Shiloh (Wishes #6) Read online

  Shiloh

  by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Kindle Edition

  © 2015 G.J. Walker-Smith

  Cover by Scarlett Rugers

  http://scarlettrugers.com

  Other Books by G.J. Walker-Smith

  Saving Wishes (Book One, The Wishes Series)

  Second Hearts (Book Two, The Wishes Series)

  Sand Jewels (Book 2.5, The Wishes Series)

  Storm Shells (Book Three, The Wishes Series)

  Secret North (Book Four, The Wishes Series)

  Silver Dawn (Book 4.5, The Wishes Series)

  Star Promise (Book 5, The Wishes Series)

  Contact the author:

  https://www.facebook.com/gjwalkersmith

  mailto:[email protected]

  http://www.gjwalkersmith.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or reproduced without the written consent of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Shiloh

  By G.J. Walker-Smith

  Dedication

  For my mother-in-law, Beryl.

  The one who enables me to get on with it.

  Table Of Contents

  1. Prologue – Charli

  2. Meat Recovery

  3. Ne’er-do-well

  4. Cardboard Village

  5. Compatriot

  6. Desert K-Mart

  7. Feisty New Friend

  8. Crown And Pav

  9. New Talent

  10. Groundwork

  11. Adonis

  12. Unknown Element

  13. Team Demon

  14. Eye On The Prize

  15. Zen Personified

  16. Prettiest Goat Herder

  17. Fat Cat Rules

  18. Greek Celine

  19. Mumbo Jumbo

  20. Asset

  21. Fire And Brimstone

  22. Mechanic

  23. Torment

  24. Good Girls

  25. Even Witches Need To Eat

  26. Concealment

  27. Nine Goals

  28. Secret Places

  29. Stupid Shoes

  30. Slumming It

  31. MacGyver

  32. Subtle Offers

  33. Tom Tom Cookies

  34. Boy Band Warbling

  35. A Gangster Or Three

  36. Respect

  37. Protector

  38. Brute

  39. Femme Fetale

  40. Messenger

  41. Raincheck

  42. Witch's Brew

  43. Rules

  44. Bad Attitude

  45. Angst

  46. Chez Fat Cat

  47. Dumb Boy

  48. Secret Business

  49. Killer Bees

  50. Last Defence

  51. Complex Attraction

  52. Catwoman

  53. Home

  54. Larceny

  55. Fool

  56. Bin Bin Ruse

  57. Airhead

  58. Options

  59. Dilemma

  60. Juju

  61. Plan

  62. Greedy Souls

  63. Mistake

  64. Beyond Repair

  65. Hospitality

  66. Distraction

  67. Two-Can Fran

  Prologue

  Six years earlier

  CHARLI

  The stretch of beach in front of the cardboard village was a hotspot for local hawkers peddling their wares. Everything from handmade jewellery to knock-off designer bags were on offer, and one woman controlled the whole operation.

  “Necklaces for you, Charli,” called Mimi, waving a bunch of beads as she approached. “The best in Kaimte.”

  Pretending to take a closer look, I leaned over the railing of the veranda. “They’re beautiful, Mimi.”

  Her smile was huge. “All for you.”

  I shook my head, hoping I looked regretful. Two days from now I’d be New York bound; travelling light was my plan. Being weighted down with beads I’d never wear was nonsensical. “I’m leaving in a few days,” I told her. “My bags are full.”

  Kaimte is a transient place, but news of my departure didn’t sit well with Mimi. She stomped onto the veranda and dumped her spoils on a deckchair. “Where are you going?” she asked, hands on hips. “Kaimte is your home now.”

  For nearly three months it had been. It took a year of travelling for Mitchell and I to finally settle, and the small town on the coast of West Africa was the perfect place for us. The weather was brilliant and life was laid back, but it wasn’t enough to hold me.

  Over time I’d come to the conclusion that above all else, your heart determines the course of your life, and mine was pulling me toward the French American boy I’d lost my grip on a year earlier.

  “It’s time to move on,” I vaguely explained. “Mitch is staying, though.”

  She screwed up her face at the mention of his name, which didn’t surprise me. Mimi and Mitchell had their differences. One of Mitchell’s many part-time jobs was tending the bar at the local pub. When she wasn’t flogging dodgy handbags, Mimi worked there too. She thought he was lazy and flaky, which he sometimes was. Mitchell thought that Mimi was crazy, and the mere fact that I agreed with him meant she truly was off kilter.

  Faith in superstition was practically her religion. Her whole life was spent warding off invisible threats of karma and bad juju. Mitchell never bought into it, but I found it fascinating. Her every tale was dark and sinister, which probably explained why she was too afraid not to comply with the juju rules.

  She once told us that thunderstorms only occur when the devil is beating his wife. “And if you leave your door open,” the words hissed as she pointed at me, “he’ll come for you too.”

  Mitchell scoffed at the notion. “Storms are pretty rare in these parts,” he noted. “Does that mean he’s friendly most of the time?”

  Mimi might not have been fond of Mitchell, but I was. He’d spent the past year moulding my smooshed heart back into shape. Nothing fazed him – not even my recent admission that despite his best efforts I was still feeling crushed. I’d cut Adam loose long ago, but there was no getting over him. Most people would’ve demanded that I try harder and move on once and for all – but not Mitchell Tate. “Get brave, Charli,” he demanded. “Toughen up and go after what you want.”

  It was the shove I needed; and now my bags were packed, much to Mimi’s disappointment. She flopped into a chair. “Mitchell won’t cope without you,” she declared. “He’s too dumb.”

  As harsh as her comment was, I couldn’t help smiling. Mitchell was a quiet achiever – unassuming and irresponsible. But underneath the carefree façade was one of the most genuine and brilliant people I’d ever known.

  “That wasn’t kind, Mimi,” I chided. “You know he’s a good man.”

  She grabbed her bundle of beads and pulled them into her lap. “Even good men can be dumb,” she argued. “But I will keep my eye on him.”

  As much as Mitchell insisted he’d be fine without me, I knew I’d still worry. Mimi’s offer to watch out for him was comforting. The least I could do in return was buy a necklace or two. I pointed at the pile on her lap. “Can I see?”

  Grinning, she rattled them wildly. “Plenty of good juju for you, Charli.”

  It was a bold claim, but everything about Mimi Traore was bold. A staunch traditionalist, she favoured exquisite West African fashion, and no one wore it better. Her boubous, the loose tunics worn over tightly wrapped skirts, were bright, loud and always teamed with a matching headwrap. Today’s ensemble was bright yellow a
nd perfectly pressed. No amount of colourful beads would make my simple pink sundress look that fancy, but Mimi was persistent. She draped a few necklaces around my neck and her dark eyes shone as she explained the power of the glass beads. “The green ones bring you luck,” she exclaimed. “And the blue ones will bring you blessed babies.”

  I whipped the blue necklace off at warp speed. At nineteen, I was not in the market for a baby – blessed or not. I tangled my fingers in the string of green beads at my throat. “Perhaps I should get Mitch a few of these. I’d like to leave him with some good luck.”

  Mimi wagged her finger. “I have something more powerful for him.” The sudden dark edge to her tone made me anxious. “Something very special.” She reached into her bag of goodies and pulled out a small calico bag. “Hold out your hands.”

  She upended a small handful of cloudy white rocks into my cupped hands. Glass beads were a mystery to me, but rocks were my thing. I lifted my head, beaming. “White quartz,” I announced knowingly.

  “Trick rocks,” she corrected. “The devil thinks they’re diamonds.”

  I frowned, which was all the encouragement she needed to explain.

  The land around Kaimte was rich in diamonds. They had lain relatively undisturbed for generations, but word eventually got out and people came from far and wide to mine them.

  “The devil was on their backs,” she hissed. “He made those with black hearts mine them day and night, then deliver them all to him.”

  According to Mimi people are never just rotten: the devil is the driving force behind every evil deed ever committed. Her faith in that was unshakable.

  She picked one of the rocks out of my hand and held it to the light. “Angels filled the diamonds with all the good things,” she explained in a much gentler tone. “Love, hope, good health and great wealth. That’s why they are so valuable to him. The devil has none of those qualities.” The stones clinked as she dropped it back onto the pile. “The angels were furious,” she continued. “So they fooled him.”

  My imagination kicked in, trying to predict the rest of the story before she spoke again – and I was fairly close to the mark. The greedy miners scooped up every gem in sight and delivered them to the devil. But unlike them, he could spot a fake diamond a mile away. Thinking they were worthless, he rejected the quartz stones and cast them into the desert like rubbish.

  “The angels started putting all the goodness in the quartz, not the diamonds.” Mimi spoke smugly as if she’d hatched the ingenious plan herself. “He didn’t know he was throwing away the good juju.”

  I dropped my head and studied the rocks. I’d never seen uncut diamonds, but some quartz was supposedly a dead ringer. No wonder the devil was confused.

  Mimi held the small bag open and I carefully poured the rocks back in. “The trick rocks will look after Mitchell while you’re gone,” she claimed. “They only aid the pure of heart. He is dumb, but he is good.” I laughed out loud at her almost-compliment. She secured the bag with the ribbon tie and handed it to me. “All the good juju he needs is in here. These will save him from harm.”

  If there was the slightest chance that her claims were true, I had to give it a shot. As capable as Mitchell was, he wasn’t unbreakable. That had been proven a few weeks earlier when he was jumped in an alleyway and robbed of our rent money.

  I held up the bag. “So what do I do with them?”

  Probably thrilled that she’d made a believer out of me, she smiled brightly. “Write a note and put it in the bag. Tell the angels who you wish to protect,” she instructed.

  “Okay, that’s easy enough.”

  “Then hide them close to where Mitchell sleeps.” She wagged a finger. “But he must never find them.”

  That was decidedly trickier. Hiding anything in our barren shack was impossible. The last thing I’d tried to conceal was my diary, which Mitchell had found and unashamedly read from cover to cover.

  “I’ll try,” I said unconvincingly.

  Mimi lurched forward, grabbed my hand and held it much too tightly. “You must do it, Charli.”

  Her demand was as rough as the so-called trick rocks, but I understood the desperation. Superstition is a senseless fear. It requires no proof, just faith. And Mimi Traore had plenty.

  I tried to put her worried mind at ease. “I’ll hide them, Mimi,” I promised, trying to wrestle my hand free. “Mitchell will never know.”

  She picked a pinch of sand off the deck and threw it into the wind, mumbling something in Afrikaans. Clearly it wasn’t meant for my ears, but the performance was unsettling.

  My soul held enough belief in superstition to follow her instructions. The day before I left Kaimte, I wrote my note to the angels and hid the trick rocks in a place Mitchell would never look.

  The rest was up to the juju universe.

  Meat Recovery

  SHILOH

  Gladys Evans was a sweet old lady – unless she had a skinful. Then she became a geriatric weapon of mass destruction. Today, she was creating havoc in the local supermarket.

  We arrived to find her cornered in the meat section by a nervous deli manager wielding a broomstick. I couldn’t blame him for being cautious. By all appearances, Gladys’ bender had been ongoing for a while. Her snowy white hair was frizzy and wild, her clothes were dishevelled, and I could literally smell the booze wafting off her.

  “Identify yourselves,” she demanded as we approached.

  We continued our cautious walk. “You know who we are, Mrs Evans,” I calmly replied. “We’re the police.”

  “Stay back!” Her slurred voice was hardly authoritative, but I stopped. My partner Allan wasn’t as compliant.

  “What are you doing, Gladys?” he asked, continuing toward her. “Other than making a fool of yourself again.”

  His blasé tone riled her even more. “Get back, copper!” The old woman staggered back and reached into her coat pocket. “I’ve got a gun!”

  This wasn’t our first rodeo. We dealt with Gladys’ shenanigans at least once a week, but the threat of a gun was new. Erring on the side of caution, I moved my hand to my holster, which turned out to be pointless.

  There was no gun. In an absurd move that completely summed up my policing career in the country town of Lawler, Gladys pulled out a lamb shank.

  “Get back or I’ll shoot!” she warned, thrusting it forward as if she was trying to pull a trigger.

  Unfazed by the craziness, Allan made his move, hooking his arm around the wannabe assassin and gently leading her to the door. “Time to go, Gladys,” he said simply.

  Perhaps realising she’d reached the end of the line, Gladys dropped the meat. “You have to braise lamb slowly,” she muttered. “That way it’ll be lovely and tender.”

  Allan chuckled. “Are you telling an Irishman how to cook lamb?”

  “I’ve never trusted the Irish,” she said. “They’re nothing but a nation of drunks.”

  ***

  Lawler had no claim to fame. That made the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bush town in Western Australia’s southwest an ideal place for those seeking a quiet life.

  I hadn’t landed there seeking a quieter life. I was posted to Lawler straight out of the police academy. Non-stop action and adventure was my plan, but I’d since lowered my expectations. In the year I’d spent there, I’d dealt with nothing more exciting than drunken old ladies and speeding drivers.

  Allan Kelly, the town’s police sergeant, didn’t share my disillusionment. The Dublin native relished the laid-back lifestyle Lawler afforded him. It was such a change of pace for him that he jokingly referred to his current position as semi-retirement. “Gardaí from Ballymun deserve early retirement,” he reasoned.

  After years of policing in the tough areas of Dublin, Sergeant Kelly’s no-nonsense approach when dealing with those on the wrong side of the law was perfectly understandable. He dealt with me in exactly the same way, cutting me no slack whatsoever. That became apparent as he helped Gladys to the car. The
old lady picked that moment to confess that she’d shoplifted more than a lamb shank.

  Maintaining his firm grip on her arm, Allan opened the car door. “What else do you have?”

  “A pack of sausages,” she replied blithely.

  “Where?”

  Gladys dropped her head, telling us everything without speaking.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” said Allan, angling her toward me. “She’s all yours, Shiloh.”

  Retrieving a tray of stolen meat from a tanked old lady’s pants wasn’t the most pleasant of tasks but I was nothing if not diligent. I grabbed the pack of sausages and dropped them on the pavement.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. “The cutlets wouldn’t fit.”

  ***

  I learned a long time ago that not everyone can be helped. Gladys’ career as a serial boozer was long and distinguished. The best we could do was hold her until she sobered up, which seemed to be taking forever. By late afternoon she’d belted out her full repertoire of favourite songs, including a rambling rendition of Danny Boy that she dedicated to her “favourite Irish copper”.

  In keeping with the rest of the town, the police station was tiny. The old stone building consisted of a couple of offices, a front reception area and a single holding cell at the end of the hall – perfectly adequate for a police force of two in a town with a ridiculously low crime rate. Unfortunately for us, it also meant that there was no escaping the noise.

  Allan leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the desk. “Do you think she takes requests?”

  “Please don’t ask,” I begged. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  For a short moment my sergeant’s hearty chuckle almost drowned out Gladys’ crooning. “Make her some coffee,” he suggested. “That might quieten her down.”

  Anything was worth a try. I headed for the kitchen and concocted a brew strong enough to sober up a small army and delivered it to the holding cell. When I opened the door, I realised we’d only been privy to half the show. Not only was Gladys singing, she was dancing – sashaying around the small cell as if she had an adoring audience looking on.