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

been found at the bottom, his body battered by the waves crashing over the jagged boulders. He straightened and backed away, surveying the surrounding landscape, the dirt path that led to the island’s historic lighthouse, the ocean obliterating any other sounds. After a couple of long minutes, Wyn decided Serpent’s Point might be worth checking out. His instincts had served him well on his city beat more times than he could count.

“Wyn!” He turned to see the proprietor of Stone Ground Bakery, Catherine Pascal, come running up from the wooded path. “Oh, thank God. Melinda said she saw you head this way.” She bent at the waist, hands planted above her knees, panting. “There’s a fight broke out. At the tavern. Jackson’s drunk again. It’s bad, Wyn. He’s liable to get himself killed this time.”

“Who now? Lorimer? Stanley?” He cast one last glance over his shoulder toward the lighthouse, then with a sigh, he jogged after Catherine back toward town.

The riot going on inside reached Wyn. He pulled himself up straight. As the town’s sheriff, it was time to quit mooning over a girl who would never see him as more than who he was. Small-time. Out of her class.

He pushed through the door in time to see Jackson take a swing, miss, and go spinning like a clumsy ballerina. The man he’d aimed for stepped aside and put up his own fist, catching Jackson’s chin, knocking him out cold. Jackson dropped like a rock.

Wyn studied the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“Julius Styles.” He shook out his hand, looking at Jackson with abhorrence.

“Well, hell,” Wyn muttered. This was the pansy Jo was engaged to? “If he’s dead, I’m charging you with murder. The rest of you, go back to your business. Garrick,” he barked at the tavern’s owner, “help me get Jackson on my shoulders.” He snorted in disgust. “Guess, it’s another night in jail for you, Jack.”

Jo huddled in her old room, but the comfort she normally took there had deserted her. Esther would be devastated if she voiced that thought aloud. The papered walls of ivory silk were patterned with little canaries flitting about. The swirling pink marbled fireplace was dark, clean, and prepared for a new fire for the upcoming winter. Multipaned French doors led outside to her own private balcony. She meandered to the chaise lounge in the corner. Jo plopped down like a spoiled child banished to her room without supper, only she had no appetite.

Her life was falling apart. Victor was dead and now she found herself under the same roof with the one woman in the world she’d sworn to never see, think of, or give voice to. Ever again. The nice man she was dating would never do. She couldn’t stomach the thought of Julius touching her, let alone her thoughts constantly barraged Wyndel Smith, Jr.

Oh, God. She dropped her head in her hands. The only sight floating through her mind was that of the brooding sheriff. She had to find a way to get past her ridiculous infatuation for Wyndel Smith. He saw too much, and she hated it. It had been six months since she’d last seen him. Six months since his mother, Anabelle Smith, had warned Jo off her only son. As if Anabelle had anything to worry over where Jo was concerned.

None of that mattered. Nothing Annabelle could say would sway Jo from Wyn if she didn’t believe he deserved someone much better. Someone unbroken who didn’t need fixing.

Jo kicked off her shoes, dragged the chenille throw over her legs, and hugged it up to her chin with her feet curled under her. She laid her head back against the headrest and trained her gaze out the balcony doors to watch the oncoming dusk.

There were some good things, she reminded herself. Like how lucky she was to have a father who’d found her, anxious to have her in his life. Still, sadness gripped her at all the years they’d lost. And learning she had a father had its downside. It set her apart from her sisters, sisters she genuinely loved. Who would eventually resent her. Another strike against Eleanor.

The door crashed back against the wall. Tevi barged in and threw herself across Jo’s pristine, fastidiously made bed. Lydia followed in more ladylike fashion. Both wore expressions that spelled trouble for Jo.

Explanations.

Lydia toed off her own shoes and pushed at Tevi to make room for her on the soft pink counterpane.

Jo cringed at the mess. She hated messes. She was all about keeping things neat and orderly.

“We have a few questions,” Lydia said.

“Yes, I suppose you do. But we have more pressing matters than Bobby Kingsley.”

“You mean the fact that you are betrothed and didn’t see fit to mention it?” The sugary, melodic tones Tevi purred made Jo wince.

Jo moved her gaze from the window and narrowed it on her sisters. “For your information, the man has not asked for my hand. I barely know him.”

“Where did you meet him?” Lydia said. She wasn’t looking at Jo. She was studying her freshly polished nails at the ends of her curled fingers.

“At the MET.” No reason to tell them it was on the sidewalk outside the museum. Exasperation hit her with a thud. “As I mentioned, we’ve got more important issues, in case you’ve forgotten. Wyn said Victor was shot.” She blinked back a sting of tears, surprising herself. “I can’t believe it. Who would want to murder Victor?”

“You mean, besides us?” Tevi responded.

“Not funny, Victoria Tevis,” Lydia said.

7

Gravesite

O

ne day later, leaden skies and a steady downpour made the day perfect for a funeral. The question had gnawed at Jo all night, so of course she hadn’t slept a wink. Who wanted Victor dead? She studied the surrounding mourners through the black lace of her veil and didn’t see anyone who didn’t belong. Annabelle Smith, Wyndel’s mother, leaned heavily on her husband, Wyndel, Sr. Esther and Thomas, Lydia and Tevi, and a