A Bullet to the Heart by Kathy Wheeler (most read books of all time .TXT) 📕

He needed a word with Jo. He needed answers to his questions. The first question: Who was this prodigious fiancé?

He turned and started up the veranda steps then paused.

Jo stood in the door watching him.

“Jo—”

“I’m sorry, Wyn. I’m really sorry.” She closed the door, the soft click giving off the finality of the last nail in the coffin.

A cold chill swept over Jo’s skin and raised goosebumps. She quelled the temptation to drop to the floor and cry her heart out. She turned around and was pinned against the door by stares from both sisters.

“You want to tell us what’s going on with you and Wyn, Jo?” Lydia’s question should not have sounded accusing, but Jo’s hackles rose, regardless.

The fire in her face likely didn’t help her cause. Jo rubbed her hands over her arms, the chill going deeper. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Oh, God.” Tevi groaned. “You and Wyn?” She stomped her foot. “How is it you have all the attractive men after you? You are as stiff and unapproachable as a barb-wired fence.”

Well, that was a little harsh and not even worthy of a response. Her lips pressed tight. Could she help it if she’d never been considered the warm, loving sort?

“Tevi! That’s a horrible thing to say.” Lydia grabbed Jo’s hand.

Lydia’s hold felt hot compared to the ice slushing through Jo’s veins. She would likely never be warm again.

“Your hand is freezing.” Lydia tugged Jo along. “Let’s go in the library. I think you might need another brandy. And, if you don’t, I can tell you, I could certainly use one.”

Jo pulled her hand from Lydia’s, nodding, and followed.

“What do you suppose Wyn meant that Victor’s death might not have been an accident?” Lydia said.

“What do you mean ‘might’? A bullet kind of says it all,” Tevi said.

Lydia poured three shot glasses of brandy and brought them to the small table. “Shutting the door in his face didn’t bring us any answers, did it?”

Jo’s lips tightened. She would not be goaded, she would not be chastised.

Tevi had kicked off her shoes again and curled her feet up under her legs. She leaned forward and picked up one of the glasses, tossed back the entire contents and slammed the glass back down. “How did this Julius Styles get involved? And—” she jutted forward. “What is this nonsense about Bobby Kingsley being our father?”

Jo took a small sip of her brandy, renewed anger surging through her. “Not our father. Mine. Apparently, Eleanor had an affair with him before she married Charles Weatherford. Only Charles married her before I was born.”

Lydia’s unnerving stare penetrated Jo’s fury. “What do you know about this Kingsley character? Did you just take him at his word?”

“And, why shouldn’t I have, Lyddie?” Jo slammed her own glass down, sloshing the contents over the sides. She jumped up and paced the length of the library. Its circular construction limited her movements and frustrated her in this room for the first time she could ever remember.

“I’m just saying the man could have other motives,” Lydia said gently.

“Like what?”

“Money comes to mind. Now that Uncle Victor—” Lydia’s voice shook slightly. She took a breath. “Now that Uncle Victor is gone, we are three very rich young women without him keeping the rift-raff at bay.”

“You mean interfering in our lives at every level, don’t you?”

Lydia and her pragmatic reasoning grated on Jo’s last nerve. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. The next thing you’ll be attempting to convince us of is that Eleanor has been faking her illness for the last twelve years. In a mental hospital.”

Lydia’s lips compressed in a tight line.

“Oh, my God. You do think that.” Jo dropped back into her chair and rubbed her hands over her upper arms. “Lydia, you listen to me. Our mother suffers from some sort of melancholia. If that is not the case and she’s been faking it, that is the greater sin. Our mother neglected us. She married a horrid man who…who…” Jo couldn’t get the words out. Wallace Hayes was a monster Eleanor had brought into their house. A house with three young girls.

“What did Wallace Hayes do to you, Jo?” Lydia’s soft question pounded Jo’s head with the force of a medieval cudgel.

Jo glanced from Lydia to Tevi. Her younger sisters’ eyes were wide with undisguised curiosity. Nausea roiled in Jo’s stomach to a dangerous level. She rose again and went to the door, refusing to make eye contact with them. She couldn’t stand the pity she’d see. “He touched me. Inappropriately so. And, on more than one occasion. It was Eleanor’s job to protect us and she didn’t. You shouldn’t have brought her here, Lydia.” Jo slipped out the door as the tears trailed down her face. She needed a bath. A hot, soaking, cleansing bath. Preferably one with bleach and a scouring pad.

6

W

yn walked the perimeter of the property and turned onto the path Jo had followed earlier, regret eating at him like a parasite on raw flesh. The winding trail fanned out as the trees thinned and aligned with the bluff above the crashing waves of the Atlantic. Soon the mild autumn weather would turn to a harsh winter. He stopped and gazed out over the sea, a million things going through his head, and not a single one on the actual issue at hand. Like who’d shot Victor Montgomery? That’s what he should be thinking about.

Instead, all he could envision was Josephine Ophelia Weatherford in all her proud ice princess glory, her spine so stiff, and clinging to her pride. Neither helped to hide her oddly appealing vulnerability, and still she managed to slam the door in his face.

He hadn’t spoken to her in six months, not since Mary Montgomery had been buried.

Every instinct Wyn possessed screamed at him to shield Jo from the world, save her from the hucksters and scoundrels. They’d practically grown up together. He knew her every dream, her every thought, her every fear.

Wyn rubbed the back