The Cowboy Target. Terri ReedЧитать онлайн книгу.
sheriff’s people must not have closed the door all the way,” Wyatt commented with a scowl.
Just as he moved to cross the threshold, she yanked him back. “Wait.”
She inspected the door frame and the hinges.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Explosives.”
“Excuse me?”
“Welcome to my world.”
He eyed her warily. “Seriously?”
Satisfied there weren’t any trip wires, she said, “Never enter a questionable door without checking for a bomb. Too many targeted people have walked into a deadly blast.”
Wyatt blinked and stared, his gaze bouncing between her face and the gun in her hand. “You really do this stuff for a living?”
She grinned. “Yep.” She toed the door open and then entered, leading with her weapon.
“What in the world?” Wyatt said as he stepped in behind her.
The placed looked like a twister had recently touched down.
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.
Emerson Stone Monroe, 1854
Wyatt’s great-grandfather and his father’s namesake.
This had been his father’s favorite treasure. The volume he held in his hand was a first edition, American printing, worth some money. Wyatt hadn’t seen the book since he was a kid. He’d wondered what happened to it. “Why did George have my father’s book?”
“What’s that?” Jackie asked. She’d moved to the desk in the corner and was methodically looking at every item on the surface and in the drawers.
“Moby-Dick. It was my father’s at one time. Not sure why George had it.”
“See, you found something odd that anyone else wouldn’t have known was out of place. Maybe your dad gave it to him as a gift.”
“Could be.”
“Check it. Maybe George hid something in it.”
Wyatt leafed through the pages and discovered an envelope addressed to George in Emerson Monroe’s rigid lettering. Wyatt’s heart squeezed tight. He knew what this was. Upon his father’s death, Wyatt, Wyatt’s mother, Carl and Penny Kirk, and George all received an envelope from Emerson. Wyatt’s letter was tucked away in his top dresser drawer. Sadness crept in as he recalled every word he’d memorized.
Dear Son,
If you’re reading this, then I have left this earth. I know I haven’t always been the best father or made the best decisions, but I want you to know that I love you. I am proud of you. Proud of the man you are becoming. A man so much better than me.
Emerson
With shaky hands, Wyatt slipped the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read the letter Emerson Monroe had written to his friend George.
George,
Watch over my son. See that he makes good decisions and exercises good judgment. Traits you have that I don’t. Thank you for being a good friend.
Emerson
Wyatt wasn’t sure how he felt about the note or the fact that his father had asked his friend to “watch over” him. Had George stayed on the ranch all these years out of duty to Wyatt’s father? He felt as if he’d taken a hoof in the gut. Memories of all the times Wyatt told George to worry about his own responsibilities while Wyatt took care of the day-to-day running of the ranch horrified him.
He opened the book to replace the letter and envelope. A small scrap of paper fell out. He picked it up and stared at the numbers written across the front.
41557922-104952393
He turned the scrap of paper over. Blank on the
other side.
“Do you know about this upcoming town-hall meeting?”
Jackie’s question drew his attention away from the strange numbers. “There’s one a month. Nothing special about them. Mostly a chance for folks to get together. Why?”
She held up a flyer just like the one he had at home. She flipped it over. “Look at this.”
In big, bold letters were the words KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT OR ELSE.
Tucking the piece of paper back into the book, he crossed to her side. “Sounds like a warning.”
“Yep. And whatever George knew got him killed.”
“Why didn’t Landers find