Terri Reed - The Cowboy Target

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, “Motorcycle 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.