“Well, that’s an understatement,” Tevi growled. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to let Jo and Lydia off with just a nod. “Neither one of you could be bothered to check in with me to see how I would take such news?”
Lydia jumped to her feet. “Ever since I learned Mother was alive, I’ve been working hard to save her from that horrid asylum.” She pounded the carpet in her pacing. “Six weeks ago, I entered Uncle Victor’s office. He took one look at me and the next thing I knew, I was at the table being interrogated by the master.”
Jo hated admitting it, but interrogation had been Victor’s specialty. That knowledge did little to subdue her annoyance. Lydia may have every right to defend her own actions, but Jo didn’t have to like it. Their mother had never been a mother to them.
Jo pierced Lydia’s blue eyes with her own. “Are you saying Victor knew Eleanor was there all along?” The storm of emotion roaring through Jo’s voice had it rising an octave or two. Referring to Eleanor as ‘Mother’ was never going to happen.
“Apparently.” Lydia dropped back in the chair. “That day, we devised a plan. He said the only way we could get her out without Wallace Hayes’s approval was by Court Order.”
“Well, clearly you succeeded in your plan.” Jo was not inclined to listen to anything that would redeem Eleanor. She hated their mother with every cell in her body.
Lydia sighed. “For five weeks, I went to that awful place, volunteered to read, visited with the patients. One day I saw her just sitting there, staring off into space—” Unspilled tears rested on Lydia’s lashes. She swiped them away with the back of her hand. “Then Victor died, and I had to get her out before Wallace Hayes came crawling out of the woodwork and put a kink in my plans. Just in time, too. I saw him today on the ferry.”
Jo froze, literally her fingers turned to ice. “What?” she whispered, terror and panic clawing her from inside out. “He’s here? On the island?”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m sorry, Jo. I didn’t mean to spring this on you.” She firmed her jaw. “But I did what I felt I had to do. And, and…I would do it again.”
Wallace Hayes was on the island. Oh, God. Nausea roiled through her. She couldn’t breathe. Jo rushed to the nook and climbed up, hands shaking so violently, she couldn’t grasp the latch of the window.
“What are you doing?” Lydia demanded.
“So, w-what do you propose we do with her now?” Jo spoke through a clenched jaw. She couldn’t get the damn window to open. “I’m supposed to stay under the same roof with the woman who was supposed to have protected us and failed in every conceivable manner?” It was too much. The walls were closing in. She needed air or she would die. She glanced over her shoulder, gauging the distance to the terrace door.
Tevi jumped up and stomped her foot. “Hold on just one damn minute. I want to know exactly why I’ve been left in the dark about all of this. For God’s sake, you have both let me believe my mother was dead, for years.”
The latch gave way and Jo shoved the window open and breathed in deep. After a moment, she pulled her head back in, feeling calmer. She turned and sat down on the cushioned window seat. “Frankly, I wasn’t sure even it was true. But now you’re telling us he’s on the island?” She splayed her hand on her chest. Her heart still pounded like a drum. “Victor told us she was dead. It doesn’t matter to me, one whit. When we walked out of Wally and Eleanor’s house that day, they were both dead to me.”
“How very convenient,” Tevi fired back.
Jo glared at Lydia. “Well, she can’t stay here. I forbid it.”
“You aren’t the only one who has a say,” Lydia shot back.
“I’m done here.” Jo leapt to her feet, hit the terrace doors, and made her exit to the steps below, Frizzle right at her heels.
The doors slammed behind Jo as Frizzle darted in front of her. Jo didn’t even flinch. How dare her sisters act as if they were the injured parties when it came to Eleanor? Lydia, in particular, knew how difficult things were all those years ago. What difference did it make that they’d been only six and eight years old? That was old enough to remember Eleanor’s second husband rattling the door to the bedroom where Jo had barricaded the three of them. Jo hadn’t dared leave her sisters alone after that incident. Not when Wallace Hayes was in the house. True, they’d never suffered from hunger, shelter, or clothing. But Jo would have gladly lived on the streets given the choice.
All the while, Eleanor slept down the hall lost in the stupor her sleeping pills provided. Jo’s anger threatened to overwhelm her. She’d told Lydia to leave Eleanor be. The woman was a write-off.
Frizzle bumped her hip, jolting her attention back to her surroundings. She touched his head and reveled in the lush overgrown greenery, obscuring the path she was on. She inhaled a deep breath to steady her nerves. One breath, however, did not cut it. Two or three more helped. In her haste, it was a wonder she hadn’t tripped and flattened her nose with the silly pumps she wore. She tapped Frizzle on the head and whispered. “I’m okay, boy. I’m okay.”
The overhanging trees created a cocooned canopy, shielding the house from sight. Still, she kept on the path, moving one foot in front of another. Shivering and glad that Frizzle decided to tag along. He could be quite decisive at times, and knowing Wallace Hayes was in the area, there was no way Jo would be leaving the house, not without Frizzle at her side.
She surveyed the unruly plant life, thinking back to when they were kids. At one time, Victor had the gardener trimming back the vegetation on a regular basis.
“You girls need to stay closer to home,” Uncle Victor had called out in that gruff tone of his. Threatening them with confinement to their bedrooms had done nothing to derail her and her sisters from romping about their massive playground. Eventually, it was Victor who had been forced to modify the landscape to keep an eye on them when they ventured out. The memory touched her like a light through a long dark tunnel.
Those were her best memories of Victor.
Slowly, the briny sea air melded through her, calming her as she and Frizzle worked their way down the meandering course until she cleared the trees and stopped. The sight of a tweed jacket stretched across broad shoulders brought her up short. Dark hair breached the collar, and Jo sucked in her breath. Jackson—he turned.
“Hey, Jo.” Not Jackson. Wyn. Wyndel Smith, Jr. God, this was almost worse. She bit back a groan.
She backed away, putting distance between them, all the while praying he couldn’t hear the erratic pounding of her heart as it threatened to burst from her chest.
No such luck. His lips curled in a half smile that never failed to thrust the contents of her stomach into chaos with the force of hurricane winds. “Hey, Jo.” That deep resonance could earn him loads as a hypnotist.
This was exactly what worried her as anxiety surged through her veins. Just speaking softly, touching her with those hands that could turn her to mush, mold her to his liking, he could get her to do his bidding. She studied those hands. They were big. Too big. He could hurt someone with those hands. Perhaps he had.
Penelope Knox had died fifteen years ago, a classmate of Jackson’s and Wyn’s. Jo could certainly picture Jackson’s involvement. She never considered for a minute that Wyn had been the one who’d killed her all those years ago.
Tevi had snuck out of the house. Eleven-year-old Jo had been frantic and grabbed Lydia. They found her hiding near Serpent’s Point. Jo threatened to beat her within an inch of her life, had taken her by the arms and shook her. “Don’t ever frighten us like that again, Victoria Tevis. Do you hear me?” Every pent up emotion that spun through Jo came out angry: frustration, fear, and on occasion, happiness.
Tevi had turned that cheeky smile on them and soft-hearted Lydia immediately caved, pulled Tevi away and hugged the little minx. “She didn’t mean anything by it, did you, Tevi? But you shouldn’t sneak out like that. It’s dangerous.”
The moon was bright and showed
Tevi’s big blue eyes filled with tears. Jo felt horrible. She crouched down and hugged her too. “We would be really sad if anything ever happened to you, Tevi.”
Her tiny arms wrapped Jo’s neck. “I’m sorry, JoJo. Next time I sneak out, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
The child was hopeless, Jo thought at the time. Jumping into the fire with both feet, no thought to the slightest consequence. Tevi had taken Lydia’s hand and skipped next to her, leaving Jo behind.
Jo had reached the bluff and found her sisters far ahead, laughing gaily, when she heard the scream. A chilling sound that reverberated over the surf below. Jo ducked behind the nearest tree and saw one of the larger boys running back from the edge. Fast moving clouds shielded the moon’s bright beam, making it impossible to make out which boy she’d seen.
She huddled near the tree too terrified to move, her eyes squeezed tight.
“Jo, what are you doing out here this time of night?”
She opened her eyes to see Wyn crouched in front of her, shirtless, smelling of a spirit she couldn’t identify. Sobbing, she threw herself in his arms, trembling uncontrollably. “How did you find me?”
“I think I’ll always know where to find you, Josephine Weatherford.” His voice slurred a little but held a smile. “Come on, let’s get you home. Victor will have my head.”
She blinked and the memory dissolved, leaving only the emotions attached. She didn’t remember the walk home that night. Rumors had flown throughout the island and no one had ever been held responsible for Penelope’s death.
Reverend Knox had never seemed the same. His other daughter, Ruthie, hadn’t been allowed from his sight. Even now, fourteen years later, the only time anyone saw her was in Sunday services.
Wyn moved in her direction with his supposed unassuming stroll. What if she’d been wrong? Yet, the closer he drew, the more the air grew saturated with the pure masculine scent of pine and bayberry and …danger.
She hadn’t seen him since Aunt Mary’s death six months ago. Not that Jo hadn’t been back, she’d just kept her visits quiet. She forced herself to settle and slipped into her mask of nonchalance. She felt the attraction. How could she not? She’d been in love with Wyn since that night which was totally ridiculous since she been just a kid at the time. It was just, well, when she was scared she imagined his strong arms shielding her from all the ghosts that followed her. Ghosts that wouldn’t leave her alone. She was twenty-five now. They needed to leave her alone.
Wyn stopped just short of where Jo stood and studied her with that thick-lashed, gray gaze of his that changed with the weather’s whim. “My condolences on Victor’s death,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry.
Just looking at him did inexplicable things to her insides. Things that made her feel good, worthy. And she was none of those things. She hated her own mother. She hated herself. How could he act as if he liked her? Yet, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his intense scrutiny. It was like he could see into her head.
“You moving back then?”
Just like that, his words snapped her out of her stupor. “What? No.”
“Why not?”
She spun away from that speculative look in his eye. Because of you. “I-I don’t belong here anymore.” There was no way she could do this now. Shuddering, she ran for the house, tripping only once on the uneven path when Frizzle darted in front of her.
5
S
on of a bitch. Wyn struck out after Jo. If only to make sure she didn’t kill herself in those ridiculous shoes. Who the hell hiked in heels? Every step he took, another tree limb slapped him in the face. He caught sight of her at the edge of the tree line in time to see her push that monster of a dog out of her way and brush dirt from her skirt. Then she was off again. Seconds later she slipped into the house through a back door.
Aggravation grated over him. Life sure had a way of dumping on the little people. Apparently, he was destined to follow in his mother’s footsteps.
Every instinct he possessed told him Jo was as enamored with him as he was with her, only it was clear she was not ready to admit their mutual desire for one another. Not after that debacle from five years ago. As frustrating as that was, he was reminded of the importance of patience. Jo was different. Five years was a long time to wait.
The island had been invaded by a bunch of society types, actors, business owners. All invited by the Montgomerys for a party held in Jo’s honor for graduating from finishing school. Jo was not so social. She shied from people like a mole on a golf green. She burrowed beneath the surface.
None of the islanders had been invited of course. But Wyn couldn’t make himself stay away. He had watched the house that night from this very same spot. It had been a balmy summer evening that time. Music from the hired orchestra spilled out into the star-laden sky. Wyn rubbed his palm over his chest, chastising himself for his absurd feelings. She was so far above him, he couldn’t believe her loving him was even a possibility. Because he could swear he caught sight of Claudette Colbert on Clark Gable’s arm. Fredric March and Gary Cooper had also shown up. What chance did a New York City cop, home for the weekend, have with Josephine Weatherford, finishing school aristocrat? He was an idiot to stand there, waiting like a fool, for the minutest possibility that she would duck outside for a breath of—
“Wyn?” Her voice cut through the night air, a hot knife through butter.
Suddenly, she’d been standing in front him, her gown, a slinky, backless number, shimmering with starlight. He reached out and took her hand and slowly pulled her toward him. “Won’t they miss you inside?”
A wry smile curved her lips, mesmerizing him. “I doubt it.” She frowned then. “But what are you doing here?”
“Hoping to catch sight of you,” he whispered, leaning in to touch his lips to hers. He didn’t dare linger, pulling away. “You’d best get back. I’d best go.”
The back door slammed, jerking Wyn from the memory. Resentment coursed through him as he reached the entrance, and this time he didn’t hesitate to follow Jo inside. He dogged her steps through a darkened hallway, taking in the overly high ceiling, the portraits lining the walls, and the fragrance of beeswax and lemon as they moved beneath a curved grandiose staircase. He’d grown up on the island yet surprisingly had never before been inside the manor house. An unfamiliar male voice broke his concentration.
“I’m looking for my daughter, Josephine Weatherford.”
“Wait, what?” Tevi Weatherford’s shock echoed against the walls, freezing Wyn in his steps just short of entering the cavernous foyer.
He watched the unfolding incident as if studying a crime scene. “You’re our father?”
Wyn pulled back in the shadows, making sure he could still see, as an icy chill stole through him. He didn’t recognize the man who’d spoken, but he identified the man’s tone as possessive in his reference to Jo. He waited, curious to hear Jo’s explanation. Jo was not big on doling out details.
“You must be mistaken. Our father is dead.” Lydia had moved next to Tevi, the frown in her voice imminent.
Jo turned to her sisters, her expression pained. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have an opportunity to…to say anything.”
Lydia rounded on Jo. “Truly? You couldn’t have mentioned something in passing at the penthouse, like ‘I found our father, he’s not dead.’ I mean, it wasn’t as if we haven’t had breakfast once or twice a week the past few years.”
Wyn hadn’t seen Lydia in a long time but seeing her in a temper was not something he could ever remember. Not the calm middle child who acted as go-between more times than not.
“And just where have you been the last few weeks that I would have been able to say something?” Jo demanded. “The Auburn Mental Health Institute?”
Lydia’s mouth tightened.
Interesting. Wyn waited.
Apparently, the question had been rhetorical.
Wyn studied the man in questi
on. He looked to be somewhere around his mid-forties. He wasn’t as tall as Wyn—not many were—but he was stout and built like a boulder. Wyn had met more than his fair share of his kind in the underbelly back-allies of the city. Though in sizing him up, he decided, that would be the most likely place to find someone of his ilk. Sure, he dressed like a gentleman, but that was just trappings. The man cleared his throat, took Jo by the arm. “Honey, you left Julius in a tizzy. Gone so fast he didn’t have time to slip the ring on your finger.”
Jo stilled. “Ring!” Her panicked gaze scanned the room, stopping on Wyn in his dark nook.
Everyone faded from view, his focus narrowed on the only one who mattered. “Who’s Julius?” he whispered softly.
“Who’s Julius?” shy little Lydia demanded.
“Julius Styles, of Styles Shipping? He’s her fiancé,” the man said.
Jo’s face paled, then flushed.
Sensations stirred through Wyn like the witch’s brew in its iron cauldron, boiled to the brink of blowing a hole through the roof. The emotions flittering over Jo’s face were unreadable. The man’s expression, however, was clear as day. Calculation.
Tevi turned to her older sister, shock and hurt evident in blue eyes that matched her sister’s. “You’re engaged? I know we haven’t been all that close over the years, but—did Victor know, JoJo?” Her expression shifted to outrage. “First, our mother? Now this?” She all but stomped her tiny little foot.
A reddish haze clouded Wyn’s vision, the knot in his gut as clenched as the fingers fisted at his side, waiting on Jo’s answer.
Frizzle, standing next to Jo, moved toward the older man with a low menacing growl.
Smart dog. Wyn took a step from his place near the stairs, prepared to snatch him back, but Jo grabbed Frizzle’s collar, scowling. “What are you doing here, Bobby?”
Her words seemed to have startled him.
Tevi turned to her older sister. “Well, JoJo. Are you engaged?”
A Bullet to the Heart Page 3