The Cowboy Target. Terri Reed

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      FOUR

      Wyatt knew the mess he was seeing wasn’t normal for George. Despite their differences, Wyatt had been inside George’s house several times. The old man had been particular about having things orderly and neat. One of the many things George would get after Wyatt about. He didn’t feel the ranch was as organized or run as efficiently as it could be.

      But he never had a solution, only complaints.

      Everything has a proper order, George would say. If you don’t honor that, you end up with nothing but chaos.

      Ironic that George’s life should end in chaos. His place trashed, his body broken and his death a mystery. Didn’t get much more chaotic than that. Regret slammed Wyatt again. George had been decent. But now it was too late to tell him that.

      Jackie advanced, her weapon drawn. She opened a closet door, peered inside and then shut it. She moved down the hall and out of sight. A moment later she returned, her weapon out of sight. “No one here but us.”

      “Did the sheriff’s people do this?” he asked, appalled at the idea that they’d destroy George’s house.

      “No way.” Jackie set her hands on her hips. “This place has been ransacked. The sheriff’s department wouldn’t have done this. And if the sheriff had found the house like this, there’d be crime-scene tape up.” She shook her head. “This was done recently.”

      Meeting her gaze, he asked, “Motorcycle guy?”

      “Hard to say.”

      He stared at the couch, its cushions ripped apart and the stuffing strewn all over. The coffee table had been dumped on its side. Books littered the floor in front of a bookcase that ran the length of the wall from carpet to ceiling. George had loved his books. The cover jacket of one caught his attention.

      Stepping gingerly over a broken picture frame—an image of George with Wyatt’s father, Emerson—he bent to pick up the book.

      “Freeze!”

      Startled by Jackie’s barked command, he stilled, bent forward with his hand outstretched. His gaze shot to her. “What?”

      She unzipped her parka to reveal a black waist pack. She unzipped the pack and withdrew two sets of disposable gloves, the kind you see in doctors’ offices. She handed a pair to him. “Only touch the edges of anything. We don’t want to leave any prints or smudge any viable ones.”

      Disconcerted, he took the gloves. “We should call Landers.”

      “We will, once we’ve had a chance to poke around.”

      “If there was something here worth finding that would lead to George’s killer, don’t you think the law and whoever did this would have found it?”

      She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

      Shaking his head, he picked up the book, careful to touch only the edges of the faded gilt spine. The brushed-cloth cover was frayed at the edges, the pages inside yellowed. He opened the cover flap and read the inscription.