“Your mother . . .” Tonya stopped as if she needed to collect herself. She breathed in deeply, squaring her shoulders as she held Wynter’s gaze. “She saved me. I was an angry kid who never fit into this place. Art gave me the outlet I needed to focus on something positive.” Her hands clenched at her side, revealing a deep, smoldering emotion. “And even now the studio is my place of zen. I need it like most people need air to survive.” A tight smile twisted her lips. “She gave me that.”
Wynter reached out to lightly touch Tonya’s hand. Her mom might have destroyed lives, but she’d also saved at least one. “I’m glad.”
Tonya stepped back. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Oh.” Wynter was struck by a sudden memory. “Just one more thing.”
“What?”
“Why were you at Sander’s farm yesterday?” Wynter demanded before Tonya could leave.
The woman frowned. “I wasn’t . . . oh wait.” She snapped her fingers. “I was looking for you.”
“Why?”
Tonya shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Now, I really need to bounce.”
“Thanks for bringing by the key.”
“No problem.”
With jerky motions, Tonya hurried down the hall, her back stiff and her head held high. Wynter reached into her pocket, grimacing when she recalled she didn’t have her phone.
She really needed to talk to someone.
No . . . not just someone.
A particular someone.
Noah.
Chapter 17
Noah stacked the last bag of fertilizer on the wooden skid at the end of the greenhouse. It was a relief to discover that he wasn’t expected to shovel a truckload of crap when he arrived at the farmers’ co-op, but he couldn’t deny a small twinge in his lower back by the time he’d finished packing and unpacking the heavy sacks.
How did tiny Wynter manage? The bags weighed as much as she did.
Shaking his head in wonderment, Noah closed up the greenhouse and climbed into the truck. His morning tasks had taken longer than expected, and now he was anxious to get to the hospital. Not just because he wanted to make sure Wynter was okay, but for the simple desire to share her company.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been hit with an urge to share lunch with his friend. More than once he’d rearranged his schedule so he could stop by Wynter Garden when he knew the crowd would be thinning so she could join him for a few minutes. It’d never occurred to him that it was anything more than decompressing after a stressful morning.
Or at least he’d never allowed himself to consider it might be more.
Driving up the sloping hill, Noah passed the quiet farmhouse. He briefly considered stopping to walk the area. He wanted to know where you’d have to be standing to glance into the kitchen and see the counter where Wynter had left her phone. In the end, he drove past to turn onto the graveled road that would lead him back to town.
After Sander had been shot there’d been over twenty people strolling around the property. Some in the yard, others on the porch. He wouldn’t doubt that a few had gone inside to use the bathroom or get a drink. There was no way to pinpoint who might have grabbed the phone.
Driving slow enough to dodge the tractors that puttered from one field to another, Noah allowed his thoughts to return to his conversation with Jay Wheeler. He hadn’t learned much. He’d already known that Laurel’s relationships with her husband and father-in-law were complicated, although Jay had implied that there’d been more than disappointment in Edgar’s reaction to his wife.
Desperation . . .
Noah shook his head, trying to dismiss the niggle of suspicion. It didn’t work.
Edgar appeared to be a stereotypical mild-mannered professor, but he was still a man. To have his wife publicly taking one lover after another, not to mention putting him at financial risk with her extravagant spending, had no doubt infuriated him. Add to that his frustration that she refused to be the wife he’d no doubt fantasized about....
Noah had just reached the point of wondering where Edgar Moore had been when his wife was murdered when he heard the sound of a car behind him. Glancing in the rearview mirror he could see a truck zooming over the hill at a speed that sent gravel spraying behind it.
“Idiot,” he muttered, slowing so he could inch to the side of the narrow road.
There were some people who had no regard for safety. Not their own or anyone else’s. He didn’t care if the truck ended up in the ditch, but he didn’t intend to join the fool.
He continued to press on the brakes until he was at a complete halt as the truck swerved around him. Muttering a string of curses, he waited for the jerk to pass, only to realize that the vehicle had stopped. Turning his head, he could see a vague outline of someone in the driver’s seat, but the angle of the sun made it impossible to determine more than the fact they were wearing a baseball hat and a thick coat with the collar turned up.
Wondering if they were lost and wanting directions to the nearest highway, Noah started to roll down the window. That’s when he caught sight of the decal on the side of the truck.
Shit.
Drake Shelton. He jerked his gaze back just in time to see the driver lift a shotgun and point it in his direction.
His last thought as he tried to duck to the side was that he hadn’t told Wynter how he felt about her. The regret that surged through him was as devastating as the pellets that smashed into the window, shattering it into a thousand painful projectiles.
* * *
Wynter paced from one end of the waiting room to the other. Where was Noah? He’d told her he would take her to lunch, and unlike most men in her life he always kept his promises.
Had something happened? Was he still trying to track down Oliver’s father? Or had there been a snafu with her order of fertilizer? She couldn’t call without her cell phone. And she’d promised she wouldn’t leave the hospital without him.
She’d circled back to the coffee machine when she heard a footstep behind her.
“Noah?” Spinning around, Wynter’s heart plunged at the sight of the tall, dark-haired woman wearing a crisply starched uniform. “Oh, Chelle.” She struggled to hide her disappointment. “I was expecting Noah.”
The woman halted near the door. “He’s here.”
“He is?” Wynter glanced over the woman’s shoulder, expecting to see Noah in the hallway. “Where?”
“Getting stitched up in the emergency room.”
“What?” Wynter blinked, taking a second to absorb what Chelle was saying. Then she swiftly charged across the room, her heart thundering in her chest. “What happened?”
Chelle took a step to the side, blocking the door so Wynter had no choice but to stop or to run her down.
“He’s fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises,” the woman assured her. “He wouldn’t have allowed the doctors to clean and bandage them if I hadn’t insisted.”
Wynter frowned. Was Chelle with Noah when he was hurt? Or had she been called to an accident? “Was he in a wreck?”
“No.” Chelle glanced around the waiting room as if making sure it was empty. At last she returned her attention to Wynter. “He was leaving your grandfather’s farm when a truck pulled beside him and someone tried to shoot him.”
“Are—” Wynter’s throat threatened to squeeze shut as the image of Noah lying on the ground with blood pouring from a gunshot wound seared through her mind. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.” Wynter reeled backward, collapsing on the edge of the nearest chair. Her knees suddenly refused to hold her weight. “Was he hit?”
“No. But several shards of glass hit him when the side window shattered.”
Wynter’s blast of relief that he wasn’t seriously injured was tempered with the lingering horror that someone had shot at him.
“Someone tried to kill Noah?” She said the words out loud in an attempt to make them real. “Why?”
&n
bsp; Chelle held up her hand, as if warning Wynter not to leap to conclusions. “That’s one possibility.”
“You think it was an accident?”
Chelle shook her head at the ridiculous suggestion. “I think he was driving your truck when someone took a shot at him.”
It took Wynter a second to sort through her fuzzy thoughts. Of course. Noah had left his Jeep in the parking lot and taken her truck so he could collect the fertilizer and take it to her grandpa’s farm. Anyone who’d seen him driving on the isolated road would naturally have assumed it was her.
Her lips were numb, making it hard to form the words. “They were trying to kill me.”
Chelle moved to stand directly in front of her. Was she worried Wynter might pass out? It wasn’t out of the question. She felt like a punching bag for a heavyweight fighter. One blow after another until her head was spinning.
“Again. It’s just a possibility,” Chelle murmured.
Wynter licked her lips. Why were they so dry? “Did Noah see who pulled the trigger?”
“Nothing more than a shadowed outline.”
“Damn.”
“He did, however, recognize the truck.”
Wynter jerked. They’d had such crappy luck over the past few days it didn’t seem possible they might have caught a break. “Who does it belong to?”
“Drake Shelton.”
“Drake.” Wynter paused, considering the information. She wasn’t shocked, or even surprised. Not after his wife had been murdered. But she was confused. “Oh.” She abruptly recalled her earlier conversation with Tonya. “He was at my apartment last night. Tonya Knox has the pictures.”
“Yeah. She brought them by the station.”
“Do you have an APB out or whatever it is the cops use to find people?”
“We’re looking.” Chelle’s jaw tightened, revealing she wasn’t as calm, cool, and collected as she was pretending. She obviously was feeling the pressure of having a potential killer loose in her town. Plus, she’d been friends with Noah for a very long time. She no doubt took it personally that he’d nearly been killed. “If he’s still in the area, we’ll find him.”
Wynter nodded. She trusted Chelle would do everything in her power to track down the lunatic, but in such a rural area there were a thousand places he could hide.
A shiver raced through her. “Why would Drake want me dead?”
“I have a theory.”
The familiar male voice came from the doorway, and with a gasp Wynter jumped to her feet. A second later she’d raced across the carpet to wrap Noah in her arms, carefully laying her head on his chest. For a long moment she simply held him, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
When she’d at last assured herself that he was alive and well, she tilted back her head, her eyes widening at the sight of the gashes that marred his cheek, his temple, and one that cut through his brow dangerously close to his eye. That one was held together with a butterfly bandage and an ugly bruise was forming around it.
“Your poor face,” she breathed.
“It’s nothing but a few scratches,” he assured her, his hands rubbing up and down her back in a soothing motion. “I think they make me look dashing. Like a pirate.”
If she hadn’t been so upset she might have agreed with the dashing part. His hair was tousled and his cheeks rough with the whiskers he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. Combined with the scratches, he looked like a movie star in an action film.
Right now, however, she was far more focused on the realization he’d come terrifyingly close to dying.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, reaching up to lightly touch one of the slashes.
“Why would you be sorry?”
Pain mixed with a large dash of regret swirled through her. “This is all my fault.”
Noah brushed a soft kiss over her forehead. “None of this is your fault.”
“But—”
“He’s right.” Chelle intruded into their conversation, moving to stand next to Noah. “Blaming yourself is a waste of energy. We need to focus on finding Drake Shelton, or whoever took a shot at your truck.”
Wynter nodded. She wasn’t offended by Chelle’s stern words. The woman was right. Self-pity wasn’t going to solve anything.
Her fingers moved to hover over the deepest gash on Noah’s brow. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “Better than your truck.”
“I don’t care about that.” She gazed deep into his eyes. “Just you.”
“Wynter.”
They were once again interrupted by Chelle as she loudly cleared her throat. “You said you had a theory?”
Noah nodded, reluctantly stepping away from Wynter. As if he was having difficulty concentrating when she was near. She sympathized. She didn’t know if it was the shock of nearly losing him, or just the past week of spending day after day together, but suddenly she was acutely anxious to get Noah alone. And naked ...
“You said that Drake was seen in the lot next to Wynter Garden, right?” Noah spoke directly to Chelle, but there was a hint of a flush on his cheeks. As if he sensed her wicked thoughts.
Chelle held up her hand. “His truck was there. The picture isn’t clear enough to identify the driver.”
“Point conceded,” Noah murmured. “If it was Drake, why would he travel to Larkin after twenty-five years? It had to be something we said to him when we stopped by his house that provoked him to come after Wynter.” His gaze shifted to Wynter. “Or something we had.”
“What did we have?” Wynter cast her mind back to their brief conversation with Drake. She had a vivid image of Drake reaching toward her, his face twisted with fury. “The letters.”
“They might have contained information he doesn’t want anyone else to see.”
Wynter shuddered. “They were just ... gross.”
Chelle sent her a searching gaze. “Did you read them all?”
“No. I just skimmed a couple.” Wynter made a sound of exasperation. The thought of the letters was still like salt in an open wound. “What would he write in a love letter that would be worth killing someone?”
“He might have revealed a violent jealousy,” Noah said. “Maybe he threatened your mother if she dared to end their relationship.”
Wynter considered his words. The letters she’d read had been the usual raunchy stuff some men believed a woman enjoyed, but there’d been a hint of possession in the tone. As if Drake wanted to own her mom. And he’d obviously remembered the exact date of her death even after twenty-five years. Extreme for a casual lover. And he’d been visibly upset when he’d seen the letters in her hands ...
“There might be something in the letters that would implicate him in my mom’s murder,” she murmured.
“Where are they now?” Chelle asked.
“At the apartment.” Wynter wrinkled her nose. Her world was in chaos, which meant she wasn’t sure of anything. “Or at least that’s where I left them.”
“What if Drake broke in and left the warning note?” Noah said, his voice sharp as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“Why not take the letters then?” Chelle demanded.
“Ollie must have interrupted him,” Wynter said, recalling her friend’s insistence that he’d seen someone leaving the building after he’d pulled into the lot. If Drake had seen Ollie’s van, he might have bolted before getting caught.
Chelle nodded. “Were the letters still there?”
“Yes.” Wynter’s voice was firm. She wasn’t certain of much right now, but she was certain of that. “I remember seeing them when I searched the apartment for anything missing after the break-in.”
“So maybe Drake tried to go back and get them,” Noah continued with his thought. “Only this time he was seen by Wynter’s neighbor.”
“So why shoot at Wynter today? Assuming Drake believed she was the one driving the truck.”
“Despera
tion,” Noah promptly retorted. “He thought his life was unraveling so he kills his wife and then comes back to get rid of Wynter. Maybe he believes he can start over with a clean slate.” Noah shrugged. “Or maybe he’s not thinking at all. Any man can be pushed beyond reason.”
“Hmm.” Chelle looked skeptical.
“Yeah.” Noah heaved a harsh sigh. “It seemed more convincing in my head. Now it feels more like a wild guess.”
They were all silent for a minute, trying to imagine what Drake was doing in Larkin and why it would involve shooting at Wynter. In the end, nothing made any more sense than Noah’s wild theory.
“Maybe we should have a closer look at the letters,” Wynter suggested.
“Let me,” Chelle insisted. “We have people trained to spot clues that most of us would miss.”
Wynter didn’t argue. She had no idea what might or might not be a clue. Instead she reached into her pocket and pulled a key off the ring.
“Here. This is a key to the new door. The letters are on my bedroom dresser.”
Chelle grabbed the key and glanced toward Noah. “I still need an official statement.”
“Later.” Wynter moved to wrap her arm around Noah’s waist. “Right now I’m taking him home.”
Noah glanced down at her, his expression softening with an emotion that melted her heart. “You heard the boss,” he murmured.
“Take care of him,” Chelle commanded, heading out the door.
Wynter smiled. “That’s the plan.”
Chapter 18
Noah did his best not to limp as they left the hospital and crossed the parking lot. Wynter was already stressed to the max. He didn’t want her worrying about him. Even if he was aching from head to toe and his face burning from the antiseptic the doctor had insisted on pouring over his skin.
He must not have been fully convincing as Wynter pulled open the driver’s door and settled behind the steering wheel.
“I can drive,” he protested.
She blew him a kiss. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”
A giddy sense of anticipation jolted through Noah. As if he was a teenage boy about to go on his first date instead of a grown man. It was a weirdly wonderful sensation.
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