The Cowboy Target. Terri ReedЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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 glove.”

      “Which he could have been wearing,” Landers said, darting a glance at Wyatt.

      Wyatt could see the irritation in Landers’s eyes and couldn’t help feeling a little jolt of satisfaction. It was good to see someone else getting Landers’s goat for once. Growing up, Wyatt had only ever received grief from his stepfather. Still did, if truth be told.

      Without so much as glancing in his direction, the woman tucked in her chin. “Really? So you honestly think he’s gonna go to the trouble of killing the guy, remove his body from the primary crime scene, dump him on his own porch for all the world to see, then be dumb enough to leave the knife in plain sight but ditch the gloves? Not likely. This has all the earmarks of a setup, and if you can’t see that...”

      “Careful, Ms. Blain,” Landers warned with a glower. “I agree there is more going on here than meets the eye.”

      She smirked. Wyatt held back a grin.

      Landers met Wyatt’s gaze. “You’re free to go, Wyatt. Just don’t leave town.”

      As if Wyatt would. Where would he go? This was his home. Gabby was here. But he refrained from responding. Instead he met the bright blue-eyed gaze of his mysterious defender. She stared back with unabashed curiosity. He didn’t know this woman, so why would she defend him? Was she the lawyer Carl Kirk said he was hiring? But then why was Bruce Kelly here?

      Bruce cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Now that we have that settled, I’ll speak to my client alone.”

      His client?

      Sheriff Landers gave a curt nod and exited the room.

      Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest. “So which one of you is my lawyer?”

      * * *

      Jackie couldn’t help but appreciate the hunk standing before her. She’d never really been into the cowboy type, but this one...whew, sure made a girl’s heart beat faster.

      Tall and lean, he was dressed in worn denim with a soft-looking chambray shirt stretched over shoulders that made her think he could support the whole state of Wyoming on his back. He had a ruggedly handsome face with a firm jaw and dark, intense eyes beneath a well-loved traditional cowboy hat. In the dim light of the interrogation room, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or dark brown. She guessed she’d have to wait for the light of day to find out.

      A little thrill zoomed through her tummy at the prospect of spending time with such an attractive man.

      So not a good reaction to be having. Wyatt Monroe could be a murderer.

      “I am,” Bruce said. “Carl Kirk asked me to represent you.”

      Wyatt’s gaze flicked over the lawyer before settling once again on Jackie. Curiosity and something else she couldn’t decipher shone in the inky depths of his eyes. “And you are?”

      She stepped forward and thrust out her hand. “Jackie Blain. Carl and Penny Kirk are my uncle and aunt.”

      He stared at her outstretched hand for a moment as if she were offering him a stick of dynamite. She waited, not about to let this cowboy think for a moment that he intimidated her with his brooding attitude.

      Slowly he unfolded his arms and grasped her hand in his much bigger one. Their palms met. Warmth spread up her arm and settled beneath her breastbone.

      “Ms. Blain, why are you here?” he asked as he quickly let go of her hand.

      She flexed her fingers and jammed her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “I have a background in law enforcement, and Uncle Carl asked if I’d come out and see what I could do to help.”

      He took a moment to absorb that before saying, “Well, you’ve done