Читать книгу The Cowboy Target - Terri Reed - Страница 13

FOUR

Wyatt knew the mess he was seeing wasn’t normal for George. Despite their differences, Wyatt had been inside George’s house several times. The old man had been particular about having things orderly and neat. One of the many things George would get after Wyatt about. He didn’t feel the ranch was as organized or run as efficiently as it could be.

But he never had a solution, only complaints.

Everything has a proper order, George would say. If you don’t honor that, you end up with nothing but chaos.

Ironic that George’s life should end in chaos. His place trashed, his body broken and his death a mystery. Didn’t get much more chaotic than that. Regret slammed Wyatt again. George had been decent. But now it was too late to tell him that.

Jackie advanced, her weapon drawn. She opened a closet door, peered inside and then shut it. She moved down the hall and out of sight. A moment later she returned, her weapon out of sight. “No one here but us.”

“Did the sheriff’s people do this?” he asked, appalled at the idea that they’d destroy George’s house.

“No way.” Jackie set her hands on her hips. “This place has been ransacked. The sheriff’s department wouldn’t have done this. And if the sheriff had found the house like this, there’d be crime-scene tape up.” She shook her head. “This was done recently.”

Meeting her gaze, he asked, “Motorcycle guy?”

“Hard to say.”

He stared at the couch, its cushions ripped apart and the stuffing strewn all over. The coffee table had been dumped on its side. Books littered the floor in front of a bookcase that ran the length of the wall from carpet to ceiling. George had loved his books. The cover jacket of one caught his attention.

Stepping gingerly over a broken picture frame—an image of George with Wyatt’s father, Emerson—he bent to pick up the book.

“Freeze!”

Startled by Jackie’s barked command, he stilled, bent forward with his hand outstretched. His gaze shot to her. “What?”

She unzipped her parka to reveal a black waist pack. She unzipped the pack and withdrew two sets of disposable gloves, the kind you see in doctors’ offices. She handed a pair to him. “Only touch the edges of anything. We don’t want to leave any prints or smudge any viable ones.”

Disconcerted, he took the gloves. “We should call Landers.”

“We will, once we’ve had a chance to poke around.”

“If there was something here worth finding that would lead to George’s killer, don’t you think the law and whoever did this would have found it?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Shaking his head, he picked up the book, careful to touch only the edges of the faded gilt spine. The brushed-cloth cover was frayed at the edges, the pages inside yellowed. He opened the cover flap and read the inscription.

Emerson Stone Monroe, 1854

Wyatt’s great-grandfather and his father’s namesake.

This had been his father’s favorite treasure. The volume he held in his hand was a first edition, American printing, worth some money. Wyatt hadn’t seen the book since he was a kid. He’d wondered what happened to it. “Why did George have my father’s book?”

“What’s that?” Jackie asked. She’d moved to the desk in the corner and was methodically looking at every item on the surface and in the drawers.

“Moby-Dick. It was my father’s at one time. Not sure why George had it.”

“See, you found something odd that anyone else wouldn’t have known was out of place. Maybe your dad gave it to him as a gift.”

“Could be.”

“Check it. Maybe George hid something in it.”

Wyatt leafed through the pages and discovered an envelope addressed to George in Emerson Monroe’s rigid lettering. Wyatt’s heart squeezed tight. He knew what this was. Upon his father’s death, Wyatt, Wyatt’s mother, Carl and Penny Kirk, and George all received an envelope from Emerson. Wyatt’s letter was tucked away in his top dresser drawer. Sadness crept in as he recalled every word he’d memorized.

Dear Son,

If you’re reading this, then I have left this earth. I know I haven’t always been the best father or made the best decisions, but I want you to know that I love you. I am proud of you. Proud of the man you are becoming. A man so much better than me.

Emerson

With shaky hands, Wyatt slipped the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read the letter Emerson Monroe had written to his friend George.

George,

Watch over my son. See that he makes good decisions and exercises good judgment. Traits you have that I don’t. Thank you for being a good friend.

Emerson

Wyatt wasn’t sure how he felt about the note or the fact that his father had asked his friend to “watch over” him. Had George stayed on the ranch all these years out of duty to Wyatt’s father? He felt as if he’d taken a hoof in the gut. Memories of all the times Wyatt told George to worry about his own responsibilities while Wyatt took care of the day-to-day running of the ranch horrified him.

He opened the book to replace the letter and envelope. A small scrap of paper fell out. He picked it up and stared at the numbers written across the front.

41557922-104952393

He turned the scrap of paper over. Blank on the

other side.

“Do you know about this upcoming town-hall meeting?”

Jackie’s question drew his attention away from the strange numbers. “There’s one a month. Nothing special about them. Mostly a chance for folks to get together. Why?”

She held up a flyer just like the one he had at home. She flipped it over. “Look at this.”

In big, bold letters were the words KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT OR ELSE.

Tucking the piece of paper back into the book, he crossed to her side. “Sounds like a warning.”

“Yep. And whatever George knew got him killed.”

“Why didn’t Landers find it?”

“It was stuck to the back of a National Geographic magazine.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Time to call the sheriff.”

Twenty minutes later they greeted Landers in the driveway.

“What are you two doing out here?” Landers asked.

Wyatt’s defenses bristled at the accusing tone in his stepfather’s voice. “I own the house.”

Landers cut him a sharp glance. “I’m well aware of that. However, you shouldn’t be anywhere near the place, not while you’re still a person of interest in the investigation.” He pinned Jackie with a hard look. “You should know this.”

She shrugged, clearly unrepentant. “I’m a private citizen now. Came here with the property owner. No laws were broken.”

Jackie had said something before about having been in law enforcement. At the time he hadn’t thought too much about it, but now he was curious to know in what capacity she had served.

“It doesn’t look good,” Landers groused.

“Murder’s never pretty, boss,” Jackie shot back.

Wyatt fought the urge to laugh. He really liked her spunk.

“We did find something of interest, though,” she said.

Landers’s gray eyes widened. “You went inside and searched the house?”

“To make sure whoever trashed the place wasn’t still lurking about,” Jackie stated. She held up the flyer for the town meeting with her gloved hand. “I’d say George had an enemy. We just need to find out who.”

“Not we, Ms. Blain,” Landers said in an adamant tone. “You two stay away from my investigation.”

“Some would consider you investigating your stepson a conflict of interest,” Jackie said, her tone bland.

Landers narrowed his gaze. “I’ve already put in a call to the state police. They’ll be sending someone over to assist.”

Jackie’s mouth quirked. “Good to know.”

Landers reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and used it to take the flyer from Jackie’s hands. “Now, I suggest you two go back to the main house and stay there. Let me do my job.”

With a snap, Jackie yanked off the plastic gloves. “Have you found the primary crime scene yet?”

Exasperation crossed Landers’s face. “Stop fishing, Ms. Blain. You know I can’t divulge information on an ongoing investigation.”

Jackie’s lips twisted in a wry half smile. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Why do you say that?” Wyatt asked, finding their banter entertaining and informative.

“Because if they had found the place where George had been murdered, then they would be asking you questions to see if they could place you at the scene. But because you’re still walking around a free man, I’m guessing they have yet to determine George’s whereabouts the night of his death.”

Landers looked at Wyatt, his gray eyes probing, almost pleading. “Wyatt, for your mother’s sake, please don’t do anything to throw any more suspicion on yourself. Stay close to home and out of my way.”

With that, Landers strode away, carrying the threatening note by the corner. Wyatt stared after him, pleased by Landers’s show of concern for his mother’s peace of mind.

“What’s up with you and your mom?” Jackie asked, peering at him intently.

“I haven’t talked to her.” The last thing he needed was to deal with his mother. Her calls had increased in the past twenty-four hours. She’d want to smother him with concern and demand an explanation. Just as she had the night Dina had died. But he wasn’t willing to tell anyone what happened that horrible night. No matter what.

Jackie tucked her arm around Wyatt’s and led him to his 4x4. “Come on, cowboy, we’ve another stop to make before we do as the sheriff asks.”

* * *

Half an hour later, they stood at the fence line on the southwest corner of the property. The fresh snow from last night’s storm had covered the tire tracks of the motorcycle. They drove along the fence for several yards but saw no signs of damage or tampering.

“Our mysterious cyclist most likely doubled back and left the property,” Jackie said. She had her hands jammed into the pockets of her parka. Wild blond curls stuck out from beneath the edges of her bright pink beanie. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were bright in the winter sun.

Attraction flared and he tamped it down because the last thing he needed was to be distracted by her beauty.

“What form of law enforcement were you in?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “I was a deputy sheriff in Atkins, Iowa.”

That explained the driving. But then again, being from Boston also explained her driving. He shook his head. “You’re just full of surprises.”

Her grin knocked him back a step. Keeping himself immune to her charms was proving impossible.

“I like to keep things interesting.”

Though his mouth felt as if he had cotton balls stuffed into his cheeks, he asked, “What made you decide to go into law enforcement?”

With a shrug, she said, “I wanted excitement. I grew up watching reruns of Charlie’s Angels. The original series.” Her grin widened. “I wanted to carry a gun.”

Warning bells clanged in his head. This wasn’t a girl who wanted to shoot pop cans off fence posts with a pelt gun. She wanted to chase drug runners and wear spandex. What was spandex, anyhow? All he knew was that it melted next to Wyoming campfires. He adjusted his hat. “And which character did you want to be?”

He was sure she’d say Farah Fawcett’s. She was an icon even beyond the TV show.

“Sabrina.”

The tomboy. Okay, so much for thinking he could predict anything about Jackie Blain. “Why?”

“She was the smartest, the most savvy and the one who saved the day more than the others.”

He couldn’t say whether her assessment was true or not. He’d only seen the show a few times. And only to watch Farrah. “Why did you change professions?”

Her expression grew pensive. “Personal reasons.”

Concern hit him like a cold wind across the plain. “Were you injured?”

The thought of a bullet tearing through her perfect skin slammed through him, making his fist curl to keep himself from reaching out to her.

She let out a humorless laugh. “No. Nothing like that.”

Hardness settled in her blue eyes, making them shine like crystal. She looked away, and he glimpsed a shadow of hurt. Something bad had happened to her, something that still caused her pain. But apparently she had no intention of sharing her inner turmoil with him.

Which was fine with him. He had enough of his own secret torments. He didn’t want to take on anyone else’s.

Yet he couldn’t stop the welling compassion making him want to take her in his arms and soothe away whatever haunted her.

He jammed his hands into his pockets.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“We should get back to the house for lunch,” he finally said when he couldn’t take the tension any longer. “Gabby’ll be wondering about us.”

“I’m sure she’s having fun with Spencer,” Jackie said, her expression clearing, her smile tender. “He’s getting spoiled with so much attention. I’m afraid when we go back home he’ll be one sad puppy.”

Wyatt had a feeling there would be several sad people, too.

* * *

When they arrived back at the ranch, Wyatt put the book he’d taken from George’s house on the bookshelf in the living room. He supposed he should have okayed it with the sheriff, but because the book belonged to the Monroe family, Wyatt didn’t see the need to ask permission. He’d apologize later if need be.

Gabby skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Daddy!” she squealed and ran toward him.

He scooped her up into his arms. White powder dusted her nose, and a smear of chocolate ran the length of her chin. “What have you been up to?”

“I made chocolate-chip cookies,” she said with pride.

He lifted his nose to smell the air. “Hmm. I can smell them baking. What a big girl you are to be making cookies.”

She grinned. “I am a big girl.”

There was a knock at the front door. Wyatt set Gabby down. “Go on back to the kitchen,” he directed her and headed toward the living room as Penny came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron.

“I’ll get it,” Wyatt said. He reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

The man standing on the porch wore a thick wool coat over a navy blue suit, white dress shirt, red power tie and black, shiny wing tips. His salted hair was barely visible beneath the wool watch cap pulled low over his ears.

“Good afternoon, Wyatt,” Richard Pendleton said.

Irritation sluiced through Wyatt’s blood. This was the fourth time in the past month the man had shown up uninvited on his porch.

The first time, Wyatt heard him out. The man represented a mining corporation. The Degas Group wanted to buy the mineral rights to his property and the transportation rights to use it during the mining of his neighbors’ land.

Wyatt had no intention of agreeing to either request. “What are you doing here? My answer has not changed.”

“May I come in?” he asked, undaunted. His expression was polite, his gaze friendly.

“I’d rather you didn’t. We have nothing to talk about.”

“You may want this to go away, but it’s not going to. Your neighbors won’t let it. We’ll double our offer,” he said.

They’d already offered him a half a million dollars. Now they wanted to give him a million? For rights that may or may not pan out.

Neither he nor his father before him had ever allowed any type of surveying on the Monroe ranch. Wyatt had too much respect for the land to even contemplate robbing the soil of the minerals God had enriched it with, whatever they may be. Nor was he going to allow outsiders to use the road his father had built and grant his neighbors access to it out of a sense of community.

“No.”

The congenial facade dropped. Pendleton narrowed his brown eyes. His voice dipped to a menacing growl. “You won’t be able to keep the land tied up forever, Mr. Monroe.”