his wishes.”
Jackie frowned. “Is his objection to you hiring the lawyer or to the lawyer himself?”
Carl heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Both. He’s innocent and doesn’t see why he needs a lawyer.”
Either the man was overconfident in the justice system or not right in the head. Jackie figured it was probably a little of both. “What can I do to help?”
“Would you come here? Help us prove he’s innocent?”
She sat back. “Uncle Carl, I’m not in law enforcement anymore. I’m sure the police there will do a thorough investigation.”
“Maybe. But I’d feel better if you’d come out and keep an eye on the investigation. There are complications.”
“What kind of complications? Either he did the deed, or he didn’t. The evidence will prove it one way or another.”
“It’s not that simple here. Wyatt has a past,” Carl said.
Jackie wrinkled her nose. “We all have a past, Uncle Carl. That won’t affect the evidence.”
“What if someone wanted it to?”
Her mind jumped back to Carl’s earlier statement. “You really think someone is trying to frame him?”
“I do.” He lowered his voice. “Plus, there’s bad blood between the sheriff and Wyatt that goes back a long ways.”
Not a mess she wanted to get involved in.
“I have a job here. A good job.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was overdue to take some vacation time. Her boss, James, had gone so far as to tell her if she didn’t take some R & R by spring, he’d bench her for a few weeks to give her some forced downtime.
“Then I’ll hire you if that’s what it takes,” Carl said with a flinty edge.
He wasn’t going to let this go. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
“Helping Wyatt means everything to Penny and me.” Carl cleared his throat. “You know we wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. If Wyatt is convicted of this crime... We can’t let it happen. Gabby needs her father.”
“I take it Gabby’s his daughter?” Jackie remembered her mother mentioning that Mr. Monroe was a widower with a child.
“Yep. A four-year-old bundle of joy. We’re very attached to Wyatt and Gabby. He’s like a son to us,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Gabby’s like a granddaughter.”
Sympathy and understanding twisted her up inside. Her aunt and uncle had tried for a child for many years but never conceived. Jackie had often wondered why God had never answered their prayers for a child. But apparently He had a plan. Which evidently included Wyatt and Gabby Monroe.
Now the man her aunt and uncle claimed as their surrogate son was in trouble. And they were asking her for help. How could she refuse?
A chill chased down her spine. It had to be her body’s core temperature lowering. Certainly not some warning of doom.
“I’ll come as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
The relief in his words wrapped around her like duct tape. “Uncle Carl, I don’t know that I’ll be able to do much other than make sure everything is done by the book.”
“I understand.”
She hoped so. She’d hate for them to have high expectations that she couldn’t meet.
After hanging up, she sat down on the floor next to Spencer and rubbed the dog behind the ears. “Okay, boy. Looks like we’re taking a trip to Wyoming.”
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
