charged with killing her. Over and over in his head, he had gone through the events of the previous night. Everyone at the party had been drinking and some had taken pills, including Jessie. But the pills seemed to amp her up—until Bernie locked his arm around her to calm her down. Had he applied too much pressure? He thought he was being careful, but she was out-of-control and he had a downed a few beers himself.

If he was brutally honest, Bernie also had to admit he was angry with JessieBelle for treating him as just another trick. Shame and guilt flooded him as his grandfather's warnings once more echoed in his head. He was responsible for the death of another person just as his father had been.

From the time his mom and dad died, his grandparents had raised Bernie. Loved him sternly, but also deeply grieved the loss of their only daughter. With the intent of keeping Bernie from ruining his life, they drew comparisons of him to his father. He looked like his father. Walked like him. Acted like him.

After a time, Bernie was convinced he was responsible for the death of not just his mother but both his parents. If he hadn't dropped the cake platter, his father wouldn't have been angry about not having his favorite dessert. If he had done his chores before they went to his grandparents' house, they wouldn't have been fighting over whether to whip him with a belt or not when they got in the car.

Bernie always screwed something up to make his father mad and his mother cry.

So he started to take chances—stupid chances no right-thinking person would consider. Perhaps hoping deep inside he would die also, in punishment for the death of his parents.

When he didn't die, his actions became bolder. Until his initial desire for punishment turned into cockiness that he was indestructible. He stumbled away from a flaming car wreck with only dark smudges across his face. Jumped off Blue Moon Bridge, hurtling past basalt slabs of stone before splashing into the narrow channel of the river thirty feet below, where a miscalculation of two feet either way would have broken his neck.

He approached his job as a cop with the same fearlessness. Wading into fights at the local tavern with only a billy club and a booming voice. Outpacing local teenagers drag racing on a two-mile stretch of narrow road west of Halo.

Instead of hauling the offenders off to jail, he put them to work cleaning up litter along the roadside and sweeping the sidewalks downtown. Other officers teased Bernie that he kept Halo cleaner than it had been in its entire history starting as a mining town over a hundred years earlier.

Bernie understood how it felt to be a teenager struggling to find a place for himself in the world. He hoped by giving these kids something positive to do, they would realize they could make a difference. That's why Bernie became a cop. He wanted to be something other than a kid who always screwed things up.

Unfortunately, that pattern still seemed to plague his life—in a big way this time. A woman was dead and the responsibility for that lay on his shoulders.

~ * ~

Well, well, O'Shea. What do you think of jail from the opposite side of the bars? Randall Weston stood in front of Bernie, smiling smugly as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Bernie barely spared him a glance before drawing his feet up on the bunk and closing his eyes down to a narrow slit. He knew enough to stay alert with Weston around, but he derived some small satisfaction from irritating the man by pretending to ignore him.

I have a deal you might like that will get you out of here.

Warning lights lit up in Bernie's mind.

Are you listening? Irritation underscored Weston's words.

Say what you came to say, Weston.

You want to screw broads like JessieBelle, why not make some money from it? There's a market for babies. Healthy babies a big guy like you could throw. Hell, you might have already been the sperm donor for some of these kids.

Anger surfaced fast and hard. Bernie's eyes opened and he glared at Weston. If I fathered any kids, I'll take responsibility for them.

Weston shrugged. Most guys would jump at the chance to screw a broad and walk away with a wad of cash in their pocket.

I'm not most guys. Bernie stood and moved to the front of the cell.

You'd rather rot in jail than make enough cash to buy anything you want a hundred times over?

Bernie glared at Weston another moment, then spit on his shoes.

A scowl thundered across Weston's brow as he glared at his shoes, then at Bernie. You're going to be sorry, O'Shea. Very sorry.

~ * ~

Bernie sat chained in the back of a police cruiser on the way to the county jail and arraignment in front of a judge, cursing his fiery Irish temper. He had no intention of accepting Weston's offer, but he could have played along for a while to gain more details of the baby-selling scheme.

Was JessieBelle part of the scheme? She seemed to drift in and out of town, so it was possible she gave birth when she was gone. If that was the case, it didn't make sense that Weston would kill her after he chased everyone out of her room. He was too greedy to eliminate a source of money.

But JessieBelle had a son. If she made a profit selling her babies, why would she keep one? And where was that son the night of the party? What happened to Thomas?

No matter how much Bernie wanted to believe otherwise, perhaps he was responsible for JessieBelle's death after all.

The cruiser stopped and the cop