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

A smile tugged at him. “Touché. Uh, why doesn’t your daughter speak to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Her eyes clouded over. She dropped her gaze to her suddenly twisting hands. “Because Mr. Hayes hurt her, and I didn’t protect her.”

White hot fury blazed through him with the images her words provoked. So she’d known. All along, she’d known. He squeezed his hand into a fist to keep his fingers from shaking. He pushed the images away and concentrated on something more immediate than Wallace Hayes. “Is it possible Robert Kingsley is Jo’s father and not Charles Weatherford?”

His question startled her. After her stunned silence, stark red crawled up her neck and stained her cheeks.

“I’m sorry—”

She cut him off. “—That is quite impossible.” Her features cleared and her tone returned to its previous softness. “Do you think that’s why Josephine is so angry with me? Do you think Mr. Hayes is responsible? Is he the one who tried to hurt my Josephine?”

Wyn leaned back and drummed the fingers of one hand on his knee. “I can’t say why she might be angry with you,” he said gently. “But I think Mr. Hayes wanting to hurt her, well, that is a distinct possibility. Mrs. Hayes, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions for me.” He wouldn’t blame her for turning him away.

“Anything. Anything, at all, Mr. Smith.”

“Out of curiosity, do you remember having visitors during your stay at Auburn?”

“Oh, no. Just Mr. Hayes, and then Lydia found me.” She spoke so quietly, Wyn had to lean in to hear her. “Oh, and Mary came once…I think.”

Shock vibrated through him. “Mary? Mary Montgomery?”

Her eyes glazed to a distant past. “I thought there was someone else. A man she argued with. I thought I recognized him, but—Charles, my dear Charles was dead.” She shook her head and her gaze focused. “My memory is hazy, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry, it must have been Mr. Hayes. He visited me regularly and was always so…so cross.” She shuddered and rubbed her arms with her hands.

“What of Mr. Styles?”

“Mr. Styles? I vaguely remember a Mr. Styles. He never visited. That would have been improper. He worked in shipping as I recall. He was quite happily married, you see. His wife was lovely. They had the cutest little boy…”

The door flew back, and Eleanor’s avenging angel stood in the arch. “Mother. Are you all right?” Lydia rushed over and kneeled, taking her mother’s frail hands. After taking a long moment to study her, she rose and sat down next to her.

“It’s all right.” Eleanor patted Lydia’s hand. “I’m fine, dear.”

Lydia turned and glared at Wyn

One of the maids had followed Lydia and was weighed down with a full tea tray. Wyn rose quickly, took the tray, and set it on the low table between them.

“Mr. Smith was just asking me about Mr. Styles. I don’t know that you would remember him, Lydia dear.”

“He was here the other night,” Lydia said.

“That’s impossible, dear. Mr. Styles died around the time your father did. In the war. You were much too young to remember him.”

Alarm clanged Wyn’s senses. “What do you mean he was here the other night?”

“When Jo—er, when Jackson brought—er, when you spoke to…” Her eyes implored him to understand.

But this was important. “Styles? Was here?”

Lydia shot a glance to her mother. “Perhaps we should talk about this at a later time.” She rose to her feet and moved to the small settee. “Tea, Mother?”

“Why, yes, dear. That would be lovely.”

Esther appeared at the door and Wyn ran a finger around his shirt collar. The room grew stifling with all the people crowding in. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. Miss Josephine isn’t here. I found this note on her nightstand.”

Wyn took the note from her outstretched hand. “When did this come?”

Eleanor wriggled in her chair. “Earlier. Harriet brought it to me after she’d breakfasted. I told her I would give it to Josephine. I thought it might be a nice way to break the barrier between us.” She shook her head sadly, her cloudy eyes tearing up.

He glanced down and scanned the note. It was short.

Jo. Meet me at the lighthouse. Don’t tell anyone. Hurry. Jackson.

20

T

he hike to the lighthouse was much more difficult than usual due to Jo’s sore ankle. The blustering wind and blowing rain and sleet obscured her vision to almost nil. She huddled deep within her coat. She should have brought Frizzle, but there was always broken glass on the ground left by the kids who hung out there. Things hadn’t changed all that much in the past twenty years and probably wouldn’t for another twenty.

She shivered beneath her wool coat, wishing Jackson would have at least let her call Wyn. The boots she wore helped with the difficult footing, but she could still barely see the path beneath her feet, let alone Serpent’s Point.

By the time she reached the lighthouse, the rain had dissipated enough for her to determine the exterior hadn’t been whitewashed in years. The dull gray cladding matched the afternoon’s ominous clouds and the deafening crash of waves added to the Point’s haunting effects.

She reached the metal door on the far side of the building and gave the handle a pull. It was stuck. Her nearly frozen fingers made it difficult to pry open. After considerable effort, the ice around the frame broke and the door gave way, complete with squeaking hinges and a bottom that scraped against the concrete floor. The only light came from small windows that followed a winding staircase up the narrow tower. Visibility was, at best, pitch gray. She could still make out the stairs in the deep shadows. She wished she’d thought to bring a portable light.

It was quite eerie. She’d been to the lighthouse on a few dares as a child, but as a rule, Jo was, in fact, a rule follower. She hated everything about the lighthouse. She hated the name Serpent’s Point.