A Bullet to the Heart, Kathy Wheeler [inspirational books txt] 📗

features, and swinging on a clipped heel, she stormed up the stairs, Frizzle, loyally, right at her side.

Wyn could have been invisible for all the awareness she’d shown him. A manacle squeezed the air from his lungs, the reddish haze shifting first to scarlet, and then to a white-hot rage. She hadn’t denied the engagement. He stepped into the open and suppressed his flinch at the other two Weatherford girls’ gasps.

Lydia was as pretty as Jo—they both were, really—and they were both laser-focused on him. A second later their piercing gazes shifted above his head, up the stairs, to where Jo had disappeared. “Jackson?”

Wyn snorted his aggravation. “Hardly.” It had been a long time since anyone had mistaken Wyn for Jackson, Victor’s son. Their days of inseparable friendship were long gone. True, they were similar in coloring and build. But the differences between them had grown more pronounced over the years. Jackson’s mother had coddled him into the lazy lowlife he’d become. The man had rarely done a moment’s worth of honest work since he’d returned to the island from his fancy boarding school. Victor Montgomery had kicked his son to the curb six months ago, after Mary Montgomery’s death. There’d been rumors of a wife, but they were just that, rumors.

Wyn couldn’t remember the last coherent conversation he and Jackson had that hadn’t ended in a shouting match. There were a few drunken exchanges down at Rock’s Tavern Grill, where half the town heard Jackson’s intoxicated ramblings, accusing his father of butting into his life. But Victor Montgomery had butted into everyone’s life.

Tevi’s hand splayed against her chest. “Good heavens, Sheriff. What the devil are you doing hiding in the corner over there?”

Wyn moved into the open area of the entry hall, keeping his eye on “Bobby.” The man threw out a hand. “Robert Kingsley,” he said with a practiced smile of all teeth. “Sheriff, is it?”

Wyn shook his hand, noting the callouses. They went with the rough exterior. Wyn hooked his thumbs in his belt loops to size the man up: The perfect dark blond combed-over hair, the broad forehead, the straight nose. “That’s right. I believe Jo asked you to leave.”

Rage flared in the man’s gaze but was quickly masked.

Lydia had found her mettle and went to the door. She waited as the man grappled with the implication facing him.

His gaze raked over the two girls.

Wyn took a menacing step forward, itching to wipe the floor with him. All he needed was an opening. The slightest invitation.

But to Wyn’s aggravation, Bobby Kingsley stormed out and pounded down the veranda steps.

“Wyndel Smith?” Tevi’s cheeky smile beamed him, and she batted her lashes. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Smith.”

As cute and flirtatious as Tevi was, she wasn’t Jo. His tastes apparently ran to the-more-difficult-the-better. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Perhaps we can meet in town for coffee one morning.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. Wyn was tempted to do the same but refrained out of politeness.

Lydia had the most disconcerting way of pinning someone with her stare. It made one feel as if one were tacked to an insect board to store away for future study. “I saw you come in from the back with Jo,” she said.

“Not with,” he shot back. “Behind. I followed her inside.”

Before Lydia could shut the door, it was shoved back, and Jackson was barging in. “Get out of my way.” The man was three sheets to the wind. Too bad Prohibition had ended. Wyn would gladly haul his old friend to jail.

Tevi and Lydia crowded closer to one another. Wyn narrowed his eyes on them and caught Lydia glancing uneasily up the stairs where Jo had disappeared then back to Jackson, raising the fine hairs on Wyn’s neck.

“What do you want, Jackson?” Lydia said.

“What do you think I want? Montgomery Manor is my childhood home. You’re the ones who are trespassing.” His slurred words lost their initial impact.

“Perhaps. But right now, I insist you leave.” Lydia’s grip on the door was white-knuckled.

“She’s right,” Wyn said. “If you won’t leave nicely, I’m happy to assist you on your way.”

“You’re nothing but a bastard.”

Resentment coursed through Wyn’s veins. A picture of his mother’s bleak expression and his father’s harsh features flashed through his mind. “That may be, but I insist you clear out.”

Jackson stood his ground. “Where’s Jo?” he demanded.

Wyn pointed to the door. “Out.” He didn’t raise his voice. Jackson wasn’t usually stupid or drunk enough to test Wyn’s command.

“Why are you here?” Jackson hissed.

“I’m here to speak to the girls. I have news regarding Victor’s death.”

“He’s my father, not theirs,” he said with a petulant pout.

Wyn flicked his gaze over Jackson’s wrinkled shirt and trousers. “I’ll give you that,” he said. “But I have to wonder how a man as sure-footed as Victor Montgomery could fall to his death on a clearly marked path. I’ll tell you how—he was shot.”

“What?” The faint question came from behind. Jo stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the balustrade, the huge dog glued to her side, alert and at the ready.

Wyn steeled himself. “I’m sorry, Jo. The medical examiner did a thorough check over Victor. In preparing his body for burial, Hobbit Jones found a bullet hole in his chest. It was missed due to the other abrasions from the rocks where he’d fallen. We were lucky to have found his body.” He cut his gaze back to Jackson. “Where were you three days ago at four in the afternoon?”

“I didn’t kill my own father.” Jackson’s screech tore through the house. He lunged forward.

Wyn stepped to the side, and with a well-placed punch, dropped Jackson to his knees.

Wyn grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the door and escorted him outside and down the steps. The violence assuaged him to a degree. “You’re not welcome here until you’re invited, Jackson, old boy. Get sober.” Wyn shoved him away and watched as hate shuttered Jackson’s features. But Wyn was in no mood for Jackson’s pity party.