by Terri Reed
She planted her hand on his chest and applied pressure. She was more annoyed by her reaction to him than his closeness. “A little space, buckaroo, if you don’t mind.”
He grinned outright but stepped back. “You were looking for me?”
Trying to ignore how his devastating grin played havoc with her pulse, she strived for an authoritative tone. “I want you to take me to see where George Herman lived.”
His grin evaporated. He gave her a curt nod. “What do you hope to find?”
“Something—anything—to indicate why he was killed.”
“I’m sure the police have gone over the place with a fine-tooth comb.”
“True, but they didn’t have you along.”
“I’ve already told you, we weren’t close.”
“No, but you knew the man for twenty years. Maybe you’ll see something that seems normal to anyone else, but you know it is out of place for him.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Okay. Let’s go. While we’re out, we’ll also check the feed shed.”
Pleased by his proactiveness, she smiled. “Good idea.”
“But I’m driving.”
“Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She followed him out of the barn to a dark blue 4x4 truck on steroids. Huge treaded tires, like ones on a tractor, dwarfed the body of the vehicle.
“You drive a monster truck?”
“When I need to get out on the land.” He shrugged. “Besides, my regular rig is in police custody.”
Right. The truck they’d found the incriminating knife in.
He came around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Need a lift?”
In her younger days, a remark such as that would have earned him a right jab or a stomp to his insole. Maturity had cooled her temper and allowed her to see the offer for what it was—politeness. “I can manage, thank you.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender and took a half step back.
Thankfully, a bar jutted out of the side of the cab near the door. She reached up, barely managed to grab the bar, then swung one foot up to the running board, nearly doing the splits, and pulled herself up. Standing on the running board, she glanced back at Wyatt.
His lips twitched. “I’m duly impressed.”
“You should be,” she shot back and slid into the passenger seat. Good thing she stretched every day. That stunt could have seriously hurt.
He shut the door, came around to the driver’s side and hefted himself up into the seat. The truck’s engine rumbled like a pride of hungry lions.
“Do you enter this bad boy in monster-truck rallies or something?”
He scoffed. “No. Not my thing.”
Somehow she didn’t think so. Wyatt struck her as the homebody type. A man who liked his castle and didn’t need to show off his testosterone to feel like a man. Not that she thought he was a wimp. There was strength in his hands, his arms. After her shower this morning, from her bedroom window, she’d watched him hefting hay bales from the back of a truck. The man was strong. Probably knew how to throw a punch, too.
But was he good with knives?
She’d give him the benefit of the doubt because she trusted her aunt and uncle implicitly. However, she would still need evidence. Her training wouldn’t let her get away with less.
And so far that evidence pointed toward a setup.
But the question was, who was the mastermind? Someone out to get Wyatt? Or Wyatt trying to make it seem as if someone else was setting him up?
They drove to what looked like a small subdivision about ten minutes from the main house. “Are we still on your property?”
“Yes. These homes are leased to the ranch hands.”
“You provide your hands with their own homes on your land?”
“I do. Keeps them close, and they have a place to call their own for as long as they work on the Monroe ranch.”
“I’m impressed,” she admitted.
He slid her a glance. “Thanks.”
She popped open the door.
Putting a hand on her arm, he said, “Let me help you down, okay? Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle or something.”
Heat from his touch penetrated the layers of clothes and seared her skin. “Uh, sure.”
He climbed out, leaving behind a cold spot where his hand had been. Disconcerted by her reaction, she undid her seat belt, slid out onto the running board and waited for him to join her. He placed his hand on her waist. She settled her hands on his shoulders. Awareness shimmered over her, and attraction arced like a neon streak. She was surprised they weren’t glowing.
He easily lifted her off the running board and slowly lowered her down to the ground. Her hands slid from his shoulders, down his arms, over the hard muscle of his biceps. When she had her balance, she nearly jumped away. Taking a steadying breath, she forced herself to tamp down the attraction.
The last thing she needed was to find herself with some sort of crush on this cowboy.
Better to concentrate on what they’d come to do so she could get back to her life without any damage to her heart or her pride.
At the front door, Wyatt removed a set of keys from his pocket and slid one into the lock. But the pressure of his hand pushed the unlatched door open.
Alarm bells went off in Jackie’s head. She reached for her SIG hidden beneath her coat.
“The sheriff’s people must not have closed the door all the way,” Wyatt commented with a scowl.
Just as he moved to cross the threshold, she yanked him back. “Wait.”
She inspected the door frame and the hinges.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Explosives.”
“Excuse me?”
“Welcome to my world.”
He eyed her warily. “Seriously?”
Satisfied there weren’t any trip wires, she said, “Never enter a questionable door without checking for a bomb. Too many targeted people have walked into a deadly blast.”
Wyatt blinked and stared, his gaze bouncing between her face and the gun in her hand. “You really do this stuff for a living?”
She grinned. “Yep.” She toed the door open and then entered, leading with her weapon.
“What in the world?” Wyatt said as he stepped in behind her.
The placed looked like a twister had recently touched down.
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, “Motor
cycle 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.”
