The Cowboy Target. Terri Reed

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      TWO

      As darkness descended, Wyatt’s jail cell became gloomier, if that were even possible. He sat on the hard bench that served as bed and sofa—the only furniture allowed in the Lane County jail.

      The door to the cell rattled as a deputy inserted the key into the lock and swung the metal cage door open. “Wyatt, you’ve got visitors.”

      “Who?” Wyatt asked.

      “Lawyers, I guess,” Deputy Rawlings replied.

      Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his face, and the bristles of his beard scraped his palm. His eyes were gritty, and his body ached from the uncomfortable bench. He’d told Carl not to bother with a lawyer. Wyatt would pay the bail and do his own investigation. He knew how a criminal investigation would go in this town. Been there, done that. He’d have to prove his innocence himself. Finding the knife in his possession looked bad, but that wasn’t proof he’d killed George. They couldn’t know if the blood on the knife belonged to George yet. Not until they did a DNA test. And he knew that would take weeks, if not longer.

      Wyatt heaved himself to his feet, picked up his Stetson and plopped it on his head. At six feet four inches, he had to duck slightly to walk out of the cell, or he’d bump his head and knock his hat off on the metal door frame. He followed Rawlings to an interrogation room. The same one he’d spent several hours in while the sheriff grilled him about George and the murder.

      Now the room was filled not only with the sheriff, but also the town’s newest attorney. Bruce Kelly sat at the table with a file folder laid out in front of him. He wore a pin-striped suit and sported thick black-framed glasses. His brown hair was parted in the middle and slicked back.

      Wyatt had never had an occasion to deal with Mr. Kelly, a city slicker lured to this part of the country by a local gal. Kelly had opened up shop two years ago. Wyatt doubted he’d ever defended an accused murderer before.

      But it was the petite woman standing next to the table and arguing with the sheriff who grabbed Wyatt’s attention by the throat and trapped his breath in his chest. She hadn’t seemed to notice he’d entered the room, which gave him a moment to inspect her. He didn’t know her, but he sure liked what he saw.

      Not more than five feet five inches tall with a head of wild blond curls held back by a clawlike clip, she was dressed in formfitting blue jeans, tall brown leather boots and a red leather jacket. She planted her small, dainty fists on her slim hips and managed to stare down her pert nose at the much taller sheriff. A feat Wyatt wouldn’t have thought possible, except he was witness to it.

      Impressive. And gutsy.

      “Your evidence is circumstantial at best,” she declared in a honeyed voice.

      Wyatt snorted. He was well aware of how circumstantial evidence could convict someone in the court of public opinion.

      “That’s true,” Bruce Kelly interjected. The lawyer appeared a bit flummoxed, his gaze shifting between the fiery blonde and the intimidating sheriff.

      “His prints are on the knife,” Landers countered, keeping his attention on the woman.

      “Understandable since it’s his knife,” she shot back. “There are also textured prints from a СКАЧАТЬ