Faceless

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Did you know she was having affairs?”

  Sander arched his silver brows at the abrupt question. Then, grabbing his beer, he took a deep swig.

  “Honey, I’m not stupid,” he said in blunt tones. “Besides, Laurel didn’t make much of an effort to keep them secret. I think she wanted the entire town to know.”

  Wynter released a shaky breath. Obviously she’d been the only one in Larkin not to realize her mom’s infidelity.

  “Is that why the two of you didn’t get along?”

  Sander snorted. “The cheating I could understand.”

  Wynter eyed him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

  “I know it ain’t politically correct to talk bad about your own kid, but Edgar wasn’t much of a husband. He spent all of his time with his head stuck in a book.” Her grandpa clicked his tongue. “I blame your grandma. She was the one who insisted on calling him Edgar Allan after that weirdo writer.”

  Wynter frowned. She didn’t like the edge of scorn in her grandpa’s voice when he spoke of Edgar. Obviously he was disappointed that his only child wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps and work on the family farm, but most men would be proud to have a child who’d earned a PhD and was now teaching at a college level.

  “Of course he spent time with books,” she said. “He’s an English professor.”

  Sander shrugged. “Those fancy degrees don’t mean he can spend his life caring more about characters in some old story than his own family. His wife was bound to get bored.”

  Wynter squashed the urge to continue defending her father. This wasn’t about her parents’ marriage, or if her dad had been a neglectful husband. She was interested in her mom, and if there’d been anything in her life that might have motivated the shooting in Pike.

  “If it wasn’t her affairs that bothered you, then what did?”

  Sander drained his beer and set aside the bottle. “I don’t think we should be talking about this—”

  “Please, Grandpa. It’s important,” she pleaded.

  The older man heaved a deep sigh. “Fine. She was always leaving you with babysitters or dropping you off here. I loved having you, of course, but a child needs to be with her momma.” His voice was gruff as he glanced away, perhaps recalling an unpleasant memory. “Plus, she spent money like it was growing on trees. She had to have the latest fashions and trips to New York or Chicago to visit the museums. Hell, she drove a car worth more than most people’s home. I had to loan them money over and over so they could pay the bills, but it was never enough. Your father eventually asked me to sell part of the farm to settle his debts.”

  Wynter’s breath tangled in her throat. She couldn’t imagine her grandpa giving up his land. It would be like selling a piece of his soul.

  “Did you?”

  Sander jutted out his jaw, his expression hard. “Of course not. I warned Edgar when he got married that he was making a mistake. I’d helped enough, he could deal with his own mess. This land has been in the family for two hundred years, I wasn’t going to throw it away on a . . .” The angry words trailed away and a flush touched the older man’s face. Wynter didn’t know what he’d been about to call her mom, but it wasn’t nice. “Anyway, I left him to deal with the problem.”

  Wynter grimaced. It was easy to imagine her grandpa tossing her dad off the farm without a penny. She adored the gruff old man, but he could be brutal. Like many men his age, he had a belief that he was always right.

  “What did Dad do?”

  “Sold off some old books.” Sander rolled his eyes. “Honestly, he cried like a baby when he boxed them up to send to the auction. I’ve never been so embarrassed.”

  “That’s not nice, Grandpa. Dad’s book collection is very important to him.”

  “I’ll never know how he could be my own flesh and blood.”

  Wynter ignored her grandpa’s grousing. Sander might be disappointed in his son, but he loved him. And if push came to shove, he would do whatever necessary to provide for him.

  Instead, her thoughts were focused on the newest revelations about her mom.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling vaguely ill. It wasn’t bad enough that Laurel had been sleeping around, but she’d also driven her father to selling his precious books to pay the bills. Was it because she was bored? Lonely? Regretting her life choices?

  Or was it something else? Something inside her that drove her to make bad decisions? During the time that Wynter had been in therapy, she’d met numerous kids who’d been traumatized. They often acted out for any variety of reasons.

  Wynter slumped back in her chair, a weariness pressing against her with a physical weight.

  “I thought I knew Mom,” she muttered. “I mean, not in the way normal girls know their mother. It wasn’t like we got to share our lives.” She shook her head. “But now it all feels like lies.”

  Sander studied her with obvious concern, his thin face softening with regret. “Don’t trouble your head about it, girl.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “’Course I do,” he insisted. “People are never willing to speak ill of the dead. You grew up seeing your mom as some sort of saint. No woman could live up to that standard.”

  He had a point. She hadn’t thought of her mom as a saint, but she’d certainly put her on a pedestal. And her grandma Hurst had added to the myth that was Laurel Moore.

  Since her mom had died when Wynter was so young, they’d never gone through the rebellious teen years, or battled over whom she could date or where she could go to college. Instead, Laurel Moore had been a beautiful woman in a photo who never aged or disappointed Wynter. Her paintings hung in Wynter’s restaurant, but she’d never overshadowed her daughter with her talent. And while Wynter had regularly visited her mom’s grave, they’d never had a relationship that might have been fraught with hurt feelings and regret.

  “That’s true,” she agreed in a soft voice.

  “We all have our faults. Including Laurel.” Sander leaned his forearms on the table, his piercing gaze sweeping over her face. “Is that all that’s troubling you?”

  “No.”

  “Wynter?”

  “I think my mom was murdered.”

  The words landed like a bomb and Wynter clenched her hands as a shocked silence filled the kitchen. She hadn’t intended to discuss her suspicions with the older man. He would be worried enough when she told him that someone had broken into her apartment. The last thing he needed to think about was some crazed killer returning from the past. But as he said, he wasn’t stupid. He was bound to wonder why she was suddenly asking questions about her mother. And why the intruder would leave a note about the dead.

  Sander scowled. “We know that she was murdered.”

  “Deliberately,” Wynter clarified. Now that she’d revealed her fears, she might as well get her grandpa’s opinion. He would surely have known if her mother had any enemies.

  Without warning, Sander slammed his flat palm onto the card table, rattling the dishes. “Who put that fool thought in your head?”

  “Rudolf Jansen.”

  “The sheriff from Pike?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought the man was dead?”

  “He is, but he left behind a photo of the night my mother was shot,” she told him.

  Sander froze, as if he was struggling to process her words. Wynter grimaced. She’d been too blunt. After all, Laurel had been this man’s daughter-in-law, even if they hadn’t been close. They were family.

  “I don’t understand,” he finally ground out. “Is there new evidence?”

  Wynter shook her head. “No, but the sheriff wasn’t convinced it was a random crime.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my mom had already handed over her purse when she was shot.”

  He blinked. “That’s it?”

  “Don’t you see? The sheriff was convinced there was no reason to shoot her.”

  “And he had a suspect?”
/>   “No, but—”

  “Was the case reopened?”

  “No.”

  “Then let it go, Wynter,” the older man pleaded. “I don’t like seeing you upset.”

  She lowered her gaze to her hands tightly clenched in her lap. She had no intention of telling him that she’d confronted one of her mother’s lovers, or that Linda Baker had implied that her mom had driven a man to suicide, but she had to reveal why she’d come to stay at the farm.

  “I can’t,” she muttered.

  “Why not?”

  “Someone broke into the restaurant.”

  Sander sucked in a sharp breath, his annoyance instantly replaced with concern. “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “Were you there? Did you see the intruder?”

  “No, I was at the college talking to Dad.”

  “Thank God.” Sander breathed a deep sigh. “How much was taken? Do you need money?”

  “They didn’t take anything.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sander looked confused. “Was it vandals? Did they do any damage?”

  “No. Whoever broke in wasn’t looking for money or to do any damage. They left a note.”

  “Note?” The older man was even more confused. Wynter didn’t blame him. None of this made any sense. “What sort of note?”

  “One that warned me to let the dead rest in peace.” A shudder raced through her body. “That’s why I came here to stay for a few days.”

  Sander’s ruddy face flushed a dark red. His ready temper was instantly inflamed by her revelation there’d been an intruder. He was the sort of man who kept a loaded rifle by the door with the theory of shooting first and asking questions later.

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “Yes.” Wynter had been relieved when Chelle Simpson had arrived on the scene. Chelle was a couple years older, but they’d known each other in high school. Plus, Noah clearly trusted her. She had no doubt Chelle would do everything possible to track down the criminal. Still, there wasn’t much to go on. A vague glimpse of the intruder by Ollie, and the hope there might be fingerprints. “They’re investigating, but until they catch who did it, I wasn’t comfortable staying on my own.”

  “Damn right, you ain’t staying there,” her grandpa growled, his face still flushed. “I’ll go there tomorrow and change the locks.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she assured him. “I’ve already called Jeremy at the lumberyard. I’m having the whole door replaced.”

  “Good.”

  Wynter didn’t know if it was good or not, but it was all she could do. At least for the moment.

  Wiping her hands on her napkin, she tossed it aside and rose to her feet. After her stressful day, she felt like she was drowning in weariness. “I’m tired. I’m going up to bed.”

  Sander remained seated, his face still flushed. “Don’t worry about a thing, my girl. I’ll take care of you.”

  “I know you will, Grandpa.”

  * * *

  Wynter slept surprisingly well. She didn’t know if it was being at the farm or out of sheer exhaustion, but whatever the reason, she was up early and had breakfast ready by the time her grandpa returned from his morning chores. Then, pulling on an old pair of coveralls she kept in the coat closet, she headed to her greenhouses.

  Nothing in the world was more soothing than getting her hands dirty in the long vegetable beds, and filling baskets with ripe tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, and peppers. The moist, warm air clung to her skin and the scent of fertilizer perfumed the air. Not a smell everyone would appreciate, but it satisfied something deep inside her.

  The sound of an automobile could be heard echoing through the shallow valley. Moving cautiously toward the open flaps of the greenhouse, Wynter peered out to watch the Jeep pull to a halt in front of the farmhouse.

  Noah.

  Releasing a breath of relief, she placed two fingers between her lips to emit a sharp whistle. Noah waved his arm to indicate he’d heard her, and Wynter watched him jog down the pathway.

  As always, she was struck by his graceful motions. He should have been a dancer. Next, her gaze moved to appreciate the faded jeans and flannel shirt. She enjoyed seeing him in uniform, but she preferred him when he was in his casual clothes, with his dark hair ruffled from the breeze and the shadow of whiskers softening the hard planes of his face.

  Stepping into the greenhouse, he glanced over her shoulder as if searching for a companion. “Are you down here alone?”

  “My grandpa had to go to town to pick up a few groceries. Or at least that was his excuse,” she said. The older man had wolfed down his breakfast and headed toward the door before Wynter had finished her first cup of coffee. “I would guess he’s at the restaurant supervising the installation of my new door.” She pointed toward the loaded rifle that was propped in a nearby corner. “And I’m not alone.”

  Noah studied the weapon before returning his attention to her. “Do you know how to use it?”

  She nodded. Her grandpa had insisted she learn how to shoot from the time she was just a child. Not just as a way to protect herself, but to keep critters out of her gardens.

  “I can hit a target,” she assured her companion, then she wrinkled her nose. She hadn’t actually practiced shooting in years. “Most of the time.”

  His gaze moved from the rifle to the raised beds that were overflowing with vegetables. “So this is where the magic happens,” he murmured.

  She smiled with pleasure. She wasn’t a vain person. At least not about her physical appearance or bank account. But she took great pride in her greenhouses.

  “If you consider magic rich earth, sunshine, and plenty of TLC,” she murmured.

  Without warning, Noah stepped close enough for her to be wrapped in the warm aroma of pine. He always smelled as if he’d just stepped out of the forest. She loved when he stopped by her apartment and left behind the crisp scent. At the same time, he lifted his hand to brush a strand of blond hair that had escaped her braid.

  “That’s exactly what I consider magic,” he assured her, his gaze sweeping over her upturned face with a strange intensity.

  She shivered as his fingers continued to lightly brush over her cheek. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her. But there was something different about his soft caress this morning. Something that made her think about stripping off the flannel shirt and exploring the hard muscles of his chest. With her tongue.

  “Noah,” she rasped.

  “You have flecks of gold in your eyes.” His fingers cupped her chin, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “Why have I never noticed before?”

  She tried to chuckle, but it came out as a husky chuff of air. “Probably because you don’t usually stand on top of me.”

  “Why not?”

  He took another step, pressing against her body. His heat managed to penetrate the thick layers of her coveralls. Or maybe it was her imagination. Maybe the heat was coming from her racing pulse. Whichever was responsible, she had a fierce urge to press against his hard muscles.

  “Because we’re friends.”

  Her words were more an effort to remind herself of why they’d ignored the physical attraction that had hummed between them since they were both still in high school.

  It’d been their therapist who’d pointed out that people who attended group together often formed intimate relationships that ended up a toxic mess. Each of them had baggage they were trying to work through, and it was too easy to mistake empathy for something deeper.

  “Yes, we are,” he agreed, his head slowly lowering.

  “Just friends.”

  “Hmm.”

  His mouth touched hers, and any thought of protest shattered into a million pieces. It was the pine, she fuzzily told herself. The scent was intoxicating. Or maybe it was his taste. The lingering sweetness of the cinnamon roll he’d no doubt been eating on his drive to the farm. Or maybe it was the fingers tha
t skimmed up and down the curve of her throat. His touch was so light she could barely feel it, but each brush sent sparks of desire sizzling through her.

  Wynter allowed her lips to part in invitation, and with a low growl Noah deepened the kiss. Their tongues touched as his strong arms wrapped around her waist. A dizzying pleasure swept through her, banishing the dark heaviness that had been following her like a cloud.

  She hadn’t been expecting this, but suddenly she realized it was exactly what she needed. The warmth of Noah’s body, the nerve-tingling jolts of excitement, the glorious reminder there was something in this world beyond dread and suspicion.

  Impatiently tugging off her gardening gloves, she allowed them to drop to the ground as she rammed her fingers into his hair. The short strands were just as silky soft as she’d always imagined—

  She hastily shut down the thought. This was all about delicious distraction. The heat of the moment. If she acknowledged that she’d fantasized about the texture of his hair, or the erotic sensation of his whiskers scratching against her cheek, or the muscled perfection of his chest as she pressed against his body, then she couldn’t pretend this was a temporary madness.

  Absorbed in the heady rapture of Noah’s kiss, Wynter might have missed a vehicle approaching the house. Thankfully, Sander Moore’s car was thirty years old with an exhaust system that backfired every few miles. He announced his approach from a mile away.

  Untangling her fingers from Noah’s hair, she leaned back. “Grandpa’s back.”

  Noah kept his arms tightly wrapped around her waist, staring down at her with a somber expression. “Are we okay?”

  She paused, truly considering his question. If he was another guy, she would have nodded and later decided how she felt about their kiss. She couldn’t do that with Noah. His friendship was too important. There would be a huge hole in her life if he was no longer a part of her world.

  Meeting his steady gaze, Wynter gave a slow nod of her head. Nothing had changed. Had it? This was still the person who she wanted to spend an evening drinking wine with and watching bad movies. And the person who she wanted to call when she had exciting news, or was worried, or bored ...

  She reached out to grab his hand. “Yeah, we’re okay.”