A Bullet to the Heart

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Bobby’s scream sliced through her last coherent thought before the ice-cold bleakness swallowed her whole.

  “God. Jo.” Wyn slammed his fist in Kingsley’s face, sent him staggering back. He hit him again. This time the bastard staggered to the edge. His arms flailed and Wyn dove for him. He liked the idea of letting the mob get to him instead, but Wyn was too late. Kingsley’s screams were lost over the crashing sea as he plunged below.

  Wyn wanted to rush to the cliff’s edge to see the man’s head crash against a rock. He didn’t wait to watch the sea sweep him out. If not for the blood gushing from Jo’s shoulder, he would have.

  He crouched beside her, checked the pulse in her neck. It was steady. He wished he could say the same for his own. He took the knife from his belt and cut away the bodice of her dress. The shot looked clean. How fortuitous that she’d fainted. He lifted her from the ground, pulling her shirt away to see the back. No exit wound. She needed a doctor… yesterday. He drew the tie from his neck, folded it, and pressed it to her wound. He wrapped her coat securely about her and lifted her from the cold ground.

  He’d never made the hike to town so fast, not even the night he was running from Penelope Knox. Thank God he knew the path so well. The canopy of trees sheltered them from the harshest of the sleet. The trick would be keeping his balance through town—

  Jo groaned.

  “Hold on, darling,” he said. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” If he said it often enough it would be true. Please, be fine.

  Wyn broke through the trees, and the sleet hit him with the full force of the Atlantic winter wind that had blasted the island. He hunched over to protect Jo from the worst of its abuse. He was two blocks from the doc’s office. It might as well be two miles.

  Melinda stepped out of the Cobblestone. “Wyn, what the hell?”

  “She’s… been shot. Call… Max,” he huffed out. “Tell him… I’m coming.”

  “Oh, my God. Of course.” She grabbed the door but turned back. “Is she—”

  “Just… hurry, Mel. Hurry.”

  21

  W

  yn kept his vigil the next day. He sat in Jo’s room camped in the most uncomfortable chair available, his hand gripping hers, welcoming his discomfort. He couldn’t seem to let go of her. Her skin was so clammy, so translucent, he worried she would slip away if he weren’t there to will her back. She’d been unconscious for hours.

  “I’ve given her a sedative for the pain,” Dr. Max had told him yesterday. “She’ll be out the rest of the day into tomorrow.”

  Well, it was tomorrow, and she was still out. He felt sick. He lifted his fingers and brushed the blonde strands back from her forehead. Her lips were chapped. He traced the vein at her temple. It pulsed against the tip of his finger.

  Her lashes fluttered and opened. “Wyn?” She moved and let out a squeak of pain.

  Wyn rose quickly to help her sit up. “Finally,” he breathed. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.” Her voice croaked like a frog. It was the most beautiful sound he’d heard in a lifetime. “Bobby?”

  “Dead.”

  Her mouth formed an ‘O.’ Lust surged through him. Completely inappropriate, he told himself. “What of Mr. Styles?” she said barely above a whisper. “Or Jackson?”

  “I haven’t heard from Jackson. I had to ask my father and Garrick to haul, er, retrieve Styles’ body from the lighthouse. He didn’t make it, darling.”

  “We still need to do the ballistics, but I suspect he was shot by the same gun. The one that was used to shoot at you.” He scrubbed a palm over his unshaven chin. “I’m sorry, Jo. This isn’t something to discuss with you—not right now at any rate. You need soup. Or broth. Tea. You need tea.” He went to the door and yelled down the stairs for a tray.

  “Coming right up, Sheriff,” Esther called up. “By the way, phone call for Jo.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Jackson. That boy’s been trying to disguise his voice from me since he was in short pants. Couldn’t fool me for a minute.”

  “Is he still on?”

  “Yep.”

  “She’ll take it up here.”

  Jo tried to shift her arm to a more comfortable position. A small tap at the door told her it wasn’t Wyn on his way back in. In any event, her new caller hadn’t waited for an invitation to enter. “Hello, Josephine.”

  Jo picked at the comforter, unable to meet her eyes. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Mr. Smith told me you believed Bobby Kingsley was your father.” Her quiet demeanor sounded more questioning than timid.

  “He found me in New York City and said as much.”

  “It’s not true, you know.”

  Heat infused Jo. She remained silent, unable to think of a suitable response.

  “We were part of a group that ran together in our pre-college days. Claudia—er, your grandmother—she would have ripped me to shreds for going with a boy like Bobby. It didn’t stop him from trying. Boys will be boys, after all.”

  Jo glanced up quickly, then back down.

  “Your grandmother was quite formidable.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Jo’s smile felt as timid as her mother’s sounded. “She could be quite…mean, I recall as a child.”

  Eleanor moved to the chair Wyn had vacated and lowered into it. “Josephine, I did you a disservice. Wallace Hayes was a horrible man. I didn’t realize it at the time of course. Claudia—that’s how I addressed her in my mind and to my friends at the time—had already had me analyzed by a psychiatric doctor when word came of Charles’ death. She’d never approved of Charles. But I suspect, in her mind, Charles was the lesser of two evils. But I loved him. I loved him fiercely.” Her voice had an edge, Jo never remembered. “I was devastated when news came of his disappearance. They prescribed pills and I devoured them, to my detriment and yours and your sisters’. I truly believed I had died right alongside him on that battlefield.”

  Through yet another bout of tear-filled eyes, Jo studied her mother’s earnest expression. She wanted to reach out, but it was not in Jo’s ability to touch someone to comfort them. Not yet. She hated when people attempted to comfort her. It just seemed so…false. She blinked quickly.

  “I know that I failed you. I know you suffered—”

  “Do you?”

  Eleanor’s gaze dropped to her lap. Inhaling deeply, she raised her eyes to Jo. “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I do.” Her anguished plea stopped Jo’s automatic retort. “I realize there is nothing I can say or do to garner your respect. I don’t deserve your respect. I can only tell you, I was out of my mind with grief and Claudia took advantage of the fact. Something she had down to an art. I don’t say it as an excuse, but as a fact…”

  Jo remembered that much about her maternal grandmother. She was a formidable woman. If one didn’t have a strong personality, one could find oneself swallowed up completely.

  “I should have been there to protect you from the likes of Wallace Hayes. By the time he’d hatched his plan to institutionalize me, I fear I didn’t have much of…of anything, let alone a backbone or even a will to live. I let you girls down. And, for that I apologize.”

  Jo’s silent cries spilled down her cheeks, though she didn’t raise her eyes. “He was a horrible man. But,” Jo said fiercely, “he never touched Lydia or Tevi.”

  Eleanor reached over and squeezed Jo’s hand. “Thank you for keeping the other girls safe, my darling.” She rose and moved, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry, Josephine. So terribly sorry. I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive me.”

  Jo blinked furiously, but it did nothing to stem the flow of her anguish. “We can’t change the past,” she said softly. “But…” she took a deep breath. “… perhaps we can change the future.”

  Eleanor turned where Jo could meet her gaze. “Do you mean it, Josie?”

  Jo nodded slowly, surprised to find she did mean it as yet more emotion spilled ov
er. “Yes, I mean it.”

  Her mother’s arms enveloped her, and Jo didn’t push her away, just laid her head on her mother’s thin shoulder and reveled in something she’d thought she’d lost forever.

  Comfort.

  22

  W

  yn strolled into the manor house library a couple of days later, his heart filled. He was a changed man. Jo sat in the bay window’s cushioned seat, her knees drawn up with her nose in a book, just as he’d pictured her all those years ago.

  She glanced up at him. Her smile lit up the room, piercing his skin, his heart. He glanced around. They had the space to themselves.

  “I talked to Jackson.” He lowered himself next to her. “The mainland police declared Bobby’s death an accident. It’s also been determined that the gun that killed Styles used the same ammunition as the bullet I found on the forest floor.”

  She let out a shaky sigh. “The one shot at me.”

  “Yes. The gun was in the lighthouse. The serial number was scratched through. Kingsley had been holing up there. It was the perfect place for him. I spoke to a few of my NYC cronies. Kingsley admitted himself he gotten in trouble with the mob. A few of my old cronies in the city confirmed it.” Wyn shuddered to think what would have happened to Jo if the man had talked her into marrying Styles. No telling how deep the two were in.

  “Did you learn anything regarding Simon, Jr.?”

  He snorted. “I should have thought of it myself. Apparently, Simon couldn’t keep his hands off the girls. I guess Mary had some idea.”

  Jo tilted her head. “Victor rarely let us out of his sight. She must have warned him. He kept the shrubbery trimmed back so that we were always in view.”

  “I did some checking. Simon’s father has been diligent in keeping his son’s criminal record under wraps. I suspect it was Simon, the son, you heard running away that night. I believe he killed Penelope Knox. He was at Serpent’s Point that night.”

  “So, Mary had told Bobby her suspicions about Simon. I always suspected she didn’t care for us moving here. But at least she didn’t relish harm coming to Tevi, Lydia and me.” Jo blew out a breath even as her vision blurred again. “What a fool I was. How could I be so gullible as to believe a perfect stranger telling me he was my father? And my mother? I should have remembered how controlling Grandmother Claudia was.”

  Wyn took hold of her hand, careful not to jar her unnecessarily. The sling she wore wouldn’t keep her from being sore. He turned her palm up and studied the lines there, traced them with the tip of his finger. “You’re being too hard on yourself, love. You were just a child. Adults are there to look after children.” He turned her hand over and squeezed, looked deep in her eyes. “They failed you, Jo.”

  “Oh, Wyn.” She blinked and the drops from her lashes fell.

  He cupped her jaw and, using his thumbs, swiped at the damp tracks. “I love you, Jo. You know that, don’t you? You outclass me in every conceivable way, but I can’t imagine my life without you.”

  Her lips quivered.

  “Would I be making the biggest mistake of my life by asking you to spend your life with me?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be a mistake,” she said softly. “Would it be a mistake for me to accept?”

  “No,” he whispered against her lips. Every emotion possible roared through him at her touch, her trust. He vowed never to forget how difficult it was for her to trust another.

  She pulled away, her brows furrowed. “Your mother won’t be happy.”

  He laughed, not the least bit concerned. “Maybe not, but it’s my life—your life—our life. Will you be happy with a small town, small island cop?”

  Mirth twinkled in her eyes. She batted them at him with a coyness that thrilled him, though her eyes still glittered. “Are you talking about you or Jackson?”

  “Me. Jackson hasn’t been deputized yet,” he growled, leaning forward and taking her mouth with determined possessiveness. “Don’t tease me. My nerves are too frayed.”

  She let out a delicate snort. “You have nerves of steel.”

  “Not when it comes to you, love.”

  “I love you, Wyn. I believe I would be deliriously happy with a small island cop.” She brushed her mouth back up against his. “You know we have to live here, in this house, for a year, right?”

  “See if you can stop me,” he breathed. “If you lose your inheritance, you would be stuck with me.”

  “I can live with that, Wyndel Smith, Jr.”

  Epilogue

  T

  he others gathered in the room: Jo, Wyn, Tevi, Jackson, and Eleanor, all awaiting the call for dinner as the conversation flowed around them. Jo didn’t participate but sipped at her sherry. She couldn’t believe how hungry she was and caught herself smiling at the thought. She was almost never hungry. It was the first time in weeks.

  Esther announced another visitor. “Mr. Guthrie.”

  Simon, Sr. walked in. “Josephine, might I have a word?”

  “Of course.” Jo slipped out, ignoring Wyn’s frown. Wyn still harbored resentment over Guthrie hiding his son’s fallacies. After all the years that had passed, there hadn’t been enough evidence to charge Junior. Jo, on the other hand, couldn’t help liking the older man. She followed him to Uncle Victor’s study.

  “I have a letter for you from Victor. The instructions were that it was to be delivered once you were married.” He pulled the envelope from an inside breast pocket and handed it to her. “I’m truly happy for you, my dear.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Jo stared at the letter, barely hearing Simon leave, and with trembling fingers slit it open and read:

  Josephine dearest.

  This is a difficult note for me to write. By now, you must realize that something terrible happened, and I am now a dearly-departed. I know you believe that I’ve been attempting to rule you from the grave, and perhaps that is true to a degree. Old habits die hard…and all that rot. You must trust me when I say I only wish for your happiness, and more importantly, your safety. First, you should know, your mother is not dead. Second, please forgive my decision in placing you and Jackson in the same house. I pray my visions came through and you and Jackson have buried your differences. Third, my love for you is unbounding. Your sisters and Jackson are the only family you have. Remember that, Jo. Family is everything. In my heart, I hope you chose Wyndel for your husband. He will keep you safe. He will love you as you were meant to be loved, Jo. You are a shining light, and that light will go far. Don’t fret for me, my dear. The world belongs to all my heirs.

  Stay safe.

  V. Montgomery

  Jo fell onto the tufted sofa and dropped her head in her hands, missing her uncle as she’d never missed him before. What would she do without him?

  “Jo, darling? What are you doing?” Wyn lowered beside her and took her into his arms.

  She pulled away and handed him Uncle Victor’s note.

  “It’s a wonderful ending,” he told her.

  She nodded unable to speak.

  “Come on, my dear, Lydia just returned from the city. Everyone’s waiting.”

  Jo took her husband’s hand and let him lead her back to her favorite room in the whole house.

  Someone handed her a glass of wine and, suddenly, Lyddie was there, standing in the arch with her editor, Preston Gould, looming behind her. “Can you believe it?” She held up a newspaper and shook it out and read:

  Death avenged: Victor Montgomery’s murderer plunges to same fate by Lydia Weatherford.

  “I got the front page by-line!”

  Tevi whooped, reminiscent of her five-year-old self. “You’re on your way, sister.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” Eleanor said.

  Amusement and warmth unfurled through Jo as she watched Wyn stroll over to Preston and stuck out his hand. It was clear from the expression on Preston’s face that he didn’t appreciate the proprietary manner with which Wyn regard
ed the Weatherford girls. Mr. Gould clearly considered Lydia his concern and Wyn had just stepped into the ring. Not as a contender per se, but as one to look out for them with Victor gone. Wyn wasn’t just a small island-town cop. He was family now.

  Jo didn’t think there would be a problem in her sisters marrying. She turned from the scene eyeing their cousin—

  Jackson on the other hand…

  ****

  Thank you for reading A Bullet to the Heart. Please consider leaving a review.

  Read on for a preview of Hanging by a Threat.

  HANGING

  BY A

  Threat

  A Weatherford Sisters Mystery

  Lydia – book 2

  Terry Andrews

  1

  August 1937- Covington Manor in the Hamptons

  Whack! Sh sh sh sh.

  For the third time in an hour, the green croquet ball headed across the large manicured lawn toward one of several large copses, this one elms and willows.

  “Preston, stop doing that! It’s childish to keep sending my ball into the trees, when you’re not even trying to go through the wickets.” Lydia Eleanor Weatherford rolled her eyes. “Have you forgotten; we’re supposed to be setting a good example for these young people?”

  He shrugged, not quite hiding his teasing grin. The chuckles emitted from the other players around the field only added to the absurdity of her statement.

  Lydia sighed dramatically, as she turned and followed the ball disappearing from sight. Stepping into the shrouded canopy, she paused as her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  “About those poor Weatherford girls.” Lydia froze at the startling words penetrating the dark circle.