Aequitas by Hope Anika (best classic books of all time .txt) 📕

crawled out from under a rock.

“Jasper Hatfield is dead,” the new Sheriff said.

Again, Wynn blinked. A wild, chaotic mass of emotion burst within her, and she laughed.

“Oh, dear,” Esme said and shook her head.

“Dead,” Wynn repeated, smiling broadly. She couldn’t help it. Hatfield was dead and gone. RIP—not. “Hot damn!”

Beowulf’s odd little tail thumped against the linoleum.

The new Sheriff leaned down over her. He looked like he ate nails for breakfast. “Sheriff Hatfield died in the line of duty.”

Good.

It almost escaped. But a set of dog tags suddenly tumbled from the neckline of the new Sheriff’s horrific day wear and prevented the word. The tags were dented and scarred, and he looked annoyed as he tucked them back into his shirt.

A soldier—then or now, didn’t much matter. Wynn had been around veterans her whole life, too, and she respected them. Hatfield’s death in the line of duty would mean something far different to him than it did to her. And he clearly had no clue about her history with the former Sheriff—which was how it would stay.

So she stuffed her euphoria and rage and grief away, and said only, “What can I do for you, new Sheriff?”

He stared down at her. So she stared back. Tension rose and crackled between them. Heat flared through her—anger, annoyance, what the hell was he wearing?—and she did her best to ignore how directly he looked at her.

As if none of her barriers would stop him.

Esme cleared her throat delicately. “Well.” She moved toward the coffee pot with purpose. “You’re Velma Greystone’s nephew, aren’t you?”

The new Sheriff scowled faintly. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“You knew about him?” Wynn cut in, annoyed.

“Of course, dear,” Esme replied. “I am an unashamed connoisseur of local gossip.”

“And you said nothing?”

Esme shrugged. “I saw no need to upset you. After all, I didn’t expect him to show up on our doorstep.” She turned and looked at the new Sheriff. “You came from Milwaukee, didn’t you?”

He spared her a brief glance. “Miami.”

Well, that explained the shirt.

“What brought you to Wisconsin?”

The new Sheriff said nothing.

Esme only eyed him speculatively, unfazed by his rudeness. She filled the coffee maker with water and coffee and turned it on. “Are you married, Sheriff?”

If he’d been grave before, now he turned to stone. “No, ma’am.”

“I have pipes to wrestle,” Wynn told them impatiently. “What do you want, new Sheriff?”

Esme made a sound of censure, but again, Wynn ignored her.

“I need to speak with Winifred alone,” the new Sheriff said.

An order, not a request. A ripple of unease whispered down Wynn’s spine. She held that brilliant, lime green gaze and tried to pretend dread wasn’t spilling through her chest.

What could he possibly want? She hadn’t broken any laws—at least, not lately—and she went out of her way to stay under the radar.

So what was going on?

Esme’s silver brows rose. Her gaze moved between them. “I don’t imagine I’d win an argument to stay?”

“No,” said the new Sheriff coldly, “I don’t imagine you would.”

Wynn considered smacking him with the wrench.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure.” Esme smiled, the picture of southern graciousness. “I must say I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

“I’m sure.” A small, dark, and wholly unexpected smile touched his mouth. “Please don’t believe any of it.”

“You have a nice smile, Sheriff,” Esme told him. “You should share it more often.”

Red flushed his cheeks, and Wynn bit back a snicker.

“Ma’am,” he said and nodded.

Definitely a soldier.

Esme sent Wynn a sharp look—behave yourself, young lady—and sauntered out.

“Now that you’ve run her off, can we cut to the chase?” Wynn asked him.

For a long moment, the new Sheriff was silent. Studying her with that intent, probing gaze she didn’t at all appreciate.

“What?” she demanded, exasperated.

He looked at the wrench she held. “That’s the wrong tool for the job.”

A fact to which my ribs can attest. Thanks for nothing.

“What do you want?” she asked flatly.

He looked at Beowulf. “Who’s this?”

Beowulf growled at him.

Good boy.

“Beowulf the Runt.” She ran another hand down his back. “Future sheep herder.”

The new Sheriff eyed him dubiously. His gaze moved to her and for a long moment, he simply studied her. But then he straightened, took a small step back and grimaced. “We can do this at the table.”

He offered her his hand. A strong, scarred hand, tanned and capable.

One she wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole.

“I’m good,” she said and ignored the offering. “But you’re welcome to sit.”

The scowl returned. “Ms. Owens—”

“Wynn,” she corrected.

“We need to talk, Wynn.”

His face was dark, his expression grim, but beyond that she couldn’t read him worth a damn.

He’d come here, looking for her. Demanding to speak with her alone.

Nothing good was going to come of this.

Wynn sighed and pushed herself to her feet. She set aside the wrench—but kept it within reach, just in case—and pulled two old coffee mugs from the cupboard. Beowulf accompanied her, making sure he kept his scrawny little form between her and the new Sheriff.

Really, really good boy.

“Do you take milk or sugar, new Sheriff?” she asked.

“Black,” he replied tersely.

“Shocking,” she muttered. She poured him a cup and made herself one as well—with plenty of milk and sugar—and set his down on the kitchen table.

He hadn’t moved; he still stood in front of the sink, watching her.

“Sit.” She waved a hand at him. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got stuff.”

He went to the table where she’d set his coffee and slowly lowered himself into one of the old wooden chairs.

Definitely in pain. Had he been to war? He had the look. Or was there an accident? Maybe—

Shut it down, woman. Who cares? Not your problem.

But he was her problem. Clearly. Crap.

She leaned back against the counter and sighed.

The chair that sat across from the one he occupied was suddenly pushed out from beneath the table by his booted foot. It slid smoothly across the worn linoleum floor in front of her. “Sit with me.”

That bright green gaze double-dog-dared her.

“I’m good,” she made herself say again.

“Sit,” he said softly.

She looked at the wrench.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Stand down,” she told him. “I’m just fantasizing.”

One of his brows rose and something sparked in his brilliant gaze and then was gone. “Sit down, Wynn.”

She didn’t want to. But the longer she argued, the longer he would remain. So she sat down in the chair and drank her coffee and waited.

Beowulf took up residence beside her, his gaze alert on the new Sheriff.

Suspicious, she thought.

Smart dog.

“What happened between you and Hatfield?” the new Sheriff asked.

“Ancient history.” She waved a hand. “Why are you here?”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small notepad and slender silver pen. “This is your residence?”

“Do I look like I fix other people’s pipes for fun?”

That earned her a dark look. “This is a boarding house?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

His jaw hardened. “How many residents?”

Wynn leaned toward him and said nothing until his gaze met hers. “What do you want, new Sheriff?”

He surveyed her, silent. Her unruly hair and filthy face; her stained overalls and worn t-shirt. She felt like showing him her battered combat boots but the temptation to kick him might prove too much.

So she just let him look.

“There’s a vacancy sign in your window,” he said.

“Looking for a room?” She arched a disbelieving brow. “A man of your overwhelming charm and sweet disposition?”

That spark lit his eyes again and was gone. “How many tenants do you currently have?”

She said nothing, watching him. Alarm was