Aequitas, Hope Anika [android pdf ebook reader .TXT] 📗

“Winifred, dear? There’s a man on the front porch. Perhaps you should comb your hair.”

Since she needed a man like she needed a hole in the head, Wynn ignored that rather pointed observation. Never mind that she was trapped beneath the kitchen sink, wrestling with a crescent wrench, which made grooming impossible—and completely useless.

Stupid crescent wrench.

What she needed was a proper pipe wrench. But she didn’t have a proper pipe wrench, and she didn’t have the money to purchase a proper pipe wrench.

The crescent should work. Please?

“Wynn?”

Crap!

“I’m in the kitchen,” she yelled. “Deal with it.”

“Should I let him in?”

“I don’t care!”

“Are you sure? He appears quite…potent.”

Wynn fought with the wrench.

“I really think you should—”

“Esmeralda!” For the love of Pete. “He’s probably here for the room.” She braced herself against the interior wall of the cabinet and cranked on the wrench. “Just let him in.”

“If you say so, dear. I daresay you’ll be sorry.”

The wrench moved—a quarter of an inch. The musty scent of mildew filled Wynn’s senses and tickled her throat; sweat poured down her back. The tight space made it impossible to get any leverage, and the sad truth of it was, she was getting nowhere fast.

Pipe 1, Wynn 0.

So it was only fitting that her new tenant would show up a day early. Before the room was ready. While she was ankle-deep in a DIY plumbing project at which she was failing miserably. When she looked like she’d just crawled out of a city sewer.

Which, really, was just par for the course.

Welcome! Are you comfortable with disaster and chaos? Can you deal with nosy, forgetful, meddling housemates who rarely turn off lights and sometimes set fires?

She pulled desperately on the wrench. Please come off, you stinking thing.

Because she couldn’t afford to hire someone to take it off. Even with a new tenant and the extra cash the farm was producing, it was going to be tight this month. Scraping by…also par for the course.

But it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Certainly not poor Mr. Sanders, who obviously hadn’t meant to die. He’d passed peacefully in his sleep over a month ago, and she could hardly blame him for having done so, no matter the financial hole it left her in. That his death made her sad, and she mourned him, wasn’t something she much focused on.

There was always too much else to do.

She sighed and swiped her hand across her brow, leaving a streak of grime and several strands of sherry colored hair plastered to her forehead. Beowulf the Runt watched curiously from where he sat beside her, his head tilted in question.

“I’ve got this,” she told him. “Really.”

She knew what she was doing; she had a plan. She just needed to get the dumb thing apart—

“…a beautiful day, don’t you think? Winifred is just through here…I’m afraid we’re having some trouble with the pipes. But Winifred is very handy…and really, quite lovely. Don’t let those manly overalls fool you.”

Wynn gripped the wrench, gritted her teeth and pulled.

“Winifred?”

Her hands slipped off the wrench and it gave, releasing from the pipe. It bounced off her ribcage and slid down to clatter against the floor of the cabinet. “Aw, crap!”

Beowulf barked in agreement.

“He’s…it’s the Sheriff, dear.”

Wynn sat up automatically; her head slammed into the bottom of the porcelain sink, and she snarled.

“Winifred?”

The Sheriff!

The beer-bellied, tin-star wearing, evil incarnate bastard who’d killed her mother over a decade ago.

Here, now.

Her heart stopped, and for a long, motionless moment, she didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

“Did you hear me, dear?”

“I heard,” she whispered.

She picked up the crescent wrench and stared at it. Her heart burst to life and began a too-fast, too-hard tattoo; blood roared in her skull. She felt sick.

“Are you coming out, dear?”

It wasn’t a good idea.

Because what was to stop her from beating the Sheriff to death with a crescent wrench?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

She fought the surge of adrenaline that poured through her.

No. It’s over.

Done.

You need to let it go.

But she never had and never would, no matter the futility of holding on.

Justice, Wynn had learned, was for the wealthy. Not for people like her, or her mother, who’s life had been erased with the stroke of an official pen.

Seeking it now would only destroy all that she’d built. All that she’d sacrificed for.

All that Fran had sacrificed for.

So she counted slowly to ten. And prayed a little.

Beowulf whined softly, as if sensing her chaos.

You’re grown now. He can’t hurt you anymore.

But it wasn’t herself with which she was concerned.

“Winifred?” Esme sounded worried. “Are you alright?”

No. But she had responsibilities. People who relied on her not to murder the local sheriff and end up on death row.

So she would have to deal.

Forward, not back.

“Stupid,” she muttered and forced herself to wiggle out of the cabinet, wrench in hand. She told herself to put it down, but the child who’d watched her mother die refused to let go.

“Ms. Owens?”

The unknown voice made her blink, and she looked up, startled to find a stranger standing next to Esme.

This was not the Sheriff.

The man who towered over her bore no resemblance whatsoever to Jasper Hatfield. He wore no uniform, carried no obvious weapon and sported no tin star. Just worn jeans, cowboy boots, and an obnoxiously bright Hawaiian print shirt that was so busy, she felt dizzy looking at it.

So she just sat there for a minute, staring at him.

“Are you Winifred Owens?” he demanded and stared back at her.

He looked…angry. Dark and stormy and dangerous; the walking antithesis of his cheesy, cheerful shirt.

“Who wants to know?” she retorted, eyeballing him.

Her hand flexed around the wrench, and his gaze—which was startling, brilliant lime green—caught the movement and narrowed.

“Beau Greystone,” he replied, his voice rough and deep and unmistakably grim. “Sheriff of Superior County.”

Wynn could only arch a brow. “Congratulations?”

He frowned, and it made him look even more sinister. Which was kind of a shame. Because he was beautiful in a rough, scary kind of way. Like a mountain was beautiful. Or a storm.

Or a lightning bolt that shot from the sky and cooked you to a crisp.

Beowulf growled softly, his amber gaze narrow on the giant who hovered over them. Wynn stroked a hand over his bony back.

Good boy.

“Winifred,” Esme admonished, her Mississippi accent gently scolding and ice sharp in a manner only Southerners ever accomplished. “Don’t be rude, dear.”

“Where’s Hatfield?” Wynn demanded, ignoring her.

The new Sheriff of Superior County had cold eyes, a hard mouth, and lines etched deep into the carved planes of his face. He shifted as he stood there, the muscle that lined his jaw taut, and she realized abruptly that he was in pain. Oh, you couldn’t see it, not unless you knew what it looked like. But Wynn knew. She’d lived with people in some form of pain her whole life.

Sympathy should have stirred, but didn’t. Probably because he was looking at her like she’d