The Cowboy Target. Terri Reed

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СКАЧАТЬ examiner’s van pulled in behind him.

      Wyatt went to meet the law officer, who was climbing out of his vehicle.

      Sheriff Craig Landers was tall and broad shouldered beneath his brown leather jacket and tan uniform. His salt-and-pepper hair poked out from the curled edges of a tan Stetson. His sharp gray eyes took in everything. The crowd of ranch hands circling the front porch, the body lying at the top of the stairs. And Wyatt.

      Forcing himself to stand taller, Wyatt met his stepfather’s gaze head-on.

      “Wyatt.”

      “Sheriff.”

      The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Give me the lowdown.”

      “I came out front about twenty minutes ago and found George just as he is.”

      “You didn’t move the body, did you?”

      “No.” Wyatt had learned the hard way that contaminating a crime scene would only make him look guilty. At least, it had with Dina. He’d tried to give her CPR. Her blood had ended up on his clothes. For some, that was enough to label him responsible for her death.

      Thankfully, Wyatt had God and a lack of incriminating evidence on his side. He could only hope and pray God would see him through this ordeal, too.

      “Good.” Landers strode forward. “Okay, everyone back away. Let Andrew through,” he said, indicating the medical examiner.

      Wyatt watched as Andrew, an older man with a full beard and wire-rimmed glasses, examined the body.

      George had been ornery and arrogant, but he didn’t deserve to die. Who would do this? And why leave him on Wyatt’s porch?

      “Wyatt, you understand we have to search the grounds.” Landers’s voice broke through his thoughts. The sheriff’s voice held a note of compassion.

      “Knock yourself out,” Wyatt stated. He didn’t have anything to hide. And he intended to be right on their heels doing a search of his own. Nobody harmed one of his people. “Tell your boys to be mindful of Gabby. She’s in the living room watching television.”

      “Sheriff!”

      Wyatt turned toward where a deputy stood beside the open door to Wyatt’s dark blue truck. Winter sunlight glinted off the object the deputy held up with a gloved hand.

      The air left Wyatt’s lungs in a rush.

      His steel-bladed hunting knife, covered in blood.

      * * *

      Jackie Blain punched the freestanding, heavy black bag. Jab, jab with the right hand. Whack with her left elbow. Right foot roundhouse kick. Jab, jab. Whack. Kick. She focused on the punching bag with single-minded attention. For the moment, she was in the heat of battle against an imaginary assailant wanting to part her from her client. Not happening on her watch. Ever. That was why she trained two to three hours a day. At least, every day that she wasn’t on an assignment.

      The trilling sound of her cell phone broke through her concentration. Giving the bag one last jab, she whirled away and jumped over her sleeping English bulldog, Spencer, to grab the phone off the island counter.

      “Blain,” she answered.

      “Jackie, it’s your uncle Carl,” the voice on the other end said in her ear.

      Taken by surprise, she smiled. Carl was her mother’s older brother. “Hey. Wow, long time no hear.”

      She picked up a white terry-cloth towel from the pile sitting atop the bar stool and wiped her face and neck.

      “The street runs both ways, young lady,” her uncle chided.

      “Yeah, I know. Sorry ’bout that. I did call at Christmas and left a message.”

      “I know. And we were remiss in not returning the call.”

      She shrugged away his comment and turned to stare at the present they’d sent, an eleven-by-eleven landscape painted by a local Wyoming artist, which hung on her kitchen wall. The gift canceled out not returning her call.

      Walking to the window of her apartment located in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, Jackie pushed the blinds apart with her free hand. A fresh layer of snow covered the street below. Beyond the roofline of the apartments across the street, the downtown Boston skyline glistened in the midmorning winter sun. She never tired of looking at the city. So different from the flat cornfields of Iowa where she’d grown up. “So, how are you? Have you heard from my parents?”

      “We’re okay,” he said, but something in his tone didn’t ring true with his words.

      She dropped the blinds back in place. Her heart sped up. Her breath lay trapped beneath her ribs. She hadn’t heard from her parents in a couple of weeks. They were on a cruise in the Mediterranean. “And Mom and Dad?”

      “They’re good as far as I know,” he quickly assured her.

      Tension left her body in a rush of relief. “But something’s wrong.”

      “Yes. We could sure use your help,” Carl said.

      She blinked. Her uncle and aunt had never asked for anything from her before. This must be serious. “Sure. What do you need?”

      “It’s Wyatt Monroe. He needs you.”

      Sinking into the reclining leather love seat, her one piece of furniture that hadn’t come from a secondhand store, she asked, “Your employer? Needs me?”

      She’d never met Mr. Monroe. In fact, she’d never visited Wyoming, where her uncle and aunt lived. She’d thought about it back when her life had turned upside down. But then she’d found Trent Associates and, well, she never got around to making the trip that far west. She’d returned home to Atkins, Iowa, a couple of times, but preferred her parents to come to Boston. Going back to her hometown only stirred up old anger and humiliation. And reinforced the painful lessons she’d learned about love. Never fall for someone you work with. And never, ever give anyone that much power over your heart.

      She shuddered and pushed away the memories threatening to surface. She had a good job now with Trent Associates as a protection specialist. She had a place to belong. She had coworkers who respected her, cared for her and made her feel connected. Protecting others was what she was good at. And she had her dog, Spencer, for company. That was all she needed.

      “Wyatt’s in trouble.” Carl’s words broke through her thoughts. “Someone’s framing him for the murder of one of his ranch hands.”

      That piqued her interest. And raised her skepticism. Four years as a deputy sheriff did that to a person. “Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

      “I know he didn’t.” His voice was adamant.

      Still, old habits of suspicion held firm. “Are you his alibi?”

      After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No. He doesn’t have one.”

      “Not good for him.” She kicked off her СКАЧАТЬ