Jo didn’t respond, her eyes narrowing on the Bobby character. The dog let out another low growl. “You weren’t invited here,” she bit out. “I suggest you leave.” Her gaze never wavered from the man. She then shook her head, hurt and disgust stressing her pert features, and swinging on a clipped heel, she stormed up the stairs, Frizzle, loyally, right at her side.
Wyn could have been invisible for all the awareness she’d shown him. A manacle squeezed the air from his lungs, the reddish haze shifting first to scarlet, and then to a white-hot rage. She hadn’t denied the engagement. He stepped into the open and suppressed his flinch at the other two Weatherford girls’ gasps.
Lydia was as pretty as Jo—they both were, really—and they were both laser-focused on him. A second later their piercing gazes shifted above his head, up the stairs, to where Jo had disappeared. “Jackson?”
Wyn snorted his aggravation. “Hardly.” It had been a long time since anyone had mistaken Wyn for Jackson, Victor’s son. Their days of inseparable friendship were long gone. True, they were similar in coloring and build. But the differences between them had grown more pronounced over the years. Jackson’s mother had coddled him into the lazy lowlife he’d become. The man had rarely done a moment’s worth of honest work since he’d returned to the island from his fancy boarding school. Victor Montgomery had kicked his son to the curb six months ago, after Mary Montgomery’s death. There’d been rumors of a wife, but they were just that, rumors.
Wyn couldn’t remember the last coherent conversation he and Jackson had that hadn’t ended in a shouting match. There were a few drunken exchanges down at Rock’s Tavern Grill, where half the town heard Jackson’s intoxicated ramblings, accusing his father of butting into his life. But Victor Montgomery had butted into everyone’s life.
Tevi’s hand splayed against her chest. “Good heavens, Sheriff. What the devil are you doing hiding in the corner over there?”
Wyn moved into the open area of the entry hall, keeping his eye on “Bobby.” The man threw out a hand. “Robert Kingsley,” he said with a practiced smile of all teeth. “Sheriff, is it?”
Wyn shook his hand, noting the callouses. They went with the rough exterior. Wyn hooked his thumbs in his belt loops to size the man up: The perfect dark blond combed-over hair, the broad forehead, the straight nose. “That’s right. I believe Jo asked you to leave.”
Rage flared in the man’s gaze but was quickly masked.
Lydia had found her mettle and went to the door. She waited as the man grappled with the implication facing him.
His gaze raked over the two girls.
Wyn took a menacing step forward, itching to wipe the floor with him. All he needed was an opening. The slightest invitation.
But to Wyn’s aggravation, Bobby Kingsley stormed out and pounded down the veranda steps.
“Wyndel Smith?” Tevi’s cheeky smile beamed him, and she batted her lashes. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Smith.”
As cute and flirtatious as Tevi was, she wasn’t Jo. His tastes apparently ran to the-more-difficult-the-better. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Perhaps we can meet in town for coffee one morning.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. Wyn was tempted to do the same but refrained out of politeness.
Lydia had the most disconcerting way of pinning someone with her stare. It made one feel as if one were tacked to an insect board to store away for future study. “I saw you come in from the back with Jo,” she said.
“Not with,” he shot back. “Behind. I followed her inside.”
Before Lydia could shut the door, it was shoved back, and Jackson was barging in. “Get out of my way.” The man was three sheets to the wind. Too bad Prohibition had ended. Wyn would gladly haul his old friend to jail.
Tevi and Lydia crowded closer to one another. Wyn narrowed his eyes on them and caught Lydia glancing uneasily up the stairs where Jo had disappeared then back to Jackson, raising the fine hairs on Wyn’s neck.
“What do you want, Jackson?” Lydia said.
“What do you think I want? Montgomery Manor is my childhood home. You’re the ones who are trespassing.” His slurred words lost their initial impact.
“Perhaps. But right now, I insist you leave.” Lydia’s grip on the door was white-knuckled.
“She’s right,” Wyn said. “If you won’t leave nicely, I’m happy to assist you on your way.”
“You’re nothing but a bastard.”
Resentment coursed through Wyn’s veins. A picture of his mother’s bleak expression and his father’s harsh features flashed through his mind. “That may be, but I insist you clear out.”
Jackson stood his ground. “Where’s Jo?” he demanded.
Wyn pointed to the door. “Out.” He didn’t raise his voice. Jackson wasn’t usually stupid or drunk enough to test Wyn’s command.
“Why are you here?” Jackson hissed.
“I’m here to speak to the girls. I have news regarding Victor’s death.”
“He’s my father, not theirs,” he said with a petulant pout.
Wyn flicked his gaze over Jackson’s wrinkled shirt and trousers. “I’ll give you that,” he said. “But I have to wonder how a man as sure-footed as Victor Montgomery could fall to his death on a clearly marked path. I’ll tell you how—he was shot.”
“What?” The faint question came from behind. Jo stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the balustrade, the huge dog glued to her side, alert and at the ready.
Wyn steeled himself. “I’m sorry, Jo. The medical examiner did a thorough check over Victor. In preparing his body for burial, Hobbit Jones found a bullet hole in his chest. It was missed due to the other abrasions from the rocks where he’d fallen. We were lucky to have found his body.” He cut his gaze back to Jackson. “Where were you three days ago at four in the afternoon?”
“I didn’t kill my own father.” Jackson’s screech tore through the house. He lunged forward.
Wyn stepped to the side, and with a well-placed punch, dropped Jackson to his knees.
Wyn grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the door and escorted him outside and down the steps. The violence assuaged him to a degree. “You’re not welcome here until you’re invited, Jackson, old boy. Get sober.” Wyn shoved him away and watched as hate shuttered Jackson’s features. But Wyn was in no mood for Jackson’s pity party. He needed a word with Jo. He needed answers to his questions. The first question: Who was this prodigious fiancé?
He turned and started up the veranda steps then paused.
Jo stood in the door watching him.
“Jo—”
“I’m sorry, Wyn. I’m really sorry.” She closed the door, the soft click giving off the finality of the last nail in the coffin.
A cold chill swept over Jo’s skin and raised goosebumps. She quelled the temptation to drop to the floor and cry her heart out. She turned around and was pinned against the door by stares from both sisters.
“You want to tell us what’s going on with you and Wyn, Jo?” Lydia’s question should not have sounded accusing, but Jo’s hackles rose, regardless.
The fire in her face likely didn’t help her cause. Jo rubbed her hands over her arms, the chill going deeper. “There’s nothing going on.”
“Oh, God.” Tevi groaned. “You and Wyn?” She stomped her foot. “How is it you have all the attractive men after you? You are as stiff and unapproachable as a barb-wired fence.”
Well, that was a little harsh and not even worthy of a response. Her lips pressed tight. Could she help it if she’d never been considered the warm, loving sort?
“Tevi! That’s a horrible thing to say.” Lydia grabbed Jo’s hand.
Lydia’s hold felt hot compared to the ice slushing through Jo’s veins. She would likely never be warm again.
“Your hand is freezing.” Lydia tugged Jo along. “Let’s go in the library. I think you might need another brandy. And, if you don’t, I can tell yo
u, I could certainly use one.”
Jo pulled her hand from Lydia’s, nodding, and followed.
“What do you suppose Wyn meant that Victor’s death might not have been an accident?” Lydia said.
“What do you mean ‘might’? A bullet kind of says it all,” Tevi said.
Lydia poured three shot glasses of brandy and brought them to the small table. “Shutting the door in his face didn’t bring us any answers, did it?”
Jo’s lips tightened. She would not be goaded, she would not be chastised.
Tevi had kicked off her shoes again and curled her feet up under her legs. She leaned forward and picked up one of the glasses, tossed back the entire contents and slammed the glass back down. “How did this Julius Styles get involved? And—” she jutted forward. “What is this nonsense about Bobby Kingsley being our father?”
Jo took a small sip of her brandy, renewed anger surging through her. “Not our father. Mine. Apparently, Eleanor had an affair with him before she married Charles Weatherford. Only Charles married her before I was born.”
Lydia’s unnerving stare penetrated Jo’s fury. “What do you know about this Kingsley character? Did you just take him at his word?”
“And, why shouldn’t I have, Lyddie?” Jo slammed her own glass down, sloshing the contents over the sides. She jumped up and paced the length of the library. Its circular construction limited her movements and frustrated her in this room for the first time she could ever remember.
“I’m just saying the man could have other motives,” Lydia said gently.
“Like what?”
“Money comes to mind. Now that Uncle Victor—” Lydia’s voice shook slightly. She took a breath. “Now that Uncle Victor is gone, we are three very rich young women without him keeping the rift-raff at bay.”
“You mean interfering in our lives at every level, don’t you?”
Lydia and her pragmatic reasoning grated on Jo’s last nerve. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. The next thing you’ll be attempting to convince us of is that Eleanor has been faking her illness for the last twelve years. In a mental hospital.”
Lydia’s lips compressed in a tight line.
“Oh, my God. You do think that.” Jo dropped back into her chair and rubbed her hands over her upper arms. “Lydia, you listen to me. Our mother suffers from some sort of melancholia. If that is not the case and she’s been faking it, that is the greater sin. Our mother neglected us. She married a horrid man who…who…” Jo couldn’t get the words out. Wallace Hayes was a monster Eleanor had brought into their house. A house with three young girls.
“What did Wallace Hayes do to you, Jo?” Lydia’s soft question pounded Jo’s head with the force of a medieval cudgel.
Jo glanced from Lydia to Tevi. Her younger sisters’ eyes were wide with undisguised curiosity. Nausea roiled in Jo’s stomach to a dangerous level. She rose again and went to the door, refusing to make eye contact with them. She couldn’t stand the pity she’d see. “He touched me. Inappropriately so. And, on more than one occasion. It was Eleanor’s job to protect us and she didn’t. You shouldn’t have brought her here, Lydia.” Jo slipped out the door as the tears trailed down her face. She needed a bath. A hot, soaking, cleansing bath. Preferably one with bleach and a scouring pad.
6
W
yn walked the perimeter of the property and turned onto the path Jo had followed earlier, regret eating at him like a parasite on raw flesh. The winding trail fanned out as the trees thinned and aligned with the bluff above the crashing waves of the Atlantic. Soon the mild autumn weather would turn to a harsh winter. He stopped and gazed out over the sea, a million things going through his head, and not a single one on the actual issue at hand. Like who’d shot Victor Montgomery? That’s what he should be thinking about.
Instead, all he could envision was Josephine Ophelia Weatherford in all her proud ice princess glory, her spine so stiff, and clinging to her pride. Neither helped to hide her oddly appealing vulnerability, and still she managed to slam the door in his face.
He hadn’t spoken to her in six months, not since Mary Montgomery had been buried.
Every instinct Wyn possessed screamed at him to shield Jo from the world, save her from the hucksters and scoundrels. They’d practically grown up together. He knew her every dream, her every thought, her every fear.
Wyn rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to ease the tension there. The dismal black from the depths of the sea below reached for him, like the tentacles from more than just one octopus. He jerked his head up and stepped back from the edge of the bluff and pushed a hand through his hair. She may not realize it, but she was the only woman for him.
Jo was different. He knew she had serious issues. When the girls had come to live on the Island with Victor and Mary, Wyn had first believed Jo to be mute. He’d watched Lydia and Tevi run all over the place, screeching like miniature banshees, leaving destruction in their wake. But not Jo. No. Jo walked sedately behind, watching them like a mother hen, making sure they didn’t hurt themselves. When she wasn’t around, he pictured her holed up in her room surrounded by stacks of books, all the while, never saying a word. Just alert and watchful, or sunk in her own world of fiction. That’s how he envisioned her.
The night he and Jackson had found Penelope’s body, the island had split apart at its social seams, along with his and Jackson’s friendship. A group of the kids had gathered for a bonfire at Serpent’s Point. It had been a favorite spot for teenagers with its haunted history. The island had been safe enough—until that night.
He, Jackson, and Garrick had been quite the pack at the time. Occasionally, Simon Guthrie hung out, but his father was a stuffy lawyer and the Guthrie’s spent most of their time in the city. Simon was part of the annual summer crew.
The party had just broken up. Like most of the kids on the island, Wyn worked for his parents doing hard physical labor. Wyn’s mother handled the dry goods: flour, fabric, and such. His father dealt with building materials: concrete, granite from the quarry, flooring. Wyn spent the majority of his time in the building out back, organizing, stacking, and hauling the raw materials for customers. Sometimes he imagined he lived the life of a prisoner on a chain-gang, without the ‘gang.’
Wyn took a swig from the bottle of gin he’d hijacked. His pa would kill him if he caught him drinking. Wyn had just reached the path through the trees that would lead him to the store and the house behind, bound for his tiny loft bedroom when Penelope’s shrill scream wrenched the night and raised his skin into goosebumps from head to toe.
The leaves rustled violently. He dropped the bottle and dashed back the way he’d come. He’d found Penelope hanging half over the bluff, her ripped dress exposing her neck and breast. Wyn dragged her from the edge, stripped off his shirt and covered her.
Jackson was next to him in an instant. “What’d you do to her, you bastard?” He’d been drinking too, and his words were slurred. He took a swing at Wyn and caught him on the cheek, knocking him on his haunches. It had been a lucky shot.
“N-nothing.”
“Get away from her.”
“Calm down, Jack. We gotta go for help. She’s not moving.”
“I’ll do it. Just let her go.” Jackson went down on his knees and gathered her gently to his body.
“What was she doing here? Old Knox would never let her out at night.”
“I-I don’t know.”
But Wyn was afraid Jackson did know. The air stirred around him and he caught the scent of something sweet. The hair on his arms raised. He backed away from Jackson and surveyed the moonlit landscape. Wyn had the tracking instincts of a predatory cat; everyone knew it. He stood and honed in on the edge of the trees. The clouds moved over the moon, blocking the light, but he started down the path.
Huddled beneath the brush, he found Jo. He crouched down. “Jo?”
The clouds moved past. She blinked and the silver moonbeam turned her stricken bl
ue eyes to an indiscriminate pearly sea-colored stone. “Wyn.” She threw her terrified tiny body against him, shaking violently.
“Come on. Let’s get you home. Victor will shoot someone and I’m the likely target.”
Wyn shook his head, attempting to free himself of the memories, but Penelope’s bloodied head visited his nightmares to this day. No one had ever been charged with her murder. That time, that incident had changed the course of Wyn’s life. That was the moment he’d decided to go into police work.
The fight had been brutal. Pa’s dreams conflicted completely with Wyn’s own—taking over the business after his father retired. Penelope’s death had changed him.
Oddly enough, it was Victor Montgomery who’d stepped in, convincing Wyndel Smith, Sr., handily so, that Wyn was destined for greater things. Wyn had been too young to understand what Victor meant. Rarely did anyone go up against the mighty Victor Montgomery.
By early June that year, newly graduated from high school, Wyn found himself in New York City working his own beat, wearing a police uniform. It was all about the politics and Victor Montgomery had the connections.
When Wyn had returned to the island four years ago, Jo was nowhere to be found. Neither was Lydia. They’d been shipped off to finishing school, and Tevi had taken to following Wyn around like a puppy.
Even seeing the girls all grown up didn’t stir him. No. It had always been Josephine. She’s the one who’d snared his heart.
Wyn was four years older than Jo. As teens, that was a lifetime. But now she was twenty-five and he was twenty-nine. Streaming fingers of gloom beckoned him to a whirling vortex of reality. He was nothing but a small-town lawman. He as good as worked for her family. One might even say she could be considered his boss. Now he had this damned Julius Styles to worry about. And who the hell was Bobby Kingsley? That guy bothered him, he—
Wyn stopped. A movement? He waited, observing from the corner of his eye, not moving his head. Conscious of his precarious position, looking out over the cliff, reminded how Victor had 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.
A Bullet to the Heart Page 4