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ablaze with light already at this early hour. Parents of one-year-olds didn’t sleep late.
                  Ava answered his knock at the back door, her narrow face appearing in the window to check his identity before the latch turned. Her hair was up in a towel turban, and she’d just done her makeup, the mascara still wet in the glow of the mudroom lamp. She cinched her black robe a little tighter over the round protrusion of her pregnant belly and waved him in with a tired smile.
                  “Bit early for house calls, isn’t it?”
                  He ducked his head in apology as he followed her into the kitchen. “Yeah. Sorry, love. I wanted to talk to your man about something.”
                  She glanced at him over her shoulder, brows going up. A silent question.
                  “Thought I’d catch him before he got to the shop.”
                  Before he got to Dartmoor, after which whatever they discussed would feel more like official club business, and less like two friends chatting.
                  “Ah,” Ava said, and her smile became knowing. “He should be out of the shower by now. I’ll send him out.”
                  She managed to move elegantly, despite being seven months pregnant, leaving him to wait in her coffee-scented kitchen.
                  The house hummed with quiet morning sounds: a radio murmuring down the hall, rush of water in the pipes, low notes of voices. There was an untouchable warmth in the air, one his own small house lacked. That energy of two people and the bond they shared; it marked everything, from the hand-print on the frosted steel of the fridge to the multiple jackets hung up at the back door. There was a love in this house the likes of which he’d never lived with.
                  Mercy’s slightly uneven footfalls announced his approach, and he stepped into the kitchen scrubbing his long black hair with a towel. The portrait inked into his right biceps seemed alive as his arm flexed, like Ava’s seventeen-year-old face was winking.
                  “What’s up, brother?” the Cajun greeted, setting the towel on the counter and going to the gurgling coffee pot. “You want?”
                  Walsh nodded. “I wanted to run something by you, see how it hits you.”
                  “I’m intrigued.” He handed over a full mug.
                  “Ta.”
                  “Should I get the whiskey out for this?” Mercy grinned as he poured his own coffee. “Or…”
                  “Not yet, I don’t think.”
                  When they were settled at the table, Walsh thought maybe he should have waited for daylight, because this felt like a nasty confession under the glare of the overhead lamp. He took a deep breath.
                  “I think the club ought to buy Briar Hall.”
                  Mercy blinked. “Come again?”
                  “I want to get a look at the old man’s records, first, talk to him about net profit and all that – but I think a farm that big, and that exclusive could make decent money, if it’s run right. We already said it has to stay a farm, and it has to go to an owner who won’t cause trouble for us.” He shrugged. “Who better than us?”
                  Mercy took a long swallow of coffee. “Okay, so nobody can make something profitable like you. I give you that. But how are we gonna come up with the cash to buy the place? We’re not exactly… liquid , routinely.”
                  Walsh made a face. “Still working on that part. Sort of. I’ve got good enough credit to take out a loan for three-hundred K.”
                  “How much is the farm?”
                  “One-point-six